“Ms. Finching may decide for herself whether or not she wishes to join us,” Hexam said. “Though, by what I have learned of her character to date, I suspect both her bravery and her competence in self-defense will carry her through this trial unscathed – her virtue intact.”
Cuttle nodded in meek acquiescence before disappearing through the doorway in a haze of tobacco smoke and bawdy tavern banter.
“I appreciate your endorsement, Mr. Hexam.” Finching flashed a restrained smile that stood in sharp contrast to her demure solemnity. “I do not fault Mr. Cuttle for his good intentions, but it is refreshing to know that not all men are inclined to view every woman as a damsel in distress.”
A curiously attractive woman, Finching wore a starched white shirtwaist blouse, an Ascot scarf and a dark blue broadcloth habit-back skirt. On her feet were imported cloth and patent vici shoes with Louis XV heels and featherweight sewn soles. Capping the visual bouquet was a sailor hat of Milan straw with band and bow of gros-grain ribbon, embellished with a single jetted black ostrich aigrette. She came from a patrician family, but the long global conflict had nearly exhausted their fortunes.
Tragically, the war had claimed Finching’s four brothers as well. Conscripted by Queen Victoria to serve in the defense of Great Britain, two died on the high seas in transit, one gave his life in fighting near the Port of London, and the last perished in the Battle of Southampton.
“It seems we are all in distress, Ms. Finching.” Hexam drew in a deep breath, surprised to find a touch of salty sea air lingering beneath the muggy Charleston miasma. “The situation brings to mind a grim adage I read in some volume in my youth: ‘A city besieged is a city taken.’”
Above the rooftops, countless smokestacks disgorged sable clouds as the distant drone of factories corrupted the twilight hours. The clang and thunder of unbridled industry echoed through the city streets as preset machines toiled relentlessly on assembly lines churning out the inflexible implements of warfare: an endless army of Juggernauts – colossal mechanical soldiers, prized equally for their precision and their lack of emotion.
These steadfast behemoths guarded the seaboard, vigilantly scanning the Atlantic for signs of an impending invasion. For now, the formidable leviathans and their uncanny masters remained deceptively quiescent in their subaqueous bastions. Those who studied military strategy knew the lull in skirmishes was just the calm before the coming tempest.
“It often feels…” Finching paused, her voice catching in her throat. “Hopeless, I suppose.” Though the enemy had not yet launched a formal assault on North American soil, the extent of its destructive capabilities could be readily inspected in remote stereoscopic viewers. Charleston’s fate had been prophesied in the ruins of Paris, the rubble of Rome and the capture of Madrid. “A century of excess begat this tragedy. We were so busy exploiting new technologies to forge our utopian empires we did not consider the possibility that some rival species might seek to overthrow our long dominion.”
“Progress and conflict often go hand-in-hand,” Hexam said, recalling the horrors of war he had experienced 20 years earlier in a vastly different setting. “Most likely, you merely accelerated an inevitable struggle.”
Following Hexam’s unnerving observation, a somber silence settled upon them. As they waited, loud, sporadic artillery-like sounds rolled ashore, rattling windows and jarring the slumbering residents of Charleston from sleep. Hexam might have shrugged off the noise as thunder or attributed it to the enigmatic Seneca Guns phenomenon – but he knew better. Out in the Atlantic, far beneath the churning surf, the sleepless Deep Ones worked furiously, hammering and stirring, making ready their greenish-gray armored leviathans.
“Come with me,” Cuttle said, reemerging from the rowdy Legger’s Den. Looking less spruce than when he had entered the establishment, it appeared Cuttle had been rousted a bit by unruly patrons during his brief foray. His short, reddish-brown top coat had sustained damage in the form of a torn right sleeve and his pearl gray fedora had been partially mashed beneath the boot of some lout. “The one we seek is here. Blackpool will take us to the Khunrath Contrivance.”
2.
A few weeks earlier, Caleb Hexam strolled through the streets of a very different Charleston, South Carolina.
Two decades had passed since Robert E. Lee’s surrender to Ulysses S. Grant at the Appomattox Court House, bringing an end to the Confederacy and reuniting a battered America. Hexam had played a small role in that momentous struggle. Though the worst of his corporeal wounds had healed, the psychological scars lingered in intermittent nightmares.
