Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium

by Robert Rodgers

  "No! Not at all."

  Snips was about to say something else, but at that moment she heard someone clearing their throat behind her.

  "Mr. Eddington," William said, managing to mix of relief and disappointment with one look. "Hullo!"

  "I believe you still have considerable work to accomplish, William. I will deal with Miss Snips," Mr. Eddington said.

  Nodding rapidly, William turned back to his paperwork. Snips tipped her hat to William and turned to Mr. Eddington, following him out of the office.

  Snips huffed. "Odd fellow."

  "I assume that you are Orwick's 'government consultant'?"

  Mr. Eddington asked as they walked over the calculating engine.

  "The one and only," Snips said, tipping her hat. "Arcadia Snips, at your service. May I ask who you are?"

  "Mr. Timothy Eddington. Chief administrator of the Steamwork." The man glared at her long and hard. "I assume you'll want to discuss the details of the case with me."

  "Sure. You got an office?"

  "This way."

  As they rounded back up the stairs and around the corner, Snips thought she caught sight of Dunnigan stepping into Mr. Eddington's office, but the administrator said nothing. Once they reached it, he opened the door and allowed Snips to enter first.

  Once inside, her eyes nearly sprang from her skull. All other thoughts disappeared in a flash: there was not a single object in the room that was not worth stealing. Even the pens looked like they could feed a family of six for a month. A chain of ivory statues sat on an ebonized desk; books with gold leaf foil bindings littered the shelves. Crystal tumblers lined a fully stocked liquor cabinet, filled to the top with the good stuff.

  Snips' fingers started to twitch. She shoved them so deep into her pockets that her pants started to sag.

  "Is there a problem, Miss Snips?" Mr. Eddington asked.

  "Not at all," Snips blurted out a little too quickly. "Just a little, uh, chilly in here. My, you have a lot of expensive stuff." She felt her fingers spasm in her pockets, fighting for freedom. "Quite a lot of expensive stuff."

  "Yes. I enjoy the finer things in life," Mr. Eddington said, walking around his desk to take a seat. "Please, make yourself comfortable. If it is all the same with you, I would like to finish this up as quickly as possible."

  Snips moistened her lips. "Right, right," she said, sitting.

  "Just have to, you know, ask you a few questions."

  Mr. Eddington raised an eyebrow. "Miss Snips, why are you stuffing my gold engraved pen in your pocket?"

  Snips froze, looking down at her hands. She immediately placed the pen back on the desk and proceeded to flatten her palms to the seat of the chair, sitting on them. "Sorry," she said. "You know how people can be with pens. Thought it was mine for a second."

  Mr. Eddington's eyebrow continued to lift, disappearing underneath his graying hairline. "I... see."

  "Anyway. I was just asking Daffodil back there about the calculation engine project you're running." Snips allowed her eyes to slide across the room, trying to find something to distract her from all the interesting things on Mr. Eddington's desk. She caught sight of something in particular; a small bulletin board that had various newspaper clippings attached to it. They dealt with new groundbreaking inventions the Steamwork had been responsible for. Snips noticed that most of them were dated back from at least a decade ago.

  "Yes. It's quite a lucrative arrangement. Mr. Tweedle and his banks gain added security and invulnerability toward mathematical mischief, and in return we charge a considerable yet wholly appropriate fee," Mr. Eddington said. "However, I fail to see precisely what this has to do with Mr. Copper's demise."

  "Just coming at this from every angle possible," Snips said.

  "What else does the Steamwork do? Besides the bank stuff."

  "We invent things, Miss Snips. Our improvements on the calculation engine is merely one such example."

  "Such as?"

  "The original calculation engines. The gas piping that provides the city with light and power. A system of pneumatic tubing that allows for instant communication between parts of the city. In essence, the Steamwork is a factory for science. We mass produce technological wonders."

  "What was Basil working on? Mr. Daffodil wasn’t quite sure himself."

  "At last, something that has to do with your case," Mr. Eddington said with an exasperated sigh. "He was working on several minor projects. Most of them were rather dull. Nothing of any particular interest."

  "Well, like what?"

