The Inventor
Fantasies of New Europa, Volume 1
by
Morgan Karpiel
Also from Morgan Karpiel:
The Aviator
The Admiral
The Burn
Coming Soon From Morgan Karpiel
The Champion
Cover art: Adam Soroczynsi
The Inventor
Copyright ©2010 Morgan Karpiel. All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, "fair use" in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, "fair use" in teaching or research. Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpt), without written permission from the publisher.
Published by Tahoe Scientific LLC.
ISBN 978-0-9829360-0-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Acknowledgements
For their brilliant insight into the new world of e-publishing, as well as their enthusiastic and unfailing support, I would like to thank Edward and Jeanne Smith. I would also like to thank my editor, Anna May, for her humor, her friendship and her fine attention to detail. Last, but certainly not least, I wish to thank Jan Karpiel, whose deft handling of a welding torch and scribbled invention notebooks helped to lend the right spark to another colorful character.
Preface
While it would appear to take place somewhere in the 1890’s, the Fantasies of New Europa series is set in a fictional world that closely resembles that of our own past. Amid the golden hue of gaslights and the clatter of horse-drawn coaches, the series follows a generation of dreamers and explorers that will find each other through separate twists of fate. They will brave impossible odds, solve the exotic mysteries of their time and navigate the sensual desires of the human heart. The author invites you to immerse yourself in this volume and those that follow, to enjoy the passion of a different time and place, far far away.
The Inventor
The Dilemma
An actress, of all things. How had the girl managed it? Not with stagecraft. The tawdry theater that employed her was hardly known for Shakespeare. It was, however, quite well known for providing a working refuge for street urchins from the East, their wraith-like bodies laced into cheap satin corsets and skirts festooned with bright ruffles to cover the holes in the knees of their stockings. They could sing, yes. They could dance too, as long as the stage was the length of a mattress.
She knows what it means to be sensual, Leda. She knows what it means to be a real woman, a real person, not some porcelain goddess on a shelf. Marriage to you has provided me nothing but a cold tomb to pass the hours in. But this woman, this woman has truly lived, and she offers so much more. She has fire in her blood.
“Fire.” The word sounded lifeless on her lips. “Of course.”
She slid her gaze to the carriage window, watching as they passed the old cemetery, its ornate tombstones floating in the darkness. One sharp turn, then another, and a mansion appeared from behind the moonlit canopy of oak branches, its symmetrical pediments rising from the gloom, its high colonnades swimming in the murky glow of gas lights.
This was a fool’s plan, surely. The desperate act of a woman scorned, a woman abandoned. The Great Inventor would have her thrown out the moment he heard her proposal. And yet, she was also a woman of vast means and there would be some measure of persuasion in that. Enough, perhaps, to grant her the opportunity to explain.
The carriage pulled to a stop, the horses braying and stomping the cobblestones in annoyance.
Summoning her composure, Leda tilted her chin upward and signaled the footman waiting outside. He approached and unlatched the door, offering his gloved hand as she descended the polished steps to the ground. Leda released him as soon as she found solid footing, charging the portico in a sweep of gold and ivory skirts, a storm of silk brought to a sudden stop before the grand entrance.
The footman caught up with her and rang the bell.
Not some porcelain goddess on a shelf.
Leda scowled, startling the wispy-haired old man who pulled the door open. He tottered back a step, staring at her in horror. “Ahh—Good Evening, Countess.”
The footman stepped forward. “The countess wishes to consult with Mr. Ian Anderson, the famous inventor.”
The old man looked lost.
Her man persisted. “Can you introduce her to Mr. Anderson?”
“He’s in his laboratory, naturally.”
“Can you introduce her?”
“Most irregular.”
“Nonetheless.”
“He sees no one this late.”
“The countess is far from ‘no one’.”
The old man wet his lips, considering that as if it were a death threat. “Yes, of course. I—Please follow me.”
Leda stepped into the great hall, signaling her servant to stay behind. Arched corridors appeared from the shadows, the castles of higher academia no less elaborate than those built for her ancestors, their stone monuments dedicated to battles, sieges and infamous excesses.
The old man led her to a staircase, then down, and down again, deep into the cool grasp of an underground keep. He dropped off the last step and followed a worn path along the stone, passing under steel catwalks and large metal tanks. The air thrummed with hidden movement, the sound of gears turning and water pinging through boilers.
Leda found her gaze wandering over a vast metal menagerie. A machine with iridescent dragonfly wings and bulbous camera lenses for eyes stared back at her from a shadowed corner, the dim light of gas lamps burning in its gaze. Walking robots with ponderously geared movement systems, a tank with levers and a pile of torn rubber belts sat inert in the stillness. Tools littered the ground.
A chair that had been charred and burned stood alone.