He served in the 1st North Carolina Junior Reserves, fighting under Major General Robert Hoke in the defense of Fort Fisher at the mouth of the Cape Fear River. In the closing days of the war, he took part in the eleventh-hour Carolinas Campaign at the Battle of Wyse Fork.
After the war, Hexam briefly took over his family’s iron mine near Chapel Hill, North Carolina before turning the reigns over to his younger brother. He currently served as the director of the South Carolina Railroad, working out of Camden.
Business brought Hexam to Charleston on that cloudless day in August, 1886. Another obligation caused a fateful detour into the town’s crowded marketplace.
Hexam took his time scouring the countless stall-like shops searching for some unique trinket to present to his wife on their 10th anniversary. Many of the stalls were occupied by grocers, butchers and fishermen. Oysters could be purchased by the bushel and locals advertised their goods by dangling large catfish from wooden railings.
Other vendors offered comestibles and commodities, from flowers and sweets to ivory lace and feather-stuffed cushions and cutlery. The cries of marketers and hucksters of all descriptions filled the air.
At length, Hexam stumbled upon a haggard old merchant peddling a hodgepodge of trinkets and curios. Amongst the miscellany, he discovered a peculiar item both beautiful and beguiling. Nestled in an oddly proportioned leaden box of apparent antiquity was an extraordinary crystal gemstone of deepest hue. It featured congruent kite-shaped faces with ruddy striations.
“Excuse me,” Hexam said, agitating the olive-skinned man as if he had torn him from some delightful dream. “What can you tell me about the history of this item?”
“Ah, that is quite rare – quite rare indeed,” the merchant said. “Shall I tell you how I acquired it? It began many years ago, in the swampy wilderness south of the city. Native Charlestonians know of the ruins of an old church not far off the King’s Highway.”
Hexam listened as the old man disgorged a story of half-truths and fantasy, a likely fabrication designed more to captivate and fascinate potential buyers than to elucidate and enlighten. The far-fetched narrative amounted to little more than a fringe benefit – at least, Hexam imagined it to have no intrinsic value at the time.
Though he knew such an object would not appeal to his wife, Hexam quickly became enthralled by its more intriguing properties – its iridescent luminosity and its multifaceted configuration. For a handful of dollars, the strangely shimmering deltohedron passed into his own hands – and phenomena beyond his comprehension and control began to propel him toward a grim singularity.
3.
The interior of the Legger’s Den seemed more expansive than the building’s perceptible dimensions should have allowed. Dimly lit by a mishmash of electric lights, whale oil lanterns and candles, the main hall featured dozens of tables of varying sizes. Along the exterior walls, curtained booths secreted less sociable patrons, no doubt providing sanctuary both for nefarious business transactions and sordid love affairs.
Along the far back wall ran a surprisingly ornate bar offering an extensive selection of all kinds of ales and porters and lager beers; homemade wines made from blackberries, currants, elderberries, gooseberries or cherries; sweet and tart ciders; and the obligatory assortment of gin, whiskey, brandy and rum. An automated barkeep – an inelegantly constructed mechanical servant – glided efficiently from
one end of the bar to the other, its brass plates and steel framework only partially concealed by a black-and-white striped twilled overshirt and a spotless apron-belt.
The automaton executed beverage requests input on a 27-key writing machine by the proprietor of the establishment. The barkeep’s fixed expression and condescending painted smile evoked a melancholic seriousness as it lined orders along the bar for distribution. A lanky potboy darted from table to table, conveying overflowing tankards.
Noah Cuttle ushered Caleb Hexam and Fanny Finching through the crowded hall to a pocket-sized chamber in the shadowy depths of the Legger’s Den.
“There,” Cuttle said, pointing to a scrawny, blear-eyed man seated at a table littered with bottles and half-emptied glasses. “That’s the barebones over there. He can provide access to the Khunrath Contrivance.”
“This is the one, then,” the gaunt figure said as the company approached. “This is the one who does not belong?”