  "He had a rather absurd idea concerning replacing gas lighting with bulbs of glass containing lengths of galvanized filament."

  "How would that make light?" Snips asked, frowning in thought.

  "That was precisely my question. As for what his current project was, I do not know. Although he was my research assistant, he was up for review; he had defied many of my attempts to put him on a more constructive project ever since he became obsessed with matters of electricity."

  "Do you think he was working on anything dangerous enough to cause an explosion?"

  "Yes. I hasten to add that, on several occasions, Copper has ignored safety protocols when conducting his experiments—and this is not the first time he has nearly blown us all to kingdom come."

  "Is there any place Basil might have kept notes on his latest project? Maybe something he had yet to submit to you, or research notes outside of his workshop?"

  "If so, I am unaware of it. Copper rarely submitted his projects for approval, because he knew I would not approve them."

  Mr. Eddington opened his desk, withdrawing a rather large and intimidating pile of paperwork. "There are several matters I must attend to. Please pardon me if I cut this interview short."

  "Sure."

  "Perhaps Mr. Copper kept some of his notes at his home?

  You should check there. In the meanwhile, I have work to do.

  Good day, Miss Snips."

  Snips rose to her feet. "Thanks for the hint. I'll keep it in mind."

  ~*~

  Not long after Snips had left his office, Mr. Eddington stood and locked the door to his office. He then returned to his desk and pressed a switch hidden on the side of a drawer. At once, the bookcase gave a gentle hiss as hydraulic pumps edged it forward and to the side. In a narrow niche behind it, a spiral staircase was tucked away. It led deep into the basement of the Steamwork.

  Mr. Eddington stepped through the passage, carefully making his way below. When he reached the lowest chamber, he was greeted by the sight of Dunnigan mopping the stone tiled floor.

  "Mr. McGee."

  "Oh, good evenin' Mr. Eddington," Dunnigan said, throwing the man a quick smile. "Didn't quite see you coming—"

  "I have told you to never use my entrance during the Steamwork's operating hours. If anyone of importance had seen you disappear into my office, the results could have been catastrophic."

  Dunnigan frowned and nodded his head. "Well, I'm sorry about that, Mr. Eddington. I just figured—"

  "I don't pay you to figure," Mr. Eddington cut him off. "As it was, we were fortunate it was merely a woman who noticed your entry."

  Mr. Eddington stepped past Dunnigan, not noticing the face that the janitor made at his back. He stepped through into the Steamwork's Vault—a chamber that lay far beneath even the deeply buried calculation engine.

  The fact that the Steamwork had a basement beneath its basement was a fact that not many were privy to. Not even William knew of its existence—and with good reason. It was a laboratory choked in dust and secrets, containing several cases in which marvels were kept under glass—preserved and cleaned, disassembled and analyzed. Mr. Eddington paused at the mouth of the room's entrance, reluctant to enter. Though he knew the idea to be absurd, he could not shake the feeling that the laboratory's previous master had left some trap for the unwary to blunder into.

  Mr. Eddington threw off the sensation. He knew every inch of this room—every centimet
er. There was not a particle of dirt present that he had not categorized and neatly labeled. Which was why the other man's presence here was so disarming.

  "Mr. Eddington," a voice laced with menace and metal spoke from the back of the room. "Good afternoon."

  Mr. Eddington grimaced. How on earth did the bastard keep getting in here without someone noticing? Certainly, Mr. McGee should have seen him enter. Could there be a secret entrance that Mr. Eddington was unaware of? Or was the man always here, sleeping until he arrived—merely another of the previous owner's miraculous machines?

  "Good evening, sir," Mr. Eddington responded as politely as he could. "I received your missive, and told Miss Snips what you suggested."

  The man stepped forward. Aside from his suit, he only possessed two articles of note—a black jackal mask rimmed in gold and a delicate paper butterfly lapel. The mask distorted his voice into a metal hum, making it impossible to determine his identity. It was one of many unnecessary theatrics that Mr. Eddington had learned to cope with.

  Mr. Eddington secretly meets with the Masked Menace.

  "Excellent," the jackal said. "And Mr. Tweedle?"

