Murder on the Titania and Other Steam-Powered Adventures

by Alex Acks

  Simms popped one of the juicy little sausages into his mouth and thought that this, at least, made the trip worth something. The rich really did occupy a different world from the one in which he’d grown up. Who would have thought that apple could belong in a sausage, let alone the odd little green bits he didn’t want to think about too hard since they imparted a nicely sharp flavor.

  He stuffed another sausage into his mouth as Captain Ramos introduced him to yet another lady as “Lord Parnell-Muttar” and mumbled something about being charmed. The lady in question, noting the smear of grease—if expensive grease—on his lips declined to offer her hand to be kissed. He almost wiped his lips on the back of his glove until the captain produced a handkerchief from her padded-out bosom and shoved it into his hand.

  “I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he muttered as she steered them farther into the ballroom. As if to lend credence to his claim, his stomach let out a loud, pleased growl around the bits of pork and beef he’d already given it.

  “In this at least, you’re acting the part quite well,” she muttered back. “Just try not to eat too many of those sausages. I have to share a room with you later.”

  “You don’t eat too many sausages,” he muttered, well aware that was exceedingly weak as a retort, even by his own standards. He was about to protest a bit more loudly when Captain Ramos tugged him away from another waiter with a delightfully loaded tray, but one glance at her expression showed she was a woman on the hunt. Her expression was fixed into one of smiling politeness, but there was a sharpness to her gaze that Simms recognized well.

  “Ah, and there he is,” the captain murmured, steering them toward another brightly colored clump of overdressed people sweating money and a desperate need for relevance from their pores. The group stood near the floor to ceiling windows that filled out one entire wall of the observation deck, framing the smoke-hazed Manhattan skyline.

  “Who?”

  “Observe the man in bottle green surrounded by an odd combination of the shabbily dressed and lords with singe marks in their hair and grease stains upon their gloves. Academics on one side, idle tinkerers on the other, there. The cut of his suit is a bit off, you see? Not professionally tailored. I’d wager the fabric’s poor as well, the way it’s moving.”

  “Ah…” Simms took her meaning immediately. It was the sort of suit Captain Ramos had often pointed out as what a poor man wore to try to impress patronizing rich men. “So he’s the inventor of the…thing.” There had been a reason they were here, right? Other than the sausages.

  “Thadius Clarkson, yes. Inventor of the alleged clockwork automated pilot. A coat that badly cut and he’s still in with the first class passengers? I can’t think of anyone else he might be.”

  Rather than go directly for the shabby fellow in question, the captain led them over to a nearby group. There was a minute of rapid fire introductions, bowing and hand kissing and fluttering, and then the conversation settled back to a discussion of which coming out balls were certain to be the best and which the most scandalous in the coastal regions. Simms didn’t have to pretend at all to be bored and a bit lost, even as Captain Ramos made encouraging noises in the general direction of the conversation as she slowly shifted them over to one side of the group.

  And there they were, in perfect position to eavesdrop.

  “—tried to have the patent held, can you believe?” the man—Clarkson—asked, chuckling broadly at the murmurs of disbelief that bought. He had a bit of a ratty face, Simms thought, and a very nasal voice, the sort normally caused by having had one’s nose broken multiple times. “So, of course, I couldn’t allow that to stand. Damn Germans, always endeavoring thievery of the best efforts of the Duchies. If they were so far advanced in their design, they should have had the dashed confidence to file for themselves.” He laughed again.

  Listening to that laugh, thin and oozing with pomposity, Simms felt the not inconsiderable urge to flatten Clarkson’s nose himself, just on principle. Pretending to be observing something out the windows, Simms tried to get a better look at the man’s face. His much abused, rather crooked nose was underlined by a sparse and overly groomed mustache. Simms couldn’t help but stroke his own rather more luxuriant growth—now unfortunately waxed by orders of the captain—and smirk a little behind his glove.