“Caleb Hexam, this is Josiah Blackpool,” Cuttle announced, harvesting a lantern from a wall peg to bring more illumination into the dusky hollow. “Josiah recently helped purge Charleston of a network of enemy spies.”
“Dowse the glim, man,” Blackpool said, snatching the lantern from Cuttle and extinguishing the light. “This place is more perilous than a cage of lions and a nest of vipers combined.” Without uttering another word, he plucked an apparatus from his breast pocket that seemed a cross between riding bow spectacles and opera glasses. As he donned the strange eyewear and scanned the crowd, a greenish glow engulfed his face. “Go on, then,” he said, beckoning them as he returned the spectacles to his pocket. “Sit down.”
“I told you we were not followed,” Cuttle said in a softened voice, still noticeably irked. “It has been three months since the raid on the Dagon worshippers. The city should be free of infiltrators.”
“The comfort of your mountain refuge makes you susceptible to wishful thinking, Noah.” Blackpool offered the first trace of a smile, but it proved both feeble and fleeting. “The gill-men still have hybrid agents in the city, make no mistake about that,” he said. “They often place operatives at the Legger’s Den to solicit information from drunkards.”
When they all were seated at a table, Cuttle ordered three pints of stout and a cider for the group. When the drinks arrived, Hexam emptied his at a single draught, while Cuttle and Finching civilly sipped theirs.
“She ought not be here,” Blackpool said after a long silence. “Of all people, Noah, you should know better. This is no place for a lady of refinement.”
“While I concur with the sentiment,” Cuttle said, “I had little say in the matter. This is Lady Finching.”
“Daughter of Silas Finching?” Blackpool’s disposition shifted instantaneously. His expression reflected admiration and heartfelt sympathy. “I knew your father well, Lady Finching,” he said, head bowed. “I had the honor of serving with your brothers Scott Allan and Nathaniel on several occasions. I am sorry for your loss.”
“I appreciate your kind words,” Finching said. “Father spoke highly of you in his final days. He trusted you above all others to carry on his research.”
“Research that has, as yet, not produced the necessary effect.” Blackpool frowned before taking a drink and lighting his pipe. “And time is working against us.”
“This research of which you speak,” Hexam said, eager to inspect the device Cuttle had described to him. “You seek to replicate the device postulated by Johann Khunrath?”
“We seek to reproduce the one Ernst Chladni built working from Khunrath’s designs.” Blackpool turned his gaze upon Hexam, studying the man intently. He had encountered Travelers in the past. He had always sensed an inherent dissimilarity in their nature that betrayed their incongruousness – they always seemed distinctly out of place. Hexam displayed no palpable air of otherworldliness. “How did you stumble upon this one, Noah? How do you know he is who he claims to be?”
“He called upon Duke Finching, unaware of his recent passing,” Cuttle said. “He gave a detailed account of his crossing to Lady Finching.”
“You took him at his word, Lady Finching?”
“I did, and I still do,” she said, unwilling to offer an explanation for her confidence in Hexam. “He does not belong here, Blackpool. I wish to provide any means of assistance to see him returned to his home.”
“All well and good, Lady Finching,” Blackpool said. “But we have not yet been able to fully activate the Khunrath Contrivance, and we have only a limited understanding of his so-called ‘spheres of being,’ though we have detailed facsimiles of his hand-drawn charts. Even our most staunch supporters in the government have lost faith in the project.”
“Mr. Hexam believes he may be able to assist us in completing our objectives, to find a portal leading to new technologies that would help us win this war,” Cuttle said. “He claims to know the whereabouts of a proper antidipyramid.”
“Is that so,” Blackpool said, leaning back in his chair. “And how might that be, Mr. Hexam, seeing as you also claim to come from a parallel world which is technologically inferior to this one?”
“I do not understand the science behind it, Mr. Blackpool.” Hexam pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and placed it upon the table. Upon it, he had sketched – to the best of his abilities – the strangely shimmering deltohedron he believed had facilitated his passage between worlds. “Silas Finching – my Silas Finching – believed this crystalline object held the key to making his model of Khunrath’s apparatus operative.”