  "Hardly a concern," Mr. Eddington said. "He is easily cowed into submission. I am far more worried over Count Orwick's interference."

  "Count Orwick will be dealt with," the jackal said, and there was an edge to his tone that gave Mr. Eddington the chills.

  "Concern yourself only with fulfilling your end of our bargain."

  "We'll have the rest of Aberwick's bank accounts loaded into the engine by tonight," Mr. Eddington said. "And then—"

  "And then I will do as promised. So long as you abide by my instructions, everything shall go according to plan."

  Mr. Eddington gave a slight start.

  "Is something wrong, Mr. Eddington?"

  "Merely a sense of déjà vu," Mr. Eddington muttered. "I assume you can show yourself out," he added, turning to leave.

  ~*~

  CHAPTER 9: IN WHICH WE ONCE AGAIN RETURN TO THE PAST TO INVESTIGATE ONGOING MATTERS CONCERNING SECRET SOCIETIES AND THE RECKLESS APPLICATION OF MATHEMATICS

  ~*~

  "My apologies, Nigel. Abigail couldn’t make it; there’s a bit of trouble back at the Steamwork—"

  "You don’t need to apologize on her behalf," Nigel told him. "I am well aware that she would prefer not to venture into our little ‘clubhouse’."

  "It’s just a little disorienting for her, is all," Jeremiah said.

  "I mean, you’ve plunged so deep into it, and only in two years—"

  "Do not worry. I more than understand her discomfort."

  The pair ventured past the Society chapter-house's thriving garden grounds where cicadas thrummed among the birches and pines, making their way to the brightly lit conservatory. Its framework was built of light oak with bronzed roof panels that flashed in the light offered from a hanging lamp of glass and tin.

  Jeremiah made himself comfortable on a padded wicker cot; Nigel sat in an inlaid armchair with a rich foliage motif and lush cushions dyed an imperial shade of blue. They remained in silence until Jeremiah caught sight of someone stirring among the shadows in a corridor behind Nigel.

  He sighed. "Nigel, Abigail and I—we're worried. About you."

  "Whatever for?"

  "We think you're getting too involved in this whole affair,"

  Jeremiah said. "The secrets, the ritualistic trappings, the deceptions

  —you've cloaked yourself in a cloud of mystery. We're worried you are taking it far too seriously."

  "Trust me," Nigel said. "I find it just as absurd as Abigail no doubt does. It is merely a tool to reach our ends."

  "Still, one cannot maintain lies of this sort for so long without letting them seep into their life," Jeremiah said. "We just want you to be careful, Nigel. Don't let your means become your ends."

  "Wise counsel, yes, yes," Nigel said. "But we can talk of this later."

  "If you wish."

  "Did you bring the new numbers?"

  "Of course." Jeremiah drew the folded papers out from his coat, handing them over to Nigel. The dark-haired naturalist unfolded them, removing a pair of spectacles from his front coat pocket and perusing the mathematical formulas scrawled over its surface.

  "I must admit," Nigel said, perusing over the equations,

  "Your recent work has been magnificent. Some of the predictions your last set of equations made exceeded even my initiates'

  superstitious expectations."

  "Only a few of the equations are actually mine," Jeremiah said. "Abigail is responsible for the bulk of them."

  "She has proven to be a far greater asset than I had originally thought," Nigel said.

  "She's brilliant," Jeremiah said, and left it at that. "Shall we input the numbers...?"

  "Yes, yes," Nigel said. "Let's." He rose from his chair, gesturing for Jeremiah to follow as he moved deeper into his home.

  Jeremiah stepped inside the dimly lit interior of the chapter-house.

  The chapter-house's drawing room was decorated with resplendent textiles; crimson curtains trimmed with gold lining smothered what little light entered through its windows, casting a filtered glow upon the furniture within. The shadows here had grown so thick that they seemed to possess a substance all of their own; Jeremiah could easily imagine that, given the right prompting, they would leap to the defense of the chapter-house's master.

  "Your new home is rather disconcerting," Jeremiah confessed.

