The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  “What? The man had been working for me for a year. What would my older engineers have said if I’d doubled his pay like I.…” Witherspoon caught himself and snapped his mouth shut.

  “Like you what? You tempted him with the promise of doubled pay so that he’d invent the next generation of telegraph technology, and then you turned down the reward that he deserved? Is that it?”

  “Now see here—” Witherspoon snapped.

  “Oh be quiet, Mr. Witherspoon,” Wilde exclaimed, interrupting him. “The way you exploited Zagreb was immoral and disgusting, but it wasn’t illegal. Come on, Charles,” he said to Mueller, “I think we finally have a reason to suspect this Zagreb fellow.” He gave Witherspoon a dutiful salute, but it was conducted with a seething undercurrent of distain. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Witherspoon. If you’d had the brains to tell us all this immediately, it might have saved us ten minutes. Good, day.”

  * * * *

  Viktor Zagreb had no listed address in Salmagundi, but his loyal assistant was easy enough to find. The assistant, a man by the name of Paul Fitzroy, lived in one of the better working class districts of Layer Five. While most of the layer was dark, run-down and grimy, Fitzroy’s neighborhood was relatively clean. The brick buildings were well maintained and their walls were free of graffiti. Even the gas lights that lined the street were almost entirely clean, a rare thing in the poorer sections of the city.

  Fitzroy’s address was a tall but narrow townhouse, sandwiched in between several similar buildings. Wilde approached the door with Mueller and Bell following close behind. There was no initial response to his knock, but after a few more, the door opened to reveal a confused-looking man with a moustache. The man was dressed down to his shirt sleeves, which he had rolled up, and he had machine oil all over his hands and forearms. He was in the process of wiping his hands with a rag, which he nearly dropped when he saw the uniforms of the two officers.

  “Yes? Can I be of help to you gentlemen?” the man asked, speaking with a slight accent.

  Wilde gave a reassuring smile. “Are you Viktor Zagreb?” he asked, sliding his foot against the doorjamb just in case someone felt the sudden urge to slam the door in his face.

  The man went pale with shock. “Yes, I am he. I…I have done nothing wrong!” He began to back into the house. “I have my papers! I will get them. They…they are here, somewhere.”

  Wilde removed his hat and stepped into the narrow confines of the front hall. “Calm down, Mr. Zagreb, we aren’t here about your residency status.”

  “Oh, thank goodness!” Zagreb breathed a sigh of relief. “I do have my papers, you know. But I have misplaced them. They are in the house, but I know not where.”

  “Mr. Zagreb,” Mueller said, entering behind Wilde, “we’re actually here regarding Witherspoon Machine Works, your previous employer.”

  Inexplicably, Zagreb’s expression brightened, and he motioned for the inspectors and Bell to join him inside.

  “This is wonderful news!” he exclaimed. “Paul said the police would only ignore me, but I knew you would see justice done!”

  Mueller exchanged looks with Wilde. “What?”

  Zagreb led them into a cramped but clean adjoining parlor, still speaking with great excitement. “Yes, when I filed the complaint against Mr. Witherspoon’s conduct toward me, I knew it would amount to something. Things are different here in Salmagundi. Not like in the Empire, where the rich own the police. Here, if you are in the right, the law will protect you. That is what I told Paul.”

  Wilde cleared his throat. “Mr. Zagreb, I believe there is some confusion. We’re here about the theft of Mr. Witherspoon’s property.”

  Zagreb’s face fell at the news, but he did not react with fear. “I am most sorry to hear this.… But it must be only a matter of time before my complaint is answered.” He continued cleaning his oily hands, trying to make himself presentable. “But, what is this you say about theft?”

  “Two weeks ago, Mr. Witherspoon’s office was burgled. Last night, a bank was broken into and property belonging to Witherspoon Machine Works taken.”

  “But, you surely cannot believe that I had anything to do with this!” Zagreb protested.

  “That remains to be seen,” Mueller replied. “Can you account for your whereabouts last night?”

