Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman

by John Theesfeld

  “Yes, Noosebaum was a great designer. I did understand he had a loose affiliation with the Master Keypers, but I wasn’t aware of any of this work.”

  “His affiliation was anything, but loose. The design on the gear is the same that can be found on the Fifth Bridge in Bridgeport, the cornerstone of the Gaineherth Building in University City, and the station platform complex in Hasterville Metro. All of these were designed and constructed by Alexander Noosebaum. And who knows, there could be other hints out there that no one has picked up on. But I think the evidence is clear, Noosebaum was a member of the Master Keypers. And I believe these artifacts they left behind were left as symbolic gestures to their new world.”

  My imagination bloomed as I tried to sort this all out, “The Master Keypers symbolism, whenever a series of symbols are sorted, shows death as a constant factor in everything. That could reason for the third point on the map being nothing, but a point of no return. Perhaps the gear represented the metros they were abandoning? Or even the Clockwork Foundation itself? The locked-up key was a favorite of Keypers. Any sort of juxtaposition was considered high-minded train of thought, while it was only a representation of opposing ideas and nothing more. You’ve intrigued me.”

  “Well, then...” That Certain Gentleman opened a drawer from his desk and retrieved a portfolio, “Will you help me save the key before it is destroyed?” He held the portfolio outwards, offering it to me. “You would have to leave tomorrow at the latest, I would need you to get there as soon as possible.”

  My arm reached out for the portfolio instinctively. That Certain Gentleman took notice of my arm, my sleeve having been rolled up.

  “Venshoen clan, Sir Doctor? My grandfather’s clan.”

  It was a common design. It was the design of many a-man’s grandfather.

  He continued, “I will grant you an assistant, but no journalographers. Meet your contact in Fenterwig Station, then meet your contact in New Haverton at the Branch Pub. It’s all there in the portfolio.”

  I looked through the portfolio: field notes, interviews, oculargraphics, where to meet my contacts. “And after I find the key?” I continued looking over the files.

  “You’ll meet back with your contact in New Haverton who will provide transport to Railyard Metro.”

  “That far southeast?”

  “I need you far out of harm’s way and that key safe. GhostWurks shouldn’t be a hindrance in Railyard Metro. There, you’ll leave the key with Mr. Kilmarten. In return, he’ll pay you seven thousand-”

  “Ten. I’ll need to pay my assistant.”

  That Certain Gentleman grinned, “I believe you’re worth it. Ten thousand. He’ll also provide you with efficient transport back home from Railyard Metro.” That Certain Gentleman held out his hand to make a deal. I looked over contents of the portfolio further, sketches of vicious underdwellars, conniving traps, and a list of carnivorous and poisonous plants that thrived within the lower depths of The Chasm.

  “Sounds like fun,” I said as I shook the hand of That Certain Gentleman. I was about to inquire, just then, what his name was. I had missed it. Or had it slipped my mind? I surely didn’t want him thinking he hired an old man in the early stages of dementia. Sends me out for a key, I return with a box of shoes for the left foot only. Though before I could even ask, Mr. Kilmarten burst through the door. The portly fellow seemed out of breath and shaken. The old chap was, most noticeably, carrying a musket of some strange design. The thing looked ferociously deadly.

  That Certain Gentleman stood upright.

  “They’re here. I don’t know how they found us, but they’re here.” Mr. Kilmarten caught his breath, “GhostWurks.”

  That Certain Gentleman went into the top drawer of his desk and retrieved a rather sizable revolver, “We need to get you out of here.”

  In a fury, we were all up and headed down the hall at a feverish pace. I could hear shots being fired outside. We made our way to the staircase and quickly down to the ground floor.

  “If I might inquire, what is going on?” I asked.

  “GhostWurks, my dear doctor,” That Certain Gentleman responded, “who else?”

  “They showed up on monowheels,” Mr. Kilmarten informed his employer, “they were able to get through the woods that way instead of taking the road.”