“A decagonal trapezohedron.” Blackpool studied the illustration, his mind racing over his late mentor’s hypotheses. Toward the end, Duke Finching had postulated that the Khunrath Contrivance required a focal point of precise configuration, but neither the 16th century alchemist nor his 18th century disciple, German physicist and musician Ernst Chladni, imparted the specifications. “I presume you possess such an object, Mr. Hexam?”
“No,” Hexam admitted. “But I believe I know where to find one.”
“I hope it lies within a day’s journey,” Blackpool said. “My colleagues at the Atlantic Seaboard Defense Initiative tell me that the Tartarus Campaign has been approved. Operations may begin as soon as 48 hours from now.”
While the magnitude of this news eluded Hexam, it plainly unsettled both Cuttle and Finching.
“In my world,” Hexam said, “the crystal was discovered in the ruins of a church in the wilderness, many miles south of Charleston, in a remote forest clearing.”
“That is rather vague, sir,” Blackpool said. “A map would be more to my liking.”
Hexam skimmed his memory, hoping to summon up more unambiguous elements of the story. The man from whom he had purchased the deltohedron spun a wild tale about some sinister and secretive cult exploiting the sacred grounds. Local lawmen eventually raided one of their midnight revelries, interrupting their depraved rituals and putting an end to the sect. There, the old man claimed, he had discovered the oddly proportioned leaden container and the peculiar gemstone.
“A map I cannot provide.” Hexam did not know for certain that the abandoned church would even exist in this parallel world. He had noticed, though, that many important landmarks between the two realities seemed to correspond. “I was told the ruins are found not far off the King’s Highway, on grounds once owned by the Chittendens.”
Blackpool raised an eyebrow and smiled. He recognized the name.
4.
One week earlier, Caleb Hexam had first learned the name Johann Khunrath from an acquaintance in Asheville.
“I purchased it from a man in Charleston,” Caleb Hexam said, proudly exhibiting his curious find. “Truth be told, I had intended it as an anniversary present.”
“You still leave gifts at her graveside,” Silas Finching said, struck by the depth of Hexam’s devotion. “She has been gone now five years, Caleb. Perhaps it is time to let her go. Treasure your memories, but move on with your l
ife.”
“Allow me my eccentricities, sir,” Hexam said. Silas – 20 years his senior – had buried several sons, a wife and a daughter over his long life. He clasped his grief tightly, keeping it concealed. Hexam had seen his lingering heartache surface on certain occasions. “I remember her every day, but I choose the anniversary of our marriage to commemorate our bond. Death cannot deny me my remembrance.”
“Very well,” Silas said. His attention promptly returned to the crystal gemstone. “It is remarkable that you should happen to bring this to me, Caleb. I have been looking for this very configuration for an experiment.”
“An experiment?” Hexam could not stifle his amusement. A broad smile erupted upon his face. “You badger me for my idiosyncrasies when you, sir, are prone to far more frequent bouts of unconventional behavior.” He regularly teased Silas about his compulsive ingenuity. His inventions generally remained relegated to notes and diagrams on paper. Those that managed to attain a physical state for experimentation never quite performed as anticipated. “What is it this time? A device to ferry you back and forth across the ages? A veil to render you invisible?
“Something based upon the research of another visionary,” Silas said. “Are you familiar with the work of Johann Khunrath?”
“Should I be?”
“He was quite a futurist.” Silas led Hexam to his study where he produced a copy of Khunrath’s opus, On Alternate Spheres of Being. “He believed in the existence of an infinite number of realities, ‘spheres of being’ he called them. He designed a machine he believed could be used to create transient doorways between parallel worlds.”
“Sounds like nonsense to me,” Hexam said. He flipped through the crisp, clean pages of Khunrath’s old tome, the paper surprisingly suffering only minor foxing and insignificant marginalia. “Hardly worth the effort of duplication, I should think.”
“But I have duplicated his apparatus. It is a magnificent fusion of harmonics and light manipulation.” Finching seized the book and found the double-page diagram detailing Khunrath’s design. “I have reproduced it down to the most minute detail, save one crucial item: a proper crystal to generate the portals.”
Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam Page 13
