by Mark C. King
Sigmund Shaw
A Steampunk Adventure
by
Mark C. King
This book is a work of fiction. Although some of the people, places, and references are real, the events surrounding them are fictitious.
Text copyright ©2015 by Mark King
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
ISBN: 978-1-310-24906-8
This book is dedicated to those who enjoy adventure, gadgets, mystery, and fun. It is my sincere hope that you find all of these, and more, in the following pages.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“I see here, sir, what all the world desires to have: POWER”
- Matthew Bolton (Discussing the first commercial steam engine)
Prologue
It was a spring night in name only. The cold winds and heavy drizzle gave evidence that winter had not given up its grasp – only its position. With the dark clouds hanging drearily over the countryside south of Berlin, most people could be found in their homes, warming themselves by their fires, reading, or preparing for bed. Despite the varying nighttime routines, the one thing that these individuals had in common was ignorance of the accomplishment happening nearby that night. In one of the small country estates an electric lamp poured light onto an oak work table, leaving the periphery of the space in jealous twilight. The table’s scarred surface was covered with stains, papers, formulas, copper wires, and what could soon be the most valuable discovery in modern history.
The walls that surrounded this most important space were lined with shelves which contained all manner of science relics. There were jars filled with milky, opaque fluids, and specimens from the earth, the sea, and the internal man. There were a wide assortment of tools, some clean and well used, others dust covered and seemingly forgotten. Of the most importance were the many well-worn and frequently read books. Those heavy, leather bound tomes, works of the great science predecessors and of the obscure thinkers, could be found all throughout the shelving. That treasured collection of books formed the foundation of inspiration.
The labor of the two German scientists up to that point had left the room hot and heavy with smells of chemicals. Doctor Steinhauser’s greying hair was a mess, a combination of a lack of attention mixed with sweat. He found himself repeatedly wiping away perspiration with the back of his thick leather gauntlet gloves – the brown leather looking black from the moisture. His slightly overweight frame - enveloped in a protective leather apron – always seemed to keep him on the warm side, which was nice on a winters walk, but uncomfortable in a very warm laboratory. He reminded himself that if they succeeded it would get much warmer.
It amazed him that after many months of research, trial and error, hard work, and sacrifice that the end result was the basic setup he had in front of him. Amidst the clutter of his work table, the important pieces were simply a battery, copper wires, a switch, and a small ceramic harness to hold their latest test amalgam cube. How could so much effort be refined down to so little? And yet, this little setup would be used to revolutionize the mechanized world.
Steinhauser coughed into the crook of his arm, a habit that endlessly annoyed him. Growing up, his mother treated him as if he was fragile and sickly. He spent much of his childhood indoors and away from ‘danger’. His mother’s view of the world, outside the confines of his childhood home, was nothing short of paranoid. In her mind, no place was safe. Dangers took the form of the visible – criminals and other unsavory types – and even more fearsome to her, the invisible – germs. Whether or not he really was sickly, or if the continued reinforcement of that idea from his mother caused him to live up to her expectation, he did not know. Even now, as an adult, his little cough that had been with him his entire life may not be anything more than his inner psyche still listening and obeying his mother. Confounded woman!
His only escape as a child were the books that he found in the family library. Unable to participate in outdoor events as often as his peers (or as his mother referred to them, ‘the walking diseased’), he found recreation in the pages of those stories – of which his family had quite an extensive collection on their large estate due to his parents wealth. It was these books that started his interest in chemistry – reading about magical elixirs that could turn items into gold or give unnaturally long life. He read and reread those stories to the point of near memorization.
Leaving his family for school was a turning point in his life. Now, being free from the watchfulness of his mother, he was able to pursue his studies with a veracity that wouldn’t be allowed at home. He soon discovered that the elixirs he read about as a boy were truly fiction, but the realities that he was being taught were even better. True science, with still undiscovered possibilities, excited him more than fiction ever could. He devoured his assignments and executed them with scrupulous care. A perfect student both in obedience and hard work.
After graduation, he continued the long hours of experiments and study that became his routine, his lifestyle. If he had not met Nadina, his now wife, he wondered how consumed he would have become by his work. She brought a balance into his life, a welcome refreshment of thought and companionship. It was because of her that he used some of his family fortune to purchase a home in the country, just south of Berlin. The first thing Steinhauser did in this new home was to turn one of its rooms into his laboratory. It was in this laboratory that he and his colleague, Doctor Koehler, had many triumphs and many failures. It was in this laboratory that they now stood. It was in this laboratory that they may have just created a paradigm shift in the history of man.