  “I was asleep! It was the first evening I went to bed early in more than a week. I have been working very hard on a new invention. Yesterday it was finally tested to my satisfaction, so I allowed myself a good night’s sleep. Paul can attest to it when he returns! His room is on the landing beneath mind. If I left at any point, he would have known.”

  At this point, Bell politely but forcefully pushed her way forward. “Mr. Zagreb, speaking as a qualified member of the medical profession, I have one question to put to you.” She smiled with unusual and unnerving warmth. “Might we see this invention of yours?”

  * * * *

  Zagreb’s workshop was located in the basement of Fitzroy’s house. It was a single long chamber of brick and stone that ran the entire length of the building, but though it was the largest room in the house, it was so completely cluttered with pieces of machinery, tools and half-finished projects that it felt as cramped as the rooms above. Wilde picked his way gingerly around the various tables, carefully avoiding the volatile mixtures and sparking electrical devices that covered them. Mueller and Bell were far more taken with the place, and more than once, Wilde had to snap his fingers to keep them from being distracted by some fascinating nuance of science.

  One corner of the basement had been cleared out and it was occupied by a curious machine set upon a solid metal tripod. The device almost resembled a machine gun, or at least this was the most immediate parallel that came to mind. The main portion of the device was a metal cylinder, about the length and diameter of a man’s arm. The cylinder was hinged and currently stood open, revealing a line of tiny mirrors, lenses and vacuum tubes that ran along its entire length. The back section of the tube ended in a wooden box that contained a number of switches and toggles. Long insulated cables connected the device to a collection of glass battery jars protected by wooden cases.

  “What is it?” Mueller asked, peering at the machine in fascination.

  “The future of industry,” Zagreb replied. “It is a machine that cuts with light. The energy from the batteries is focused into a beam of incredible intensity, which can cut through any known substance given enough time.”

  He motioned to a heavy plate of iron that sat against the wall nearby. It was pockmarked with holes and lines that had been bored directly through it as if with a drill or saw.

  Zagreb continued, “The cutting is still sloppy, but with a little more work, it will be as clean as a hot knife through butter. No more torches or drills to cut metal. No more need to cast metal to an exact size. If a piece is too large, it can be reshaped in minutes. This machine will revolutionize industrial production, and this time Witherspoon will not cheat me out of my work. I have already filed the patent!”

  “It cuts through metal?” Wilde asked, more thinking aloud than anything else.

  “Here, I will show you,” Zagreb said.

  He flipped several of the switches on the control box and carefully lined up the cylinder with an empty space on the metal plate. The machine began to make a loud humming noise and Zagreb seemed pleased, but there was no other noticeable change. Curious, Mueller leaned forward to inspect the device again.

  “Stop!” Zagreb shouted, throwing his hands out to get Mueller’s attention. He quickly switched the machine off.

  Mueller took a step back, confused. “What?”

  “You could have been killed! You must not touch the beam when it is firing. It would cut through you as easily as you might tear a sheet of paper.”

  “Beam?” Wilde asked. “I didn’t see any beam.”

  “Nor I,” Mueller agreed.

  Zagreb shook his head. “No, no, you cannot see it. It is not light that yo
u can see, but it is light all the same. Look at the plate. You can see where the beam has begun to cut it.”

  “He’s right,” Mueller said, inspecting the indicated part of the metal.

  Wilde frowned. “If the beam is invisible, Barnaby might have walked into it accidentally. He might have been an accomplice, and his death might not have been murder.”

  Zagreb looked up in shock. “Murder? What is this about murder?”

  “Mr. Zagreb, is this machine portable?” Mueller asked.

  “Why yes, it is fairly light. But why—”

  “And does your assistant know how to use it?”

  “Well of course, but—”

  Mueller turned to Wilde. “I think Fitzroy’s just become our top suspect.”

  “Question is, where is he?” Wilde said.

  Across the room, Bell cleared her throat. “Gentlemen, I may have the answer to that.”

  They turned to see Bell standing, book in hand, looking more than a little perturbed as a ruddy-faced young man in a shabby suit stood behind her with a knife to her throat. He must have entered the house and gone down the stairs with great stealth upon noticing the presence of the police. Zagreb seemed utterly baffled and took a few steps forward, hands outstretched peacefully, while Mueller and Wilde immediately drew their revolvers.

