Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  I didn't see the knife in her hand until she was withdrawing it from my flesh, sticky crimson along its blade.

  In Which Alton Bartleby Saves the Day

  Aldora stopped halfway down the steps into the lab, her eyes on the still form of James Wainwright in a spreading pool of his own blood.

  "Oh, you've done it now, haven't you." Her eyes flickered towards Doctor Teague, standing above the fallen engineer, knife still in her hands.

  "This is all wrong!" Teague sobbed. "This has all gone so wrong! Why does this keep happening to me?"

  Aldora continued down the steps, moving slowly, heedless of the way that Doctor Teague was pointing the knife at her. "Do you mind? I'd like to check on my husband's partner to see if I'm to kill you or simply hurt you very badly."

  "I didn't mean to--" Teague started. "I never meant to... I thought he understood! I thought I could trust him!"

  "Oh?" Aldora didn't even look at the woman, instead kneeling next to James, her pale skirt hungrily soaking up his warm blood. "And why's that?"

  "He wasn't like the other men! You know! You know what it's like!"

  Aldora stood, her face still. "What do I know?"

  "I know you. Alton and I spoke of you. Before and after he was drugged. You're like me."

  Aldora scoffed. "I should dare say not."

  "No!" Teague practically shook. "You are! A woman, a woman forced to hide herself, forced to play a man's game, forced to placate these fools in their world, by their rules. And you don't! You refuse! You let them think you're weak, that you're a pathetic mewling cow, that you're simple."

  The doctor passed the knife to her off hand and ran half-way around James towards the other woman.

  "And you accomplish so much. You are so much. You travel the world, you've saved London, you've saved them, all of them, and they still think of you as a simple beautiful creature. Like me! I've got a doctorate! I'm a pioneer in my field! And every time, every man, every one has forced me to use my body to get ahead. Like my education isn't enough! Like I'm not enough!"

  "Did James do that?" Aldora asked.

  Teague faltered, glancing at the body on the floor next to her. She fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face, arms around his immobile form. "Oh god. Oh no. No. James. James never looked at me that way. He respected me. Respected my mind. Why couldn't you just come with me, you big damn fool? Why couldn't you just be there for me?"

  "Because you're nothing," Aldora said.

  Teague looked up at her. "What?"

  "You think you understand the first thing about him? About James?" A ragged emotion broke through her voice for the first time. "You don't even... nobody understands him. I don't understand him. My husband, perhaps, but even he underestimates the man."

  "I didn't mean to--"

  "We found your plants, you know."

  Teague looked up at the gentlewoman.

  "The police. They searched your home. They found your plants."

  "I knew they would."

  "I found your journal."

  Teague froze.

  "Oh, don't worry. I didn't let them see it. Not yet. But I read it."

  "You don't understand."

  "Oh, I understand. You think us similar? You disgusting creature. You think you're like me? Because we're in some sisterhood of the oppressed? We both use the misconceptions of men, Miss Teague, but you -- you become what you think will let you take advantage of them. You become their little conquest to get ahead, and then feel guilty about it and reimagine yourself a victim. You think you're strong? You think that you draw strength? You're nothing, you little worm. The first man comes along, genuinely respecting you, and you kill him because he won't give you what you want.

  "Because that's your true nature. You're not strong. You're just a killer."

  Loni Teague screamed, picking up the knife, rushing towards Aldora. The woman shifted, ready to catch her.

  There was a sudden blast, and Loni crumbled at her feet.

  Aldora whirled to see her husband walking down the steps, smoking pistol in hand.

  "I could have stopped her," Aldora whispered. "She didn't have to die."

  Alton looked down at James's still form, a coldness in his eyes. "Yes. She did."

  21 September, 1911 - 12:15 am

  "I'm so sorry, James," Bartleby said.

  I waved him away. "It's not that bad. Not like I've never been stabbed before."

  "Don't say it like you're proud." Doctor Bendis harrumphed as he closed his black bag. "And this time she nicked your liver."

  "Livers are one of those things that get better," I said.

  "They also bleed a lot. You need rest." The doctor turned to Barlteby, then paused and turned to Aldora. "Make sure he stays in bed."

  I lay my head back down, staring at the ceiling of a bedroom I rarely slept in. My mind flickered briefly to my laboratory, where even now Scotland Yard's finest were tromping around, collecting what they laughingly called 'evidence' and the body of Doctor Teague, all while damaging my equipment and nicking whatever they felt they could get away with. "I'll behave."

  "See that he does. Fluids. Vitamins. Red meat."

  "Yes, Doctor," Aldora said.

  "The old man is getting soft in his age," Bartleby said.

  "I've had worse."

  "It's my fault, really," Aldora said. "If I hadn't bantered with Teague for as long as I did--"

  "It didn't take too long," I said.

  Her eyes flickered to mine. "I didn't realize that you were awake."

  "I was in shock," I said. "Very difficult state to keep a head steady in."

  "I'm sorry that things didn't work out for you, old boy," Bartleby said. "She seemed quite the match for you, until the whole murder and stabbing business."

  "I would hardly say that," I said.

  "But she was a scientist," Bartleby said. "And quite the accomplished one."

  "Oh, I'd hardly call psychology a science," I said, reaching for the tray of fruit and breakfast meat the cook had sent up. "It's not like she was a real academic."

  "Well, we've saved the city the expense of a trial, at the very least," Bartleby said.

  "Don't be so callous, Alton," Aldora said. "She was sick. And with this scandal, I don't think we'll see another Bedford for some time."

  Bartleby spoke softly. "How many people are there out there in need of care that the Empire cannot provide?"

  "I don't know anybody who doesn't." I lay back, eyes slowly closing. "Bartleby. Your father?"

  "Oh? Yes. Well. The staff are testifying that he took control in a crisis situation and kept the patients from getting out of hand. They're stopping short of giving him a commendation, but he won't face future censor. And, thank god, he won't be released."

  "Didn't he orchestrate the takeover?"

  "Quite odd that it didn't come up. Justice's thirst has been slaked, and the city is more than ready to put the business behind itself."

  "Any further cases?" I asked. "I could read the files here in bed. Maybe you could move me down to my workshop--"

  "There's the case of the detective who mysteriously found his tea spiked with laudanum," Aldora said.

  I couldn't help but laugh. It hurt.

  Want More?

  James Wainwright always considered himself a working-class engineer playing at detective, never taking the vocation for more than an idle hobby and opportunity to test some of his steampunk inventions. His investigations have always been more of a means of humoring his business partner, idle toff Alton Bartleby.

  That was before his adopted daughter Xin Yan was taken.

  Never comfortable in social situations, James finds himself tracking his daughter's kidnappers from London's Limehouse to the gritty streets of Hong Kong, down paths where his mechanical know-how won't serve him. Searching a foreign land, he'll find that his greatest challenges aren't those who have taken from him what is most dear, but letting go of his most treasured preconceptions about the world.


  Follow the action to the nascent Republic of China in Ghosts of Shaolin, the fifth Galvanic Century steampunk thriller.

  About the Author

  Michael Coorlim is a teller of strange stories for stranger people. He collects them, the oddballs. The mystics and fire-spinners, the sages and tricksters. He curates their tales, combines their elements and lets them rattle around inside his rock-tumbler skull until they gleam, then spills them loose onto the page for like-minded readers to enjoy.

  He writes fast-paced stories about real people in fantastic situations, plots with just a twist of the surreal, set in worlds just a shadow's breadth from our own. He's the author of the Galvanic Century series of Steampunk Thrillers, the literary apocalyptic short story collection Grief, and the supernatural serial Profane Apotheosis.

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