Looking up from his work space the typically reserved Steinhauser shifted his goggled eyes over to Koehler, and asked, “Are we ready?” The amazement of the moment caused an unusual excitement in his voice and expectation in his face that overcame any fatigue that the last thirty-six hours of work had produced. They were too close to stop – unable to rest even if they wanted to. Sleep would be considered by the two men, as nothing more than a humorous ideal at this point.
Professor Koehler, the usually more enthusiastic of the two, responded with heavy solemnity, “Ja. I believe we are. We have exceeded our established minimum curing period, for whatever our assumptions are worth.” Steinhauser nodded. Pioneering the unknown causes one to rely on educated guesses. But they were still guesses nonetheless.
“I cannot see anything to be gained by further delay.” Koehler continued. “We are beyond reproach at this point – even by your standards. Is the apparatus prepared?” Koehler knew i
t was, Steinhauser was one of the most meticulous persons he had ever met, but felt the need to confirm the setup one last time. They were on the verge of scientific greatness and wanted no mistakes.
“Ja. Everything is in place.”
Koehler looked briefly at the lone window of the laboratory, snuggled in between darkened shelves and framed by dusty gray curtains. Koehler mused that although there was no light for the window to let in on this cloudy dark night, it made up for it by the sound of the wind and of the shrubbery rubbing against the pane – the night alive with sound if not light. Shaking off the aberrant thought, he used his protectively gloved hand and awkwardly maneuvered his thick fingers into the grips of a pair of iron tongs. After opening and closing them a few times to get a feel for the workings of it, he felt comfortable to proceed. Not as dexterous as using his bare hands, he still showed considerable skill in cautiously and gently grabbing the amalgam cube – the color of sandstone and about the size of a sugar cube – with the tong’s pincers and used his other hand to grab his wrist in support. He slowly walked it over to Steinhauser – there was nothing to truly suggest that their cube was unstable, that he couldn’t just lift it with his bare fingers, but there was also no meaningful precedent set, so all caution had to be used.
Steinhauser watched, tense, without breathing as his colleague crossed the room. Koehler looked very much like an individual carrying an egg on a spoon as is occasionally done at summer picnics. He once again wiped perspiration from his brow as his heart started to beat faster. At this moment he recognized no world outside of this room. His being was consumed by the confines of the events around him.
With continued skill, Professor Koehler lightly placed the cube into the ceramic harness, wincing as he had to drop it into the receptacle about half the cubes length since the tongs were blocked by the walls of the harness. It was a perfect fit, no visible gap between the side of the cube and the walls that enveloped it. It reminded Koehler of a child’s toy where one placed the right shaped object into the right shaped hole.
With the cube now in place, he let out the breath that he was holding. Looking over to Professor Steinhauser, he nodded and received a nod in return. There was nothing left to say – although that wasn’t entirely true. Both men had worries as to the repercussions of success. But like a child that pulls his covers over his head to make the monsters disappear, so too with these scientists, pulling the covers of accomplishment over the monstrous thoughts of practicality – keeping the troubling worries pushed away, for now.
Steinhauser gave a habitual adjustment to his goggles and saw Koehler do the same. With a final glance at his protective leather apron – well used, each scuff and stain a story of a past experiment – he reached over to the electric knife-blade switch and pinched the handle between his finger and thumb. With a slight hesitation – an involuntary paralysis that let the ramifications of their work wash over him – he engaged the switch.
1.
London was alive that warm summer day in July. The carriage ride – horse drawn, not one of those smoke belching, coal vehicles that infused your clothes with smells – was as pleasant a ride as Sigmund could remember. He glanced at the dark coat that he laid on the seat next to him, wishing he had not brought it. He would be surprised if he had it with him at the end of the day and had not forgotten it somewhere along his travels.
Moving through the London streets at a leisurely pace, passing people walking about, smiling, couples arm in arm, kids running around their parents, made him feel especially content. Sigmund didn’t even mind the chug-chug sounds produced by the steam powered carriages, as they mixed in with the preferable clop-clop of the horse drawn ones. Looking into the skies as he headed northward from the south of London, he counted no less than six dirigibles and three hot air balloons wafting through the air. Some were of the large variety used for commercial travelling, but most were of the yacht variety, rich men playing with their flying machines. The vivid colors that most of these airships bore showed splendidly in the bright London sun.