  “Paul?” Zagreb asked. “Paul, what are you doing? The police have been asking questions! What is going on?”

  Paul Fitzroy kept the knife pressed against Bell’s throat. “Throw those guns away, coppers! Now, or the lady dies!”

  “Not happening, Fitzroy,” Wilde replied, keeping his aim level. “Put the knife down and give yourself up. We know Barnaby was an accident. You can still get off without a hanging if you don’t do anything rash.”

  “Paul, answer me!” Zagreb shouted, horrified.

  “Oh shut up, Viktor! I told you we could sell your optical telegraph to the Empire, patent laws be damned! But no, you wouldn’t hear of it! You let Witherspoon cheat you out of what was rightfully yours!”

  “You were the one who broke into Witherspoon’s office, weren’t you?” Wilde asked. “Then you found out he’d moved the telegraph plans to the bank vault, so you convinced Barnaby to get you inside. But you needed to break into the safe, so you stole Zagreb’s cutting beam the first night he went to bed early.”

  Fitzroy grinned. “I drugged his tea to be sure he’d sleep soundly.”

  “Paul!” Zagreb cried.

  “You brought this on yourself, Viktor! You made the perfect weapon—Barnaby’s death proves what it can do—but you wouldn’t listen when I said we should sell it on the arms market! But it doesn’t matter now. I’ve got a buyer for both your inventions, and they don’t care who owns the rights. In half an hour, I’ll be away from this city and the reach of your law!”

  “I’ve had enough of this…” Bell grumbled.

  Taking her book firmly by the corner, she snapped it upward and into Fitzroy’s nose. The object connected with a satisfying smack, and a kick to the shin finished the job of dislodging the man. Fitzroy collapsed with a howl of pain, dropping his knife and clutching his face. Bell gave him another solid kick for good measure and then set about brushing out the wrinkles in her coat and straightening her hair.

  “I’m a patient woman,” she said, in response to the three astonished stares she received, “but there simply is a limit to what a respectable woman will tolerate.”

  * * * *

  Outside, a short while later, Mueller and Wilde watched as Fitzroy was loaded into a motorcarriage and driven off by peacekeepers from the local precinct house.

  “That was neatly done,” Wilde said, lighting a sandalwood cigarette.

  “A fine job,” Mueller agreed. “A pity about Zagreb, being caught in the middle of it all. I wonder what will become of him.”

  “I think he’ll be fine.”

  Wilde nodded toward Bell who had taken Zagreb by the arm and was leading him in what appeared to be a pleasant noonday stroll.

  “Tell me, Mr. Zagreb,” Bell could be heard to say as she passed by, “this cutting light of yours…do you think it might replace the saw as a method of amputation?”

  “Well, I—”

  “I suppose it would cauterize as it cut, which is a consideration in itself.”

  “I suppose, but—”

  “And do you believe it could be miniaturized to fit inside a medical bag? I would find it most useful in my work.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You simply must come and stay with me for a few days while we discuss it. Or a month. A year perhaps. That might be best. I’ll have the spare room converted for you.”

  Mueller shook his head as they continued on down the street. “I don’t think I’m entirely comfortable with the idea of that woman owning one of those things.”

  “I don’t think I’m entirely comfortable with the idea of that woman,” Wilde replied. He checked his wrist chronometer and brightened. “Lunch time! Let’s find a cafe and have a nosh before we worry about paperwork.”

  Mueller clapped him on the shoulder and grinned. “First sensible thing I’ve heard all day.”

  THE ACQUISITION OF MANDRAKES AND ASSISTANTS, by Jillian Venters

  Estella Hargreaves methodically stirred her tea, silver spoon clinking gently against the china cup. Setting the spoon on the saucer, she turned to the next page of the newspaper she was reading, then raised the cup to her lips.

  “Miss Argent!” a deep voice barked from the gramophone trumpet that was attached to the wall behind her.