  Nigel laughed, as if enjoying some delightful joke. "Do you know why we are afraid of the dark?"

  "Because our imagination fills it with dreadful, wicked things," Jeremiah said.

  "Yes," Nigel replied, "that is correct. But do you know why?"

  "No, but I am sure you will tell me, eh?"

  "Of course. Because the alternative is far more terrifying, Jeremiah. Because the alternative is this: that there is nothing there.

  That, in fact, we are merely alone. Alone, in the dark."

  "Funny," Jeremiah replied. "Maybe it's just me, but I've never been too frightened of getting my face eaten by an empty shadow."

  Nigel laughed again. He lead Jeremiah down a set of spiraling stairs, down into the very belly of the chapter-house, beyond the realm of the uninitiated.

  The basement where they had stored the latest probability engine was large in size, but nearly all the space was taken up by the engine itself. It dwarfed Jeremiah's previous designs; iron and steel had replaced the cheaper brass fittings, with Jeremiah's latest improvements—vacuum bulbs and batteries—providing a source of cleaner, quieter power.

  It had been Abigail's idea to build the controls out of a church organ. Each key was labeled with a number or function, and after a bit of practice, inputting data became child's play. Nigel sat the documents on the nearby music stand, cracked his knuckles, and began typing in the values in a blur of finger strokes. "There is something else I wanted your opinion on, Jeremiah," he said as he worked. "Seize the electric torch to your left; use it to inspect the chalkboard over the corner there. I have scribbled down a few equations."

  Jeremiah did as he was told, approaching the chalkboard with some consternation. As he lifted the torch up to inspect the numbers, his eyebrows knitted with confusion. The writing went far beyond the meager boundaries of the chalkboard—Nigel's dense, neat script extended over the chalkboard's frame and coated every inch of the wall. "Nigel, what is this?"

  "A thought experiment."

  "A thought experiment? This is an equation for the engine, Nigel. I recognize the functions—but I cannot make out what it is you are trying at, here."

  "We have used the engine to avert small calamities with the foreknowledge it grants us," Nigel said, still inputting the numbers with focus and intent. "But what if we attempted to make something happen?"

  Jeremiah raised a brow, looking back at Nigel. "We've done that. The rain—"

  "A paltry parlor trick," Nigel said. "A clever act of chic
anery, nothing more. No, what I was thinking was something far more grand."

  "Were you not the one who warned us of frivolously using the engine?"

  "Yes, yes, of course," Nigel replied. "But this idea is far from that."

  "What is it you are proposing?"

  "What if we made a person?"

  Silence lingered. Jeremiah frowned.

  "A person, Nigel?"

  "Yes. Imagine it—a person created through the probability engine. If we could distill the birth of a person to mere mathematics, could we not cause it to happen? Furthermore, what would occur? You and Abigail have theorized that events caused by the probability engine lead to all manner of strange coincidences and conflagrations of chance; would a person created in this way lead such a life as well? Could we, in fact, manufacture a living entity's very destiny?"

  "It is... an interesting notion," Jeremiah admitted, "yet one best constrained to matters of theory."

  "Of course, of course," Nigel said. He brought the cover down over the keys with a loud snap. "I would never think of actually putting the idea into action. Not, at least, without your and Abigail's permission."

  "Of course," Jeremiah said, although he sounded unconvinced.

  "I apologize, Jeremiah. Pardon my rudeness for keeping you so late; it sometimes grows lonely in this house. I have only fawning fools and ignorant believers to keep me company."

  "Of course, of course," Jeremiah agreed. "No pardon is necessary. Think nothing of it."

  "We will speak next week, then? After I have sent the latest results to you?" Nigel said, staring up at the monolith of a machine.

  "Yes, of course," Jeremiah replied. "And, perhaps I will speak to Abigail of this theory of yours—we would never put it in practice, of course, but it might intrigue her—"

  "I would rather you not, Jeremiah. She all ready thinks me a schemer; I would rather her opinion of me not grow darker."

  "If... if you insist, Nigel."

  "I do. Good night, Jeremiah. One of my men will show you out."

  "Thank you. And, good night, Nigel."

  ~*~