Going Postal

Adrian had been fired from the Alchemists’ Guild chimney, in their case because they’d spoken their mind about the new management, and in his case because he hadn’t moved fast enough when the beaker started to bubble.
    They’d all ended up working on the Second Trunk. They’d even put money into it. So had others. It had all kinds of improvements, it would be cheaper to run, it was the bee’s knees, mutt’s nuts, and various wonderful bits of half a dozen other creatures. And then John Dearheart, who always used a safety lanyard, landed in the cabbage field, and that was the end of the Second Trunk.
    The trio had done the kind of jobs available to new square pegs in a world of old round holes, but every night, high above, the clacks flashed its messages. It was so close, so inviting, so… accessible . Everyone knew, in some vague, half-understood way, that the Grand Trunk had been stolen in all but name. It belonged to the enemy.
    So they’d started an informal little company of their own, which used the Grand Trunk without the Grand Trunk knowing.
    It was a little like stealing. It was exactly like stealing. It was, in fact, stealing. But there was no law against it, because no one knew the crime existed, so is it really stealing if what’s stolen isn’t missed? And is it stealing if you’re stealing from thieves? Anyway, all property is theft, except mine.
    “So now you’re, what was it again…crackers?” Moist said.
    “That’s right,” said Mad Al. “Because we can crack the system.”
    “That sounds a bit overdramatic when you’re just doing it with lamps, doesn’t it?”
    “Yes, but ‘flashers’ was already taken,” said Sane Alex.
    “All right, but why ‘Smoking GNU’?” said Moist.
    “That’s cracker slang for a very fast message-send throughout the system,” said Sane Alex proudly.
    Moist pondered this. “That makes sense,” he said. “If I was a team of three people who all had a first name beginning with the same letter, that’s just the kind of name I’d choose.”
    They’d found a way into the semaphore system, and it was this: at night, all clacks towers were invisible. Only the lights showed. Unless you had a good sense of direction, the only way you could identify who the message was coming from was by its code. Engineers knew lots of code. Ooh, lots.
    “You can send messages free? ” said Moist. “And nobody notices?”
    There were three smug smiles. “It’s easy,” said Mad Al, “when you know how.”
    “How did you know that tower was going to break down?”
    “We broke it,” said Sane Alex. “Broke the differential drum. They take hours to sort out, because the operators have to—”
    Moist missed the rest of the sentence. Innocent words swirled in it like debris caught in a flood, occasionally bobbing to the surface and waving desperately before being pulled under again. He caught “the” several times before it drowned, and even “disconnect” and “gear chain,” but the roaring, technical polysyllables rose and engulfed them all.
    “—and that takes at least half a day,” Sane Alex finished.
    Moist looked helplessly at the other two.
    “And that means what, exactly?” he said.
    “If you send the right kind of message, you can bust the machinery,” said Mad Al.
    “ The whole Trunk? ”
    “In theory,” said Sane Alex, “because an execute and terminate code—”
    Moist relaxed as the tide came back in. He wasn’t interested in machinery; he thought of a spanner as something that had another person holding it. It was best just to smile and wait. That was the thing about artificers, they loved explaining. You just had to wait until they reached your level of understanding, even if it meant that they had to lie down.
    “—can’t do that anymore in any case, because we’ve heard they’re changing the—”
    Moist stared at the pigeon for a while, until silence came back. Ah. Mad Al had finished, and by the looks of things it hadn’t been on a high note.
    “You can’t do it, then,” said Moist, his heart sinking.
    “Not now. Old Mr. Pony might be a bit of an old woman, but he sits and niggles at problems. He’s been changing all the codes all day! We’ve heard from one of our mates that every signaler will have to have a personal code now. They’re being very careful. I know Miss Adora Belle thought we could help you, but that bastard Gilt has locked things up tight. He’s worried you’re going to