  “You caught us all by surprise, though,” one of the other men in that group said in a jolly tone. He was an older gentleman with hair gone mostly steel gray, his frame a bit rotund, one hand tucked into the pocket of his striped vest. He had a cigar in his other hand that he moved as he spoke, as if conducting some unseen orchestra. “I hadn’t thought you’d still be in the business of difference engines. Not after Bremen.”

  The look Clarkson shot the avuncular fellow at that comment would have heralded a bottle being broken into an improvised knife in a more honest setting. “A true inventor never allows minor setbacks to interfere with the glorious process.” He sniffed derisively.

  Simms considered for a moment the many times he’d seen Captain Ramos working feverishly at some bit of machinery with hand bloody from skinned knuckles, her eyes gone strange and wandering from the effects of peyote in a face smeared with grease. He would never, ever, accuse the process of being at all glorious.

  “Quite true, quite true. So I take it you were able to work out all those hiccups with the chain drive?”

  At which point the conversation moved over to something far too technical for a man of Simms’s education level and cheerful mechanical disinclination, though from the corner of his eye he saw Captain Ramos all but drinking it in, her eyes blazing with interest. Simms could only hope that the women in their little circle assumed it was directed toward their riveting discussion of the varieties of lace from the Grand Duchy of Galveston.

  More sausages, Simms decided. It was his only chance at survival. As he scanned the ballroom for a waiter bearing a tray of savory salvation, he noticed that he and the captain weren’t the only ones hovering nearby and doing a bit of eavesdropping. There were six other people he picked easily from the crowd, which meant they weren’t trying to be in the least bit subtle. Most paid rapt attention—probably more amateur inventors. But one rather slight young man in a burnt orange and gold waistcoat, his brown hair slicked back in an unflattering style that made his entire head appear wedge-shaped, stared at Clarkson with unadulterated contempt and hatred writ large on his face.

  Now that, Simms concluded, was rather unusual. People in first class usually excelled at hating each other while smiling. He nudged the captain lightly to bring her attention to the sour-faced fellow, but before he could say anything, the ship’s gong rang out three times, indicating that they were about to cast off from the Empire State Building and begin their voyage.

  That seemed to be the signal for Clarkson. He excused himself from his group and moved through the crowd to the small podium set up directly under the large portrait of the Grand Duchess of New York and her two terriers. All three sets of painted eyes seemed to glower disapprovingly at the assembled society occupying the ballroom.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention!” Clarkson had to repeat himself several times before the room quieted. “As you’ve no doubt noticed, the glorious Titania is casting off and shall soon begin her most felicitous ascent. My automaton stands at the ready on the bridge, but I thought it best to let Captain Murray give the helm his deft and human touch one last time before the era of human imprecision officially comes to a close. I wish to inform you there has been a modest change of flight plans for our exhibition cruise, however.” He held up his hands, smiling at the obedient murmurs of surprise. “Rather than move over the dark sylvan stretches of this fair duchy, we shall turn over the lusty expanse of the eastern waters and head out to sea so that you, honored guests, may appreciate the beauty of nightfall over the waters of the bewitching Atlantic as you take your dinner and be greeted by the sublime reflection of Helios’s aurora to g
o with your breakfasts. But more importantly, we shall move far afield from the shining lineaments of the roads and rail lines. I wish you to witness the true complexity of my automaton as he navigates by mathematics alone!”

  More applause greeted this pronouncement.

  Next to Simms, Captain Ramos snorted, hiding her mouth behind her fan. “I’d be far more impressed if the thing could detect the lights or signals from the beacons and calculate anew from there. Flying a preprogrammed course over a place with no landmarks has the potential to be quite the dodge. It can all be reduced to velocities and times if the maps are sufficiently accurate.”

  Simms smiled sourly and muttered around his muttonchops, “I’d be far more impressed if he’d speak plain bloody English.”