The old man stopped before a large metal door, letting a slip of cautious breath escape before pulling the bell rope beside it. Moments passed with no answer.
“Not fond of disturbances.” The old man rang the bell again.
A grainy burst of static issued from a metal box beside the door. “What?”
“A lady here to see you, sir.”
“A what?”
“A lady. It seems rather urgent.”
The static cut off in the middle of intelligible curse. A buzzer vibrated from the door lock. The old man pushed inside, leading her onto a suspended platform with a metal grate floor. A large workshop spanned the length of the chamber beneath them.
Long tables appeared under the glow of area lights, their surfaces piled high with tools. Drawing boards hung on the walls, adding a backdrop of sketches and calculations to the disorganized spread of welding equipment, cables and ducting. Machines whirred and clicked. An acrid tinge of smoke flavored the air.
The old man offered his hand and Leda accepted it, allowing herself to be led down into the chaos. The stiff bustle under her skirts made the descent difficult, the trappings of fashion unwieldy in narrow spaces. She managed ably enough with the assistance she was given, stepping down to face the Great Inventor himself.
He didn’t turn around to greet her, his attention focused on a segment of metal tubing that had been secured between the jaws of a table vice. Lifting a handheld grinding machine, he skimmed its spinning wheel over the edge of the pipe. The metal screeched, releasing great showers of sparks. Glowing embers bounced along the floor.
Leda grimaced. This was not what sh
e had expected. This was no spindly professor with thick glasses and charmingly eccentric airs. This man looked the part of a hard laborer, his shoulders powerful and well-defined under the cotton billow of his shirt, a shadow of sweat darkening the broad line of his back.
The machine in his hands spun to a stop.
The Inventor rose to full height and slid the protective goggles from his eyes, their circular lenses catching the light from above. He moved to assess his work, hesitating at the sight of her. His gaze traveled from the gold embroidered hem of her skirts to the white ostrich feather in her hat, a moment of genuine confusion caught in his expression.
The old man cleared his throat, stepping to one side and bowing to make elegant work of the introduction. “The Countess of Caithmore to see you, sir.”
“Countess?”
“Of Caithmore, sir.”
He narrowed his eyes. He’d heard of her. Well, who hadn’t?
“I apologize for imposing,” she offered without any real hint of remorse. “I realize it’s most extraordinary, especially at this uncivilized hour, but I had hoped you might forgive the intrusion.”
“Forgive or no, I’ve no time for it.” His pronunciation held the slightest roll of a Northman’s brogue. “So please say what you came here to say, and while you’re at it, pick up a wrench and get to work on that section of bolts behind you.”
“It must be discussed in private.”
“What must?”
“I beg a private audience with you, sir.”
He considered that, seeming to weigh irritation against curiosity. It was almost laughable, this world-renowned genius pondering the dilemma of whether to grant a private audience with a countess amid his nest of cables and devices. It was frightening also, to imagine that he might agree.
The decision did not come as easily as she’d hoped.
“The Academy’ll be open in a few hours. I’m sure that your highly sensitive proposal ca’ be heard upstairs at that time. I don’t work for private individuals. It can be compromising—”
“I will not go to the Academy. This has to be a private matter. I cannot be seen going here and there, asking questions, and no one can be seen coming to me. I require absolute secrecy. I know that you work late and I have visited you, at this terrible hour, to ensure that I am not seen.”
His gaze turned searching, making her acutely aware of the sharp blue of his eyes, the disapproving turn of his lips. He played the part of an eccentric exceedingly well, his features offering a stark and brooding intensity, his hair cut short and wild, lit with shades of honeyed blonde.
He stood before her now, perhaps a little taller than she had first appreciated, his shirt stained with coal dust and a thin glitter of metal, trying to devise a quick way to be rid of her.
He frowned, apparently unable to do so.
His servant bowed. “Shall I serve tea, sir?”
“No.”
“Brandy?”
“No.”
The old man seemed at a loss. “Water?”
“Absence’ll be good enough for now.”
“Certainly, sir.”
The old man left.
Leda waited for the servant to climb the steps and swing the heavy door shut behind him. She prayed for the boldness of the previous hours to provide inspiration, direct the awkward summary, the unthinkable proposal. It all made so much sense to a woman with her restrictions, but to a man like this . . . what would he think?
A part of her didn’t care. This was a business proposal, like any other. All of his projects came with budgets and requirements. All of his machines had a purpose. What was so different in this? She would pay handsomely for his work, so handsomely that all judgment should be quelled by the figure.
Still, to say the words aloud…
She turned away from him, avoiding his direct gaze as her heart skipped to a panicked rhythm in her chest. The room spun, her breath coming up short.
“Countess.” He addressed her coolly. “You have my full attention.”
“Yes, I—” She winced, forcing the words out. “I need you to build me a machine and I am prepared to pay a princely sum for it.”