  As we reached the bottom, I could see through the windows and open front doors. There were a few of them, GhostWurks indeed. Hiding within trees, firing small revolvers upon Mr. Rendleshine and a small horde of weaponized automatons. After a closer inspection, those weaponized automatons were the same as the ones gardening the landscape of the property. The automaton trimming the hedge I had only seen a short while ago was now launching rocks and stones of various sizes upon GhostWurks.

  Out in the front yard Mr. Rendleshine fought with two agents. He seemed to have no problem handling the two of them. He was a tough, old fellow. He would smash two of them together at a time.

  Mr. Kilmarten ran to the front doors and fired his musket into the woods, “You’re out of your jurisdiction, agents! Be gone!” He fired again and again.

  “Kilmarten! Get him to my carriage, get him out of here!” That Certain Gentleman barked.

  Mr. Kilmarten rushed to my side as he traded places with That Certain Gentleman whom thusly fired his revolver sparingly, yet effectively.

  Mr. Kilmarten showed me the way out of the front room as he ushered me through the house to the awaiting carriage outside, “I see you’ve decided to accept the job!” He took notice of the portfolio in my hands, “I really am so glad you’ve decided to accept the job, Dr. Monocle. I’m not certain what we would have done without you. And I truly am sorry about having to see you off this way. Bloody GhostWurks.”

  Mr. Kilmarten reached into his pocket and produced a cylindrical coin carrier. From it he began to count out coins before he lost track and just dumped a handful into his palm. He handed me his fistful of coins, “Traveling money, about fifty.”

  “Oh,” I tried accepting the coins without dropping a single one and clumsily I succeeded, “Why, thank you.”

  Kilmarten took me through the kitchen to a side door of the exquisitely large home. Large pots were boiling atop a stove that seemed large enough to cook an entire barnyard at once. It smelled delicious. Through the side door we let out onto an awaiting steamdriven carriage, his own Black Iron Death. Kilmarten opened the door for me and I entered the carriage and sat down.

  Kilmarten waited until I was seated and said rather bluntly, “Well, I do hope you don’t die!” And with that, he closed the carriage door and the carriage was in motion. From the back of the house, we drove around to the front.

  I could see the entire debacle as we came around the side of the house. Mr. Rendleshine used a gardenmaton to beat a GhostWurks agent with. Mr. Kilmarten and his employer fired their arms into the woods.

  It seemed to being going very poorly for GhostWurks and then things got worse. The agents who stayed back within the trees made a poor choice. Tentacles reached down, snatching up agents left and right up into the thick upper canopy. Four of them gone within moments of each other.

  Arborsquid. It was surprising how few people do not know of the arborsquid, a tree-dwelling tentacled monstrosity. Clearly, this is not a normal creature, but rather a maldeviant creature. And quite a frightening one, at that. They've been known to just pluck the random hiker or hunter off the trail. And that's what it began to do to the agents. It was able to grab two more. The others tried fighting back, but to no avail. As I was off in the carriage, the surviving agents were gone in their monowheels. I could see Mr. Rendleshine and Mr. Kilmarten reloading their guns. That Certain Gentleman was crouched over a fallen GhostWurks agent. And then the steamdriver rolled around a corner and they were out of sight.

  I heard one final gunshot, faintly, but it was unmistakable.

  We set off down the long gravel road, the countryside illuminated by a thickly brilliant dark blue, all-encompassing and blan
keting over everything as the early night moon poured down from the starry night sky. Flashes of moonlight erupted through the carriage window as we drove along the series of large trees that lined the side of the road.

  I continued to look through the files more closely now that I was alone. There were sketches of the gear That Certain Gentleman held in his possession. An interesting maze that one could become lost in for moments on end. The center of the gear, though, was most intriguing. The center was not a simple circular hole, but that of a star burst pattern. It did seem as if the gear itself were clockwork. How, I wondered, did a machinist with such skill fit a clockwork contraption into a gear of that size? It was quite the wonder.

  I flipped through the pages and casually skimmed through the notes. Most were field notes taken from the first expedition which recovered the gear. Nothing of shocking interest. The gear, it seemed, was found in a rather mundane, yet reinforced, box. The box itself was latched, but unlocked.