  Clarkson continued blithely on, “And once our pleasure cruise is at its end, the clockwork pilot—overseen by Captain Murray—will guide us safely to rest at in the bosom of the Duchy of Charlotte’s port!”

  Docking an airship was no mean feat. Simms shot another glance at the captain. Her eyebrows arched up a little. “Should it provably happen that way, I will reconsider my opinion,” she admitted a bit grudgingly.

  “Now, if those of you with tickets illuminated around the edges with a gilded stripe would care to coalesce around me, we shall repair to the bridge for this momentous occasion. Other honored guests, please enjoy the ambrosial comestibles. We shall reconvene at dinner!”

  Another glance at the captain and she flashed him a charming smile, tapping her lips with their tickets—which were, Simms noted now, decorated with a gold stripe along the edges.

  “Oh, you’re going, Lady Parnell-Muttar?”

  Captain Marta Ramos smiled charmingly at the plump gentlewoman—Lady Margrave of Albany—who had asked the question. “I’m afraid so. A bit dull for my tastes, but”—here she let her voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper—“I do try to indulge darling James in his little whims, since he’s then more likely to let me indulge in my passion for Zhonghua silks in return.”

  “Oh, yes. Then go, go.” Lady Margrave made a little shooing motion with her hands. “This year’s are particularly lovely, you’d best build up all the good credit you can!”

  Marta bobbed a little curtsy and extricated herself and Simms from the group without further comment. The women closed the circle back in a moment later, the conversation turning immediately to the departed couple before they’d even gotten out of earshot. The ladies couldn’t seem to decide if they were jealous of the false lord and his “wife” or not—it was quite the status symbol to go to the bridge, after all, but also would cut into valuable time better spent socially maneuvering and not concerning themselves with technical details they had sadly—in Marta’s opinion—not been trained to understand.

  Flashing the tickets as unsubtly as she could without actually bursting into song, she caught them up to the small group leaving the ballroom, placing them at the back. It put her in prime position to sort through the conversations of the rest of the group—mostly unctuous and ultimately shallow questions from would-be inventors aimed at Clarkson—while remaining safely ignored as they traversed the richly carpeted hallways and down stairs, all leading unerringly to the fore of the airship.

  The hall leading to the bridge was surprisingly well decorated with an abstract golden design covering the walls and there were little alcoves at regular intervals containing statues of Roman gods or Zhonghua vases filled with fresh flowers. Even the duct work and conduits and that ran along the ceiling carrying pipes and wiring to the bridge were decorated to look like stately—if large—pieces of decorative molding, with the gratings done in frilly metalwork.

  Marta had never had the chance to view the bridge of the Titania before—her previous business had been limited to the passenger cabins and cargo hold. With an appreciative eye, she took in the shining brass and polished wood paneling, the well-crafted dials and their pristine glass facings. While she could operate surrounded by any amount of grease and grit—and at times preferred to since shiny tended to give one away in certain situations—she could still appreciate a well-maintained machine, not to mention a smartly uniformed crew, none of whom smelled overtly of fermented beverages, chewing tobacco, or unwashed armpits.

  Though in a pinch, she decided, she’d still rather have Lucius Lamburt, gleeful enforcer and part-time human, than any five of these airmen. He could open beer bottles using his teeth, or more often, using the teeth of others.

  With a minimum of maneuvering—mostly running Simms into the more bored or timid-looking of the blue bloods—Marta moved them to the front of the little group. This was the part she had come to see, after all.

  The automaton had been set up next to the polished ship’s wheel, normally manned by the captain. It was not quite what she’d expected: a squat wooden cabinet with the top half of a man made of polished brass clockwork and more wood attached to the top, the entire array standing a bit over six feet in height. Someone had dressed the automaton in a uniform like that of the ship’s captain, a navy blue peacoat with brass buttons and even the appropriate number of stripes of gold braid on its sleeves. She had little doubt that had rubbed proverbial fur in the wrong direction across the bridge.