  She sighed, set down her tea cup, and stood, buttoning her lab smock and idly adjusting it over her full skirts. She made her way to the laboratory, making sure to lock each door en route behind her.

  Professor Tenebrous stood in the center of the room, a greenish, faintly-glowing fog coiling around his feet and extending wispy tendrils along the floor. Behind him, Estella glimpsed a shattered glass globe, with pieces of wires and tubes scattered around it like confetti.

  “When was the globe made, Miss Mually? During what phase of the moon?”

  Estella blinked at him.

  “During the waning phase, Professor, just as you instructed.” She paused, before continuing reproachfully, “My name is Miss Hargreaves, sir.”

  “No, no, no!” said the Professor, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “I clearly instructed that it was to be fashioned during the waxing phase, to imbue the vessel with growing strength.”

  Estella stared at him, one pale blonde eyebrow raised. She walked over to a worktable littered with papers and sorted through them. She picked one up, smoothing the crinkled surface as she read it.

  “No, your instructions very specifically state it was to be made during the waning moon, sir. To help shrink and drain the psychic energies of your targets.”

  The Professor flapped a hand irritably at her.

  “Utter nonsense. Those notes are wrong. It is obvious that I meant the waxing moon. You should have intuited that.”

  “You mean, sir, that I should have read your instructions, realized that you meant the opposite, and ordered the item made in contradiction of your orders?” Now both Estella’s eyebrows were raised sceptically.

  “Yes. That is what I hired you for, Miss Colvin.”

  “Hargreaves, sir. Miss Hargreaves.”

  “Yes, whatever. Clean this up, send off an order for a new vessel—correctly made, this time, and bring me a cup of tea.”

  Estella Hargreaves exhaled in yet another sigh of a long-suffering assistant, and went in search of her heavy gloves and a dustpan.

  * * * *

  “Miss Nodner!”

  Estella directed a glance only slightly tinged with annoyance at the wall trumpet, then blotted up her spilled tea with a napkin. She set her pencil down on top of the newspaper page, the freshly-sharpened tip pointing at a Governess Wanted notice.

  On her way to the laboratory, she noticed that several of the gaslamp fixtures had
been replaced with globes full of a glowing vapor. The blue-tinged light these gave off made the wallpaper look as if it was about to suffer a bilious attack; Estella was sure it did equally unkind things to her complexion.

  “Miss Vanhee, why hasn’t the shipment containing the mandake root arrived? Have you even ordered it?”

  Estella pulled a slim notebook bound in limp, grey leather out of one of the pockets of her lab smock and paged through it.

  “It’s Miss Hargreaves, sir. No, I haven’t ordered it yet, because when the subject was last discussed, you had not made up your mind as to whether…” she squinted at the page, “whether using a mandrake root was a step backwards into the swamp of poorly-documented folk magic, or if it was a brilliant deduction that only you, unshackled as you are by peasant superstition, could perceive. Then you ordered me to bring you some watercress sandwiches.”

  Professor Tenebrous’ eyes narrowed.

  Crossly, he spat out, “Not only did you fail to order the mandrake root, but I quite clearly remember that you did not provide the sandwiches!”

  “I attempted to, sir, but you had bolted the door from the inside and refused to open it. In fact, you shouted something I couldn’t quite make out; it sounded rather threatening, so I thought I should just leave you to your research.”

  The professor opened his mouth to say something, but paused as a faint hissing noise came from something on the workbench behind him. He turned and cautiously prodded at a valve on the underside of the stand holding a new glass globe. The hissing noise subsided, and he turned back to Estella with a haughty look.

  “Well. First, go fetch me some watercress sandwiches, in a more timely fashion, Miss Tedsing—”

  “Hargreaves, sir.”

  “—And then order a mandrake root, express delivery. The usual supplier should have it.”

  Estella wrote a line in her notebook.

  “Should I order more aqua vita, sir?”

  “No, no. The last batch was inferior, wouldn’t hold a flame for longer than three seconds. Tasted abominable, too.”

  He turned back to the workbench, gazed speculatively at a nest of copper tubing, then spun to face Estella.