by Gin Hollan
The Gadgeteer
Dedicated to my friends and family ;-)
and
everyone willing to take a risk on an unfamiliar author. You're amazing.
All rights reserved. Except where permitted by law, this book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author.
© 2018 Gin Hollan
Introduction
Dear Reader,
As is common in Steampunk, certain liberties have been taken, both with timelines and inventions.
This world is Earth-like but I have moved the development of radio waves, radar, and related technology (such as transistors) up by varying degrees, between fifty to a hundred years depending on the item in question. Under that premise, established radio communication is a solid technology by the mid-1850s and supports the use of commercial radio stations, and ham radio operation.
I also hope you'll forgive that instead of TV following within twenty years of the first commercial radio station starting up, it will be quite some time before that happens, but radar displays and similar technology will become commonplace.
This is only a starting point. It’s not long before my imagination kicks in and this whole thing goes completely off the rails. In subsequent stories, the technologies that we still dream about are alive and well, and in some cases, they’re old news.
Thank you for choosing this story! I hope you have fun!
// Chapter 1 //
‘TRACKING DOWN AND capturing escaped criminals is no profession for a lady,’ her father’s voice echoed through Arabeth’s mind. She agreed - in principle - as she crouched down on the sidewalk, hand- and leg-cuffing a large, nearly unconscious man.
People stared openly, but that was the way in Blastborn. She wasn't worried. Some of them recognized her from the newspaper but the truth was, it was a bit of a shock to see a woman bringing down a full-grown man like a water buffalo, whether by dart or device. She may be a lady according to the society of Blastborn, but she was a gadgeteer first, and gadgets required testing. This poor man got to help her test two of them.
Today she drew attention for her mode of dress as well. Her hip-length tailored brown leather coat, dark brown cotton pants, and white blouse should have been at least black. Society expected a long black skirt. Mourning clothes. Civilized people mourned at least two years, but she needed to keep her profession in mind.
Why did people remember her husband’s death when they saw her, anyway? He had died as he had lived – strangely, but that had nothing to do with her. They’d been married in name only.
Her captive twitched a bit here and there as he lay face-down on the wet cobblestones. The early morning rain still dripped a little. She removed her scarf and draped it over him to hide his face, humming a moment as she waited.
This new tranquilizer worked quickly and lasted long enough for her to safely get him restrained. At least, that's what Arnold had told her. This target, Desmond Mullock, was as big as any cow had it stood on two legs, and about as bright as a dust mop.
Her pet fox, Marble, sat nearby looking bored. The tiny grey-tipped black and white fox was eight pounds soaking wet, but could track like it was nobody's business.
The man grunted as he struggled to free himself. The tranquilizer haze meant he was barely aware of the restraints, alternately giggling and mumbling as he tried to regain control of his limbs. She hoped he wouldn’t give himself wounds or bruising. She’d get in trouble with the police chief over that.
"Relax. Watching you attempt to evade capture was like getting a free seat at amateur hour - every friend you have pointed you out. You should rethink your life during this humbling, painful time," said Arabeth.
Even if he could, the man wouldn't listen. He had no investment in her guidance. No motivation. They occasionally reformed, but the odds weren't good. That was how the criminal class had come into being, despite all efforts to help them move on to respectable work and lives. She sighed and patted the man's shoulder.
"You have a chance to become the best in your neighbourhood and wear the best clothes of all those you know, if you willingly finish your reformation training. Until then, no employer will believe you can be better. This is one of those times where only pain can bring peace."
She hated the words, even as they came out of her mouth. She stood with one foot still on the man’s back, leaning to look around. A constable should have been here by now. One passed this spot every half hour, normally, and it was Dawson's turn.
"And frankly, you're bad at this. It's embarrassing. Find what you are good at. Crime's not it," she continued.
Working as a bail enforcement specialist, sub-specialty tracker, Arabeth filled a necessary gap in the police system; the way she saw it, her position left policemen free to do the hard work of investigating crime and proving intent. Yes, she’d only been doing the job for three months, but it was oddly satisfying to track these people down.
Sadly, Desmond would be her last job before her four-person troupe of enforcers disbanded for the season. He was a good final catch, though. And her restraints had performed flawlessly. Even her father wouldn’t argue with these results.
A patrolman should have been along by now, she thought. She pulled a thin chain from around her neck, up and out of her long coat. The long silver whistle at the end of it clanked against a button. Two more minutes. If he hadn't arrive by then, she'd use it. No sense waiting to see if Mullock's friends would come to help the deadbeat. Yes, they'd turned on him, but that's what coins did to people.
A scream from down the street made her stand but she forced herself to turn back to her quarry. No distractions. Not this time. This would be her fourth bounty this week, and the last she needed to meet her personal goal.
She signalled for Marble to go check it out. The fox was already standing, head tilted to one side. Ready to throw all eight pounds of herself into the new mystery, she dashed off.
