Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “You can keep that one,” Chance said, “but tomorrow we’re setting fresh traps again. We need something to test with if we’re going to sell anything this week.”

  “You’ll help me catch some?”

  “Sure,” Chance said, swirling the cold broth in Ashworth’s cup. He got up and poured it back into the pot on the stove top. “I have a few deliveries I need to make down by the docks anyway. We’re bound to catch a few there. You can tag along.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Chance grinned. “You’ve got cleanup tonight.”

  Chapter Three

  Brooding

  Some took to scrutinizing my work in those early days, and what should I have expected? Men are nearsighted. They comprehend the future only one day at a time. They cannot fathom what I’ve brought within arm’s reach.

  — Excerpt from Mechanarcissism

  D octor Stoddard stooped low over the fireplace, a portion of his oiled hair falling loose in front of his face as he poked at the fresh logs. He watched the glow of the coals spread into flames across the new fuel.

  It wasn’t quite autumn yet, but the morgue possessed a chill not easily dispelled—and the agitation of his mind only increased his present discomforts.

  Not that the room was wholly unpleasant. Where the rest of the morgue was harsh in its sterile simplicity, some effort had been made to furnish this specific room. A heavy oak table stood in the middle, with a few cushioned chairs in conference around it. The walls were the same crusty-white plaster, but a few paintings had been hung to variegate them.

  One in particular stood out to Stoddard each time he visited the morgue. It depicted the God of heaven as an elderly clockmaker, stooped over his work. Stoddard often paused under that painting whenever he found himself delayed by some bureaucratic process.

  But today, he had been too distracted to follow his normal routine and hadn’t even remembered the painting hung above him. Instead, he leaned heavily on the hearth and gazed into the fire, rubbing his weary eyes.

  He was a stoic figure, possessing a certain formality which communicated itself in the way he held himself. No one passing by at that moment would have perceived the distress with which his mind grappled. They would have seen a handsome man, thoughtful and collected, the glow of the fire accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the strong slope of his nose.

  Stoddard, however, perceived himself as both disagreeable and troubled.

  Once the logs were burning steadily he returned to his seat. Reports, medical records, and correspondences lay open in front of him, spread across the table in a web-like sequence only he could connect.

  Most important were a stack of accounts from nearly two dozen witnesses who’d attended Captain Harper’s procedure earlier that day. He took one of the folders from off the pile and flipped it open. He’d read over them multiple times, searching for what he feared each would inevitably possess.

  Fault.

  Yet, he found none directed toward himself or his work. Not openly, at least. The witnesses agreed unanimously that Harper’s death was nothing more than the result of his aged feebleness. The good captain simply hadn’t been strong enough to undergo such a complicated surgery.

  Yet, Stoddard sensed a faint dissatisfaction. They had obviously expected more of him. Hadn’t he?

  He flipped the folder closed and clenched his fingers together under his chin. He could still envision the witnesses circled above him in the medical dome. Judging his work. Judging him.

  But who were they to judge him? Those men knew nothing of his labors—of the design he’d perfected over years and the mechanism he’d created. It was beyond the imaginations of any mechanist who’d dared dream before.

  And the weakness of one old man had stolen away his moment of recognition. Instead of cheering him on, Stoddard could already anticipate his sponsors, one by one, readying themselves to discard him as an ill investment and move on to other auspicious work.

  “Damn you, Harper,” he brooded. “Damn you to Septigonee’s Well.”

  He sat like that for some time, cursing the good captain and cursing his own misfortunes. He wasn’t one to let his emotions get the better of him, but in that moment he allowed his mind to degenerate in his frustration. It sank into depths he’d not frequented for what felt like eons, until he was quite certain he might not recover himself.

  But then, somewhere in those depths, he struck a thought which resonated with such fervor it replaced his feelings of defeat. If this was truly the moment when his worth was to be judged by the meritocracy then he would not leave it in their hands alone. He would make clear his accomplishment—prove it to them, whatever it required. He would not allow himself to be discarded easily, not until his great contribution to the city was made.

  “Donovan!” Stoddard called.

  There was no response from the hallway. The man had been assigned him from the Bureau of Sciences months before to help with the more mundane tasks as Stoddard prepared for the operation. It was relief Stoddard had taken liberal advantage of.

  “Donovan!” he repeated.

  Cursing under his breath, he rolled up his sleeves and pulled the typewriter sitting nearby closer. His hands hovered over the keys. It was imperative he reach out to his most influential contacts first if he was going to retain their funding. He needed to show them his work did not end with Harper.

  Thinking through his list of sponsors, he made a mental list and began to type the first of many letters.

  Lord McCallister,

  I write in regards to the recent events surrounding the...

  No, he thought. His tone was all wrong. He cursed and tore the page from the typewriter, replaced it with a fresh sheet, and began again.

  Lord McCallister,

  No doubt by now news of the death of the late Captain Harper has reached you. His untimely passing is a profound loss to our city, and we can only praise his many contributions during his life.