“What sort of machine?”
Good Lord. She focused on a box of curling metal shavings against the wall, their strands like steel ringlets under the lights. Such an odd image. She didn’t know that metal could do that, form something so delicate.
“Countess.”
“I should explain.”
“T’would be useful.”
“By tomorrow, I will be the most famous woman in New Europa.”
He shook his head, not following.
“I’m quite well known now, of course, but that is because of my wealth. My family name is everywhere, listed in history books under descriptions of heroes and traitors, depending on the generation. It is a name that has become synonymous with old money creating new money, with foreign investments, with trading and with development. It’s a name that graces half of the institutions in the capital, as many of them rely on yearly support. But tomorrow, it will be known for something else.”
“Not brevity, apparently.”
She shot him a dark look.
“Your machine?”
Leda steeled herself. “My husband has left me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My husband, the Earl, has abandoned his office and his seat at Parliament and left me for another woman, as of today. He has selected a residence in the Tropics. He intends to live the rest of his days there with the coconuts and a nineteen year old actress named Gosia.”
“I don’t make killing machines.”
“I do not require one.”
The Inventor waited, the question still hanging between them.
“I chose him for love,” she said, her voice small, the stiff undercurrent of aristocratic conditioning thinned to nothing. “It was years ago, I admit. Perhaps I have focused on things that kept me apart from him, but he always seemed to want it that way. Before he left, he made it clear why. There were certain suggestions about my . . . Certain complaints. I would like you to build me a machine that will test my health.”
“Your health?”
“I would like a machine to determine whether I am truly cold.”
He stared at her. “You canna be serious.”
“I am very serious.”
“This is what taverns are for.”
“I cannot go to such places, obviously.”
“You’re not too old or too plain. Your husband left, so find another. Or take a lover. An’ dunna tell me that you can’t. Women of your stature have been doing that for centuries.”
“I am under considerable scrutiny. Everyone talks. My servants talk. They are paid well by the press and what they say is printed. Any lover would suffer the same temptation. They would succumb at some point. And what would they say then? More of the same, no doubt. The Earl has made a point of being indiscreet in his opinions of me. By tomorrow, I will be known as the coldest, most deficient woman in the world, a childless woman who cannot even keep a philandering husband at her side, a porcelain goddess on a shelf, incapable in all respects.”
“But a machine—”
“A machine will not talk. And the controversial nature of its purpose will also keep its creator silent. I need to know, for myself, as I endure the laughter of an entire nation, whether these accusations have merit or not. I need to know privately, without the groping hands of a lover after his own small fortune or a husband who would soon enough betray me, whether I am incapable or not. I need a clinical assessment.”
“From a machine?”
“Yes.”
“Impossible.”
“It can’t be. These are simple mechanics, are they not?”
“A machine has no judgment.”
“But you do. You will devise the test that the machine will use.”
For the first time, she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes, something that vanished as
he looked away. “I have no particular knowledge of medicine, Countess. I should think you would be better served by a doctor that specializes in these matters.”
“Doctors are paid to know everything or act as if they do. In my experience, they are often tempted to conjure a diagnosis and treat one with oils and leeches in all confidence. I am convinced that they will treat my perception, not my condition.”
“And your condition is . . .?”
“Defective, I suspect.”
He frowned, the answer apparently not to his liking.
“I will pay a rich sum to you personally, in addition to a sizable donation for the Academy. I have heard they are hoping for private funds to cover the cost of your new submersible.”
He nodded, distracted.
She continued, her confidence restored now that the worst part of the explanation was over. He hadn’t thrown her out, after all. “I understand that His Majesty’s Royal Navy would like to take control of the submersible project. Without private funds, you may have to bend to their demands.”
He met her gaze at that, something dangerous flashing in the blue of his eyes. “Tis no concern of yours.”
“No, but I may offer some solution.”
“If I build you a machine.”
“Yes.”
“To test whether you are cold.”
“Yes.”
He drew a tired breath and closed his eyes, seeming to regret the words even as he spoke them. “My trusted man should be waiting for you on the other side of the door. I’ll send him with a message once I’ve something to show you, an’ we’ll see what can be done. We’ll discuss my fee and the amount of your donation later.”
Relief flooded through her. “Thank you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Dunna thank me yet, Countess.” He turned his back on her, prying the segment of pipe trapped in the vice loose with his hands. “And when you come next, leave that contraption under your skirts at home.”
Ian knew it would be pointless to continue now. The welding jig waited, the ground segment of tubing resting coolly in his hands, but the pull of the project had been disrupted. He no longer felt the hard grasp of it, the frenetic surge of inspiration that carried from one task to the next, thick in details and blocking out the rest of the world. It was gone, perhaps for the night, perhaps for the week, perhaps forever.
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