A few moments later a young boy sprinted out an alley onto the cobblestone city street from that direction. It was Matty, one of the runners the police station used to pass information between units or the four detachments in Blastborn. Reliable, accurate, and fast. That was his reputation.
Spotting Arabeth, he ran her way, knowing her from their short interactions while they sat waiting for jobs at the police station.
"The constable's hurt," he gasped, face white from shock.
"What? Who is?"
"Constable Dawson. He's a real mess, too. He might die, I think."
"You’re headed to the station?”
Matty nodded.
“You'd better keep on. I'll look over him until help arrives."
The boy looked pale as a ghost as he reached his hand out, fingers clenched around a paper and a key. "Dawson … he wanted me to give you this. Said its top secret and to tell no one."
At the realization that this twelve-year-old boy had been there when a cop - a good cop - lay possibly dying, Arabeth's heart nearly broke for him.
"You’ll be all right, Matty. It's a shock to be sure, but you will be okay." Standing, she took the items from him and stuffed them in her satchel.
"Whoever did this will be found and will suffer for their crime. Count on that. You'd best run on to the station so they can get our best officers out to work on this," she said.
He nodded and darted off, looking a little less hazed and more determined.
Arabeth looked at her captive. He'd be fine here for a few minutes, right? He wouldn’t be going anywhere on his own steam. She wanted to get to Dawson’s side. She may be able to help. She had to admit – she wanted to see the scene of the crime before anyone disturbed a possible clue. Whether Dawson was dead or alive,
the culprit had to be caught and she was good at that.
She turned and hurried to where Dawson lay. As she neared, a crowd was forming. Who would be stupid enough to try to kill a beat cop? Police had a special vengeance for those who tried and an unending hatred of those who succeeded. As a society, everyone knew constables were a necessary part of the cat-and-mouse method of modern justice.
She wedged her way in and saw Dawson lying awkwardly in a too-large pool of red, with a pair of long, deep gashes about ten inches apart down the sides of his torso. If he were alive, moving him was out of the question. Medical attention would have to make a field trip.
Except for Dawson and the milling crowd of about twelve people, nothing in the alley seemed out of the ordinary. She inhaled deeply, hoping people took it as a suppressed gasp. Truthfully, she was testing the air as she moved to kneel beside him, looking for a clue.
There were no secondary smells. She'd hoped for diesel, or sulphur, or coal - anything would be helpful. The only non-human smell was from a tannery three doors down, outside this alley. Maybe the smell of the blood was too strong.
"Dawson, its Arabeth." She spoke softly, wishing he were alive. There was no way he was, but it felt odd to walk up and treat him like… like a corpse. She had no idea what else to say. "Matty's gone for help."
Marble paced behind Arabeth a moment then gave a whimper as she lay down, legs forward, head down between her legs, looking at Dawson.
A man pushed forward, through the crowd.
"Make way, I'm a doctor."
Arabeth looked at him. In his ratty grey coat and well-worn gloves, he looked like anything but a doctor.
"What's your name?" she asked, blocking his path.
"Do we really have time for that?" He pushed past and knelt beside Dawson, dropping a small medical bag to lay by his feet as he knelt to check the gaping wounds. "Help me. Hold this." He pulled a fistful of cotton gauze out of his bag and held it toward her without looking.
"What could have caused a pair of eight inch incisions, deep enough to show ribs? The cuts went straight in and straight down. No sword did this," he continued, talking more to himself than anyone.
Arabeth knelt and took the gauze, not sure what help she could be. With nothing to do but sit and wait for instructions, she observed, observing the wounds according to her skill set, which was to say, not well.
The doctor was right to ask - what could cause two vertical slashes, one shallower but matching the deeper cut on the other side? The edges of the skin were pressed in. It was as though two blades had sunk in at the same time in some form of pinch.
The wounds looked like something she’d seen in the newspaper. A farmer had been killed by his own home-modified dual-blade thresher, while he was repairing it. That was an odd accident, no matter how she thought it out. She was a gadgeteer, not a medic, and machines ought to make sense.
Arabeth shuddered at the image it created - the motion of a machine grabbing him – maybe running him over.
“He's alive, barely.” He began wrapping a long bandage around Dawson's torso, but stopped when the pain woke Dawson long enough to scream and pass out again.
Had the medical community had invented anything that would adhere temporarily to the skin, to hold people together until more permanent solution could be arranged? Maybe she'd add that to her list of projects to look in to.
The doctor pulled out a long needle and some thread, quickly stitching him together.
Arabeth had to wonder – was Dawson in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was this attack premeditated? She'd have to ask Melanie to check his active case list and slip her some names. This one hurt too much. She'd been almost friends with him. They were 'good acquaintances,' as it were.
The doctor moved with speed and accuracy, removing any doubt she had to his competence.
"His blood loss has to be addressed. We need to move him to a hospital immediately," he said, standing and wiping a small amount of blood off his hands and clothes with a discoloured rag he’d pulled from a pocket. He pointed to two larger men. "You two, help me." He paused. “Where is the nearest hospital?”