  I’m sure at this time you are curious to know the outcome of your investment. As always, I offer my profoundest gratitude for your lasting support these long years. Rest assured that, despite this unfortunate setback, our prosthetic was flawless in its design. It is both my opinion—and the opinion of those present as witnesses, as you’re sure to confirm in coming days—that our good captain’s death was a direct result of old age combined with the complications of his previous injuries, and not a fault of the mechanism itself.

  I remain confident that the mechanism would have replicated the link with Captain Harper as his previous prosthetic miraculously did at the hands of my mentor so many years ago.

  I wish to reassure you that, as future opportunities present themselves, we will see this most revolutionary work distinguish our great city as the forerunning scientific epicenter of the world. For that purpose, I urge you to continue your dialogue amongst the meritocracy on our behalf and to maintain your generous support.

  With greatest regard,

  Pulling the page from the typewriter and glanced over it for errors. Once satisfied, he signed it Dr. J. Collins Stoddard and gently blew on the ink.

  A knock sounded at the door and his assistant let himself in. Donovan carried a few newspapers under his arm and a steaming cup of coffee in the opposite hand.

  “Good evening, sir,” he said briskly.

  “I needed you earlier,” Stoddard said, doing nothing to mask his impatience.

  “My apologies.” Donovan bowed, setting the coffee on the table. A bit of it sloshed over the side and onto the saucer. “I was just collecting the evening papers, as you’d requested—any that referenced Captain Harper.” He set them on the table as well.

  “And?”

  “Almost every one of them mentioned the captain to some extent. I have here the more noteworthy for your review. With the delays on the rails this evening, I had opportunity to peruse them myself. Apparently, some poor fellow threw himself on the tracks. Quite the grisly or
deal.”

  “Transit stories don’t interest me at the moment,” Stoddard said, lifting one of the papers up to the light. He ignored the coffee. “What was your impression?”

  “Most of the papers touched only briefly on the captain’s death. None ventured to speculate the cause prematurely. I was able to contact those who might have early enough to dissuade them from being too overzealous. They were willing to wait with the expectation you’d provide them with a more engaging story.

  “In the meantime, they’ve taken to printing longer accounts of the captain’s life—service in the military, contributions to the city, and the like. I didn’t find any negative mention about the procedure itself, or in regards to yourself.”

  “Good,” Stoddard said, satisfied. He continued to scan the articles, a few words leaping out at him as he did so.

  Tragic loss.

  Valiant efforts.

  A complex procedure.

  Stoddard tucked the phrases away in his mind so that he might echo the popular vernacular in his interactions over the next few days.

  “These aren’t the only papers in print,” Stoddard pointed out.

  “No, sir. I thought you’d only be interested in the more reputable presses.”

  “That’s not enough. I want you to search every press from the Spire to the Basin that has so much as printed his name in an obituary. I want to know what everyone is saying. We leave it to chance and we risk the public jumping to a conclusion ill considered. Now is a time for excessive vigilance.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll make it my first priority.”

  “Good.”

  “I also have tomorrow’s schedule here. There are a few pending requests for your consideration. Shall I read them now?”

  Stoddard nodded.

  “A few members of the meritocracy have requested an audience tomorrow at the Pavilion de Lucarne. I’m under the impression this will be an informal social event—no doubt to inquire firsthand about the captain’s procedure.”

  “No doubt,” Stoddard agreed. “Is there anyone in attendance who might be a valuable contact?”

  “The invitation was distributed by Gentleman Merryfield.”

  Stoddard waved his hand dismissively. “Merryfield is hardly advantageous. He’s likely seeking to appear more influential than he is with his invitation.”

  “Agreed, sir. But, I have it on good authority that he’s already received confirmations from Dempwolf, Lafern, and Marklevitz. I suspect they were compelled to accept the invitation by the promise of an opportunity to meet you.”

  Stoddard pondered the proposal. He took it as a sign of good fortune if members of the meritocracy were eager enough to meet with him that they’d subject themselves to Merryfield’s invitation. He was a bumble of a socialite, yet Stoddard couldn’t fault the man for his prompt exploitation of the circumstance.

  With luck, it would prove advantageous to them all.

  “Send Merryfield a letter accepting his invitation,” Stoddard said.

  Donovan made a note of it.

  “A meeting with the governor has been scheduled to follow immediately afterward. Apparently, he’s entertaining foreign delegates from the colonies in the early morning. However, I believe he wishes to thank you personally for your efforts to save the good captain. I’ve already informed him you’d meet with him at his earliest convenience.”

  “Good.”

  “And you have quite a few invitations for lunch,” Donovan continued. “I’ve sorted through them and selected those I felt would be of most interest to you.”

  He handed Stoddard a stack of four invitations, which Stoddard skimmed through quickly. As he read the third, he paused and looked up at Donovan. A ridiculous grin was plastered across the man’s face.

  “This is from Elector Sinclair,” Stoddard said, taken aback.

  “Indeed. I thought you’d be particularly interested in that one.”

  “Accept it,” Stoddard said, ignoring the others.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Stoddard pressed his hands together in thought. If an elector, one of the very highest members of the meritocracy, was requesting his presence he could only take it as a very good sign indeed. It meant that, despite the unfortunate turnout of the operation, he’d managed to catch the eye of the uppermost circles of the meritocracy—the men who held the keys to the city itself.