  I looked through a medical examiner’s notes on the conditions of the men who returned with ailments resulting from contact with plants and flowers within the lower Chasm depths. The symptoms ranged from mere rashes to the blistering and hemorrhaging of skin. Other men lost limbs to biting plants, or were caught within the vines of a plant that often strangled the life from its food before rotting the flesh within its tendrils and absorbing the nutrients.

  I probably could have asked for fifteen thousand and easily made a case for why I deserved at least that much, if not more. The ride back into the metro seemed shorter, perhaps I was just preoccupied reading. I wouldn’t have notice if not for the metro outside of the carriage window screaming and hollering with constant frustration as steamdrivers and carriages orchestrated an enormous cacophony of mechanical exuberance.

  I cleaned my monocle with my handkerchief and considered the morrow. Putting off my next few lectures wouldn’t seem the most awful of occurrences. Considering the reception I received at my last lecture, I don’t think anyone would particularly mind. Mr. Kilmarten was kind enough to inform Harold and The University, albeit anonymously and through several TrustWorks proxies, of my absence. Rumors swirled upon the wind of gossip and stories ranged from the mundane to the outrageous. Some felt I was merely in protective custody. Others were saying that I indeed took Rotterdam’s offer. A few believed I was dead. TrustWorks knew how to obfuscate the truth in such a manner in which by saying nothing at all, people read into their messages for hidden meaning. People examine commas and punctuation and the ordering of words to find something hidden, which is in fact nothing, and thus conspiracy. People want to find meaning in the words; it is gibberish.

  I’d have to acquire my assistant, as it were. That meant going into Rust Waters. It was easier when he was with the circus. At the circus you weren’t likely to be gutted for the coin in your pocket.

  I set my monocle back into my eye and gathered all the notes together. I considered how disappointed Miss Shelton would in fact be now that I would have to push them back to a later date. Then again, I considered, she may have tried to poison me, if I were to believe Geraldine.

  Thoughts swirled. I remember, quite distinctly, sitting in the back of the carriage and slowly drifting away to sleep, comfortably. I suppose I remembered this so well because it would be the last time for a while that I slept soundly without fear of being killed in my slumber. The last bit of random thought fluttered.

  What was that gentleman’s name? Right on the tip of my brain.

  16

  The fog rolled in and the scape of the city dwindled to that of only a half of a metro block in every direction. Even within the confines of the carriage, I felt vulnerable and like a target announced by the roar of the steamdriver’s engine. The carriage wheels rolled over the cobblestone with such a racket, as it was; Black Iron Death had a force behind it that sounded like war drums. The rubberanium sap coating the metal rims of the wheels was in need of a refinishing, especially after today’s long jaunt.

  I peered from the carriage window: the road began to narrow, buildings began to look progressively worse, and rubbish cluttered the sidewalks. Rust Waters wasn’t new territory; I knew what went on. The debauchery. The crime. The violence. Rust Waters was a metro of abandonment, of poverty, of desperation. A place where corruption was commonplace and murder was a means to an end for anything and everything.

  I’d been here before, many times in fact. Of course, this didn’t mean that I enjoyed being there, please do keep in mind. Rust Waters was a blemish upon the Metropolitan area. The worst parts of Bridgeport, its lowest parts at street level where even mauzenhoffs feared to tread, are still, by leaps and bounds, safer and cleaner than Rust Waters. At one time, Rust Waters was known as, Central Metro, a fair place, but small area, for the working class to live and raise families. GearMen, cog lifters, gasters, mechanics, mongers, and the motley. This is where the automaton repairman lived right next door to the bloke who repaired nimbulators for RailWorks or SteamWorks. As well, this was where the secretaries and typists and type-setters, and post workers, and child educators, and the average clerk lived. The upper-class snobbish would call them the necessary gears and cogs of their system. They were blinded, perhaps deluded, for Central Metro was home to the power source of the machine. That all did change.