As they moved off, she couldn't feel hopeful for Dawson's survival. Wiping a lone tear away, she turned to the others around her.
"Did any of you see anything? Was there anyone leaving this area, other than the boy? Do you know what the weapon was?" She looked around at the faces, hoping someone had seen something.
Most of them averted their eyes, not wanting to talk to her, turning to leave now that Dawson was gone. She had no authority in this. Another patrolman arrived and Arabeth told him what she’d learned, but now the best thing she could do was go to where she could quietly read the note Matty had passed her and see what the key was for.
She pushed her way back out, through the crowd, wanting to write down her impressions of the crime scene before any of it escaped her mind. As she replayed everything back in her mind, she realized there was bruising on his neck as well.
Odd that she hadn't heard anyone yell, or scream, or observed any other signs of a struggle. She'd been close enough to hear that much, she was sure. She jotted that down in the small pocket notepad she kept in a pocket for when ideas struck her. Maybe her notes would be useful to the detective assigned to the case. But right now she had to get back to work.
She returned to her waiting captive, smiling when she saw the tall, dark-haired Samuel Hicks standing by the man. He did not return her smile, instead giving her a scowl.
"You left a sedated, bound man unguarded. You'd better have a great explanation. Where are your bounty hunter friends?"
"Marble and I ran eight blocks to catch Murdoch, but they should have been here by now." She shrugged. "I am the tracker, after all." Her lithe athletic abilities teamed with Marble's tracking made the pair virtually inescapable.
"That's not comforting. What if you need backup?" he snapped.
His anger didn't bother her. Well, not much. She had no interest in living up to his expectations or explaining her team’s methods. She had to get him off her and onto something important.
"Did you see Matty on the way here? You need to go east up one block then south down to the second alley." She pointed her directions, working to keep fear out of her voice. "Dawson was attacked and the scene is compromised, but you may be able to get a clue." The image of the blood and wounds wouldn't leave her mind for quite a long time, she knew. “A doctor moved him to the hospital, but it’s quite a mess down there. Frank Masters is guarding the scene.”
"When? How?" Habitually, he raised a hand to adjust his narrow, silver-framed glasses.
"Within the last half hour, I estimate. I don't know who or why, but it's gruesome. Be ready."
A look of concern flashed across his face as he watched Arabeth.
"I'm fine. You'd better go," she said. She handed him the notes she'd made. "And get Matty some help - he was on the scene as Dawson bled."
He waited, watching her until she scowled at him.
"Right." He hastened away.
Arabeth almost regretted sending him off. She'd have to drag Mullock into custody by herself, and fast. Once news of this strange killing got out, the city would be in chaos.
Opening her satchel, she unlatched the back section and pulled out a metal series of tubes, each as thick as a finger. Unfolding them, she snapped each piece into place to make a lightweight dolly.
She rolled him onto it, pulled out a strap and wrapped it around his chest, under the dolly, and back up to tie before starting toward the nearest detachment. Her mind was drawn back to the strangeness of Dawson's attack.
Hicks would have a heart attack if he knew she was thinking about helping the investigation. ‘So what,’ she shrugged mentally. She'd find a way to help. She had to. Dawson was a friend.
// Chapter 2 //
BACK AT HOME, ARABETH stood facing the mess on her main worktable as Marble sat on a less cluttered workbench off to one side. There had been a note
on her door - one more convict to re-catch, because they’d done this last one so fast. They refused, but it was protocol to share the job with every team member. She suspected it was a ploy to pass on a low-paying job without losing face with the Commissioner. They figured her sense of justice would override the danger involved. It worked.
She went to change, choosing to work in soft cotton trousers and a loose but tucked-in long-sleeved blouse. It was still a few days before she was out of mourning, but she couldn’t wait. She’d taken the black clothes to the Underprivileged Women’s Home on Levi street and it had felt good. As the weight of the fabric lifted, so did her shoulders. Unburdened, emotionally and spiritually. She was free again.
As she considered which tactics and devices to use for this next target, it seemed Marble was waiting to see what she chose, getting more or less excited based on the tool Arabeth picked up.
There was an electricity in the moment, like Christmas morning before you were old enough to guess what was in the wrapper. It was Christmas at your crazy great-aunt's house - when you were never quite sure if she'd wrapped you a bag of peanuts, a shotgun, a cat, or something more dangerous.
"Get your mind back on the job," she chided herself. "Heathcliff Sanders is six feet tall and about two hundred pounds. None of the others want in, so we're on our own."
The fox gave a little yip, as if to confirm.
Running her hand along the edge of one large set of storage shelves, she reviewed what she knew. Her target's build was his advantage. It usually was, she sighed. She'd need a size 12 hand brace and a 17 leg trap. And it wouldn't hurt to load a trio of sedation darts. Each dart had a secure spot inside a stiff leather pouch as she clipped it to the light-weight rigging worn under her jacket.
If her information was accurate, he would be eating at a sloppy little restaurant called Donny's Diner on the south side and be well-inebriated by the time he left.