Going to see his sister, Alexis, and his niece, Sarah, was always a highlight of his week, and the weather and attitude displayed by his fellow Brits this beautiful day only served to improve his mood. As the cabbie slowed at an intersection, Sigmund caught the eye of a young lady, parasol in hand – opened against the sun. Her brown curls bounced as she turned her head away in proper – although Sigmund believed mock – modesty. They stole one last glance at each other as the carriage moved on.
Crossing Westminster bridge to the northwest side of the Thames, Sigmund looked out of his window like an eager little kid, taking in all of the activity on the river below. People were along the shores enjoying the cool water on this warm day, while boats were gliding along its reflective surface. He absently wondered what life on the water, on a merchant or cargo boat, would be like. Making a living moving up and down the Thames in his own little ship, a captain whose hours were his own. Like most things, it was probably not as good as his mind made it seem.
Continuing north, they passed Piccadilly Circus, one of the busiest intersections in all of London. The mood here was generally hectic, but today it was more of a crowded calm. There were many people walking and riding, talking, laughing, making purchases from street vendors, but no one in the usual hurried pace. It was one of those rare days where the weather dictated attitude.
The ride proceeded to the north of London, up Gloucester Place, and slowed to a stop a little south of The Regents Park. Outside of the carriage was a three storied, red brick building with white framed windows. Sigmund once again wished that his sister lived closer, or at least on the same side of the Thames. They both lived in London but nearly on opposite sides of the city. As pleasant of a ride as it was today, there were just as many, and probably more, that were not so pleasant. Still, he made sure to see her at least once a week. He and his sister had forged a close bond while young and continually fortified that bond through the challenges they had faced over the years.
Sigmund exited the carriage, careful to step around a mother and son walking hand in hand – going to the park, no doubt – and offered a generous one pound to the cab driver.
With a dismissive wave the driver said, “Sigmund, you know your money is no good with me.”
“You are too kind, Thomas. I owe you a pint.” Replied Sigmund.
Thomas snapped the reigns, started to pull away, and said over his shoulder, “Now you’re speaking my language.” A moment later he was back amidst the traffic of the street, another moving object in the heart of England.
Sigmund pulled a pocket watch out of his vest and checked the time; a few minutes to spare. Sigmund tried hard to always be on time, a lesson taught by his father, a watch maker. As a watch maker, time was quite literally his father’s life, a life that Sigmund enjoyed immensely as a child – watching his father work, repairing clocks, time pieces, and various mechanical objects in his shop. His favorite, however, was watching and sometimes helping as his father created clockwork gadgets and toys. The intricate details that created the elaborate movements of dancing figures or walking animals gave Sigmund a love of creativity and the satisfaction of working with ones hands. Being on time was one way he tried to honor the memory of his father. He let the appreciation of time live on like an offspring of the mind.
The watch in his hand had belonged to his father and Sigmund was almost never without it. Silver, as opposed to the more popular gold. The outside cover was an engraving of a hawk in flight, with an ‘S’ overlaying it. “Shaw”, his father told him, “meant hawk-like” – no doubt a testament to a founding family member with a sharp nose. The symbol was a bit basic for a family crest, but meaningful to Sigmund nonetheless. This watch was one of the few things he had left to remember his father by. Of course, seeing his sister’s smile – their father’s smile – that also helped to keep the memories alive.
He lightly climbed the few steps to the front door of the building, ignoring the
iron railings as he did so, and tucking a small package, a present for his niece, under his arm, he opened the door that led to the foyer of the building. Sigmund continued into the main floor, passing the stairs on his left, and walked down the hallway – hardwood with a burgundy carpet runner – to his sister’s door. With the slightest of hesitations, Sigmund knocked. He hoped Alexis answered, as her husband Jamison somehow intimidated him. It was always easier to see his sister first, receive a warm welcome, and to get the confidence that her hug provided, before facing his brother-in-law.
Jamison was not a bad man. In fact, quite the opposite, Sigmund was impressed with how good he was, how well he treated his sister and his niece. When Jamison met Alexis, Sigmund was with her. It was night and they were just leaving the theatre, having seen The H.M.S. Pinafore. Sigmund had walked to the street with the many others desperately trying to hail a cab in the cold wet weather of that evening. Alexis had stayed near the entrance to fend off the light drizzle. While she was standing alone, or as alone as one can be among a small crowd of people, Jamison approached her, introduced himself, and complimented her smile. Alexis blushed, smiled larger, and then looked away. But when she looked back at him there was no smile. It had been replaced with a serious, yet sad look. Jamison was a little taken aback by this but smiled kindly and calmly waited for an explanation.