  Perhaps he’d been too pessimistic, expecting the worst.

  He was beginning to see pieces laid out before him and a stratagem was devising in his mind. First, he needed to satisfy the press. They were bloodhounds for news, and it would only be a matter of time before they tried to dig up something meatier if they weren’t appeased. He couldn’t have them muddling things up.

  Stoddard drew out a folder from one of his many piles and handed it to Donovan. “See that these records make their way into the press’s hands,” he instructed.

  “Sir?” Donovan glanced over the documents briefly. “But, these are Harper’s personal records.”

  “Yes, they are,” Stoddard said, finally accepting the coffee. He drank deeply, the hot liquid hardly fazing him as it went down. “You’ll also find a detailed account of the procedure. The meritocracy I can win over personally, but I want the public to understand how invested I was in Harper’s condition—the inherent risks we entered into with this procedure.

  “If I’ve learned anything about maintaining one’s reputation it is never to leave it to speculation—particularly when it comes to the common masses. They’re a dim lot with less sense than the boors in the colonies. I expect to see those facts published in the morning editions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Donovan said. “Am I to understand these documents have been approved for release then?” Stoddard gave him a look and Donovan nodded knowingly, tucking the folder under his arm.

  “Also, I would like to schedule a postmortem of the body,” Stoddard added. “Schedule it for Thursday. I’d do it sooner if I wasn’t otherwise occupied, but it cannot be helped. Notify Doctor Franklin that I’ll need him to perform the procedure.”

  Donovan hesitated. “Is a postmortem really necessary? There were plenty of witnesses in the dome.”

  Stoddard frowned, setting his coffee down on the table.

  “As long as anyone might possess even a sliver of doubt that I did all in my power for the captain it absolutely is,” he snapped. “The mechanism would have functioned perfectly; I and a dozen mechanists can testify to that—and the public won’t dispute it. They’re ignorant when it comes to clockwork mechanics. The profession is too difficult for them to understand.

  “However, what I must ensure is that the public is assured his death was no cause of my own. For whatever reason, they’re much more willing to speculate regarding medicine. So, we will discourage them with hard facts. Leave them no room to wonder. What part of that was unclear?”

  “None of it, sir,” Donovan said, standing a little straighter.

  Stoddard sat, contemplating the day’s events. His finger tapped fitfully against the side of his cup. He might have staunched the threat of the papers, and he was encouraged with regards to leveraging his position with the meritocracy, but there was one matter that still distressed him.

  He hadn’t been able to test his mechanism.

  It gnawed at his mind—not knowing if he could replicate the miraculous link that had tapped into the captain before. Everything leading up to the operation had suggested the prosthetic would have functioned perfectly. Yet, the captain had died, and only moments before Stoddard could test it. Thirteen long hours in surgery, and he had overshot his window by mere minutes.

  “How frail are our bodies,” he sighed.

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing,” Stoddard said. “Just thinking to myself. Tell me, Donovan, did you know you’d be what you are now when you were young?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “When you were young. Was it your aspiration to assist others in this capacity?”


  “I was raised to be whatever I was needed to be,” Donovan said.

  “Well said. Each of us a part to play—a role to fill. That is the singularity that distinguishes us from the rest of the world. You knew your role would be to serve, another’s to lead, and others yet to labor. But I...” Stoddard paused. “I never intended to be a doctor.”

  He laughed a short laugh when he saw Donovan’s look of concern.

  “In fact, I find the time I invest in the profession entirely disagreeable,” he continued. “My mind has always had an affinity for gears and springs, ever since I was a youth. I always knew I would create. Had I known then what that would require of me I might have hesitated.”

  “You regret the role you’ve played, sir?”

  “Not entirely,” Stoddard said. “But, sometimes I consider what it would have been to have given my entire focus to clockwork mechanics. There’s a permanence about it. Where is Sir Jamison Walt now? Dead, as all are bound to be. Nevertheless, his rails still carry cargo from the shipyards through the city. And Master Walcott? Just as lifeless, yet his circuits illuminate our streets. Their legacies are built into the very infrastructure of this city.”

  Stoddard closed his eyes and imagined it, picturing the city from a bird’s-eye view, yet with a privileged insight into its most intimate workings. It was beautiful, a city so perfect in design that it breathed life of its own.

  “What kind of contributions might I have made to this city, I wonder?”

  “What you’re doing for the city is significant,” Donovan assured him.

  “Yet unfulfilled,” Stoddard scowled. He rose from his chair and paced near the fire. “I’ve married my success to an unreliable bedmate. Ever since I began to study medicine it’s been a profoundly distressing condition to wrestle with—the frailty of our mortality.

  “There’s no permanency in it,” he pointed out, gripping his hand into a tight fist to emphasize his point. “It doesn’t matter if you treat someone’s cough; they’re soon to develop another. And blood saved today is only blood spent tomorrow. Then that great incurable brute, Death, looms with his dreaded ultimatum in the end. Everyone dies, Donovan. No amount of medicine prevents the final cut of mortality—the very same cut that plucked this greatest victory from me today.”