  The automaton’s head was strangely bare, its machined dome of a head glittering brightly in the bright lighting. Around the automaton, the neatness of the bridge had fallen to disarray. The polished wooden cabinets were opened, spilling small steam pipes and wiring across the floor. Crewmen scrambled back and forth, attaching the wiring to labeled ports on the cabinet. Framing them all was the bank of pristine windows that afforded a one hundred and eighty degree view of the sky, rolling white clouds below like the breakers of waves and endless blue above and ahead.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I present—” Clarkson paused, looking at the automaton and frowned.

  He cast around. Marta craned her head to catch a bit of white to one side of the automaton—loose strips of fabric, and was that a feather? The remains of a jaunty hat, perhaps, recently shredded by someone displeased by this situation. Clarkson prodded the scraps from sight with the toe of his shoe. He gestured imperiously at one of the bridge officers, who was bent to attach the last few wires to the cabinet. The officer gave him a look of murder barely contained by a stiff expression, and handed over his hat. Clarkson climbed up onto the cabinet to slip the hat onto the automaton’s head, flicking the brim with his fingers to tilt it at a jaunty angle.

  “There!” Clarkson jumped back down to the deck. “May I present…the automated navigator!”

  He pulled a theatrically large lever on the side of the cabinet as the little crowd applauded politely. The automaton jerked to life, turning its wooden head and precisely raising one hand to salute. This action drew a great many appreciative murmurs. Marta clapped politely since continuing to blend in the crowd was rather important.

  “Captain, if you don’t mind stepping aside…” Clarkson said.

  Captain Murray, a bluff man with thinning gray hair who was the replacement for the former captain of the Titania—MacConnell had retired quite suddenly after Marta’s last foray on the airship—took this in stride. He even shook hands with the automaton, the action accompanied by much clicking and whirring of gears from the machine.

  For Simms’s ears alone, Marta murmured, “Ask him what the cabinet is for.”

  “That is where the difference engine is stored,” Clarkson answered, after Simms had repeated the question.

  The man added in a slightly patronizing smile for good measure, which Simms did his best to encourage by looking utterly befuddled—bless him. Or that could be, Marta realized, because he didn’t actually know what a difference engine was. She’d explained it to him on at least two occasions, but both times he’d seemed far more intent on less interesting activities such as dodging bullets and screaming.

  “As you can see, all of the wiring for the instruments and engine control has been rerouted through the engine. This will allo
w it to perform all of the calculations without the interference of fallible and disorderly human interpretation. Present company accepted, of course,” he added, with a glance at Captain Murray.

  The captain smiled graciously, though Marta detected a bit of tightness around his eyes. He wasn’t nearly so thrilled about being replaced by an automaton as he pretended. “Please, Mister Clarkson, have your machine take the wheel.”

  Clarkson flipped a series of comically large metal switches on the cabinet. After a moment of hesitation, the automaton turned and grasped the ship’s wheel in its hands. There was much appreciative applause from the wealthy ticket holders, which Marta thought was a bit much considering the automaton hadn’t actually done anything yet. Clarkson pulled a lever, and a regular ticking sound began to emanate from the cabinet.

  “And there you have it,” Clarkson announced. “My automaton has taken over navigation.”

  More clapping, and Marta took care to join in. Something about it seemed quite strange to her, however, as she listened to the mechanical rumbling from the cabinet. She didn’t trust it, nor the slightly cracked smile on Clarkson’s face, framed by his utterly hideous mustache. If the box, which presumably contained the difference engine that would calculate the course and all corrections, could simply be plugged into the ship’s systems, why was there need for an actual automaton? Surely if it would be physically turning the ship’s wheel—and the rudder cables seemed to still be in their original places, the deck panels hiding them unmoved—that would be just asking for the introduction of errors, wouldn’t it? While she appreciated the aesthetic of a nice bit of machinery as much as the next person, or exponentially more if the next person happened to be Simms, it struck her as a lot of wasted effort that could only cause a loss of precision.