  Corruption and greed are cancers. Over time, Central Metro became prey to both political and criminal deluge. The place became a haven for the bottom feeders: dealers, abusers, gamblers, thieves. Crime lords, criminals, crime enthusiasts. Sadists and masochists. This was the bottom of the barrel for many a lost mind. Either they used Central Metro to prey upon its poorest citizens, or they took refuge there, hiding in plain sight from the authorities. Central Metro was an easy target for the criminal underworld, aptly named for being in the center of several larger metros (Bridgeport, Haverton, Haverton Falls, University Metro, among others).

  Central Metro became the dying core of a vast metro system and, what was once a city of great magnitude, became a metro ravaged by poverty and crime. The Gazette nicknamed Central Metro, Rust Waters and the name took hold in peoples’ minds. Decades later, people barely know it by any other name.

  Jefferson piloted the steamdriver carriage only so far into the area. He was reluctant to take his vehicle beyond a certain point. “What’s a nice fella like you doing business in a place like this?” He asked through the partition as he pulled the carriage over to the side of the cobblestone road, into a gutter filled with trash and a liquid sludge, a substance somewhere beyond the consistency of mud, but not quite pure shyte.

  “Visiting with friends,” I handed him a coin for the ride and the folder I was given by That Certain Gentleman. “Destroy this for me, would you, old chap? I’ve copied down all the pertinent information into my notebook,” I said of the portfolio as I patted the breast of my coat, indicating the location of my notebook.

  “Whatever you say,” the pilot bit down on the bit of coin I gave him, “you want I should destroy them, then I destroy them.”

  I stepped from the carriage onto the sidewalk making certain to avoid the gutter muck. I closed the carriage door and the steamdriver growled to life, chugging a rhythmic machine gnarl. The driver took off, turning around, up on the sidewalk across the street, and going back the way we came in. The street was far too narrow. Barely even enough room for two way traffic. It was a wonder he was able to maneuver his lopsided contraption in such a small, confined space.

  The dense fog blanketed the metro. There was activity afoot; much ado within. Laughter. Not the kind of laughter one might expect of a jovial fellow and his cohorts discussing the folly of good wordplay, but that of inebriated mad men trying to out-do each other with tales of crime and evil-doings.

  “Then I stabbed the bloke in his gullet, I did!” Seemed to be a punchline to a joke I wasn’t privy to, as uproarious laughter filled the night.

  The sound of bottles clinking and rolling along the sidewalk and into the gutter seemed to car
ry directly into my ear canal and along a nerve which carried to my teeth. The reverberation I could feel upon my enamel. Lamp posts stretched into the air, like illuminated spheres of fog hanging atop of cast iron black masts. The sound of my shoes clacking against the cement echoed into the night followed by a punctuating tap of my umbrella against the ground. I cursed the carriage driver for only just barely taking me into Rust Waters at all.

  I took a jaunty pace swiftly through the fog, hoping not to be noticed. I could feel the long days of the past within my knees and I leaned upon my umbrella even more so than normal. As the fog began thinning out, I noticed some locals. Across the street were a couple of drunkards, giving me the eye, staring blatantly. I tried not to notice, but they began making their way across the street towards me. Up ahead were another couple of drunkards, this time, unfortunately, on my side of the road. They stepped from their rubbish bin to block my path on the sidewalk. I could hear the steps of the others behind me, trailing.

  As I approached the men in front of me, I could see one man had a chain wrapped around his fist and up the length of his forearm to his elbow. The other man made sure I was close enough to see him brandish a hefty knife from the inside of his tattered dress coat adorned with tattered tails.

  The first move can sometimes be the most important.

  I evened my pace as I came close, “Good evening, fine gents!” I boomed into the night as I took my top hat from my head and held it into the air with one hand, and in the other, my umbrella. I stood tall, arms stretched outward. I must have resembled a circus ring master, playing to his audience before the start of a show. I gave a twirl to address the men sneaking up behind me, “How do we find this sultry evening?” They were taken aback.

  One of the men behind me held a board filled with nails at the business end. The other man, a long steam pipe.