Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium

by Robert Rodgers

  The city of Aberwick was a topographical nightmare wrested from the laudanum-fueled fever dreams of half-mad cartographers. It was cradled in a yawning canyon of volcanic rock, with communities swelling up into massive heaps of brick and timber; the trains flowed aside, above, and even through these mounds.

  If the train rails were Aberwick's veins, then under Aberwick was its steam-powered heart. Beneath the crusty topsoil and the jigsaw puzzle of slums was a maze of tunnels and caverns where ancient boilers harvested the burning expulsions of geothermal vents, providing heat and power to the urban sprawl above. A tangle of pipes tied in mad knots of right and wrong angles slurped the volcanic gas like a thousand straws, drawing it up to the slums and the extravagant villas that lay high above. But despite all of this, it was the trains that had become the symbol of Aberwick: ceaseless, endless, and punctual.

  Count Orwick watched the city through his office window as the trains outside plunged into tunnels and emerged across bridges, forming a tangled knot complex enough to give even Alexander's sword pause. Powerful locomotives weaved their way through the web, their conductors following Orwick's calculated directions—directions so divorced from common sense that calamity seemed inevitable. Yet like a magician poring over archaic alchemical formulae, he snatched success from the jaws of failure again and again.

  His office was extravagant yet tasteful. Sets of exquisitely crafted maple chairs inlaid with floral patterns and padded with matching damask cushions gathered around his marble-topped desk. Ornate brass fixtures capped with glass spheres provided light along the walls, with coils of gas burning brilliantly within.

  The elegance was lost upon Mr. Eddington as he marched in; for him, it was all the useless trimmings of a noble busy-body.

  The rail-thin administrator of the Steamwork was the sort of man whose face had been designed explicitly for the purpose of expressing outrage. There was never a moment when he lacked either a cause for indignation or the indiscretion necessary to express it.

  He was accompanied by a gentleman who clutched a pile of documents to his chest as if it were a crucifix and he had just blundered into a den of nosferatu after wading through a pool of blood mixed with steak sauce. Mr. Tweedle was the chief administrator of all six of Aberwick's banks, and yet he was so boring in appearance that we shall waste no more words to describe him, save to note that he sometimes wore a very uninteresting hat.

  "Count Orwick!" Mr. Eddington cried, the force of his voice causing Mr. Tweedle to cower. "I demand an explanation!"

  Count Orwick tore himself away from the window with great reluctance. He observed the gentlemen as an alley cat might observe a pair of exotic birds kept safe in a cage; interesting, but ultimately inconsequential.

  "For what do you demand an explanation?" Count Orwick asked.

  "For this!" Mr. Eddington slapped the newspaper down onto the desk.

  "That," Orwick said, "is a newspaper. I believe it may, on occasion, contain news."

  "Sometimes crossword puzzles," Mr. Tweedle said, before sinking under Mr. Eddington's withering glare.

  "Not the paper, Count Orwick. The article on the front page." Mr. Eddington's finger stabbed at the title. It read: STEAMWORK UNDER INVESTIGATION.

  "Oh, that," Orwick said. "It should be of little concern to such law-abiding men as yourselves."

  "My associates and I brought our business to this fair city under the assurances of non-interference at the hands of the government."

  "And so you have received it. And so you will continue to receive it. Her Majesty has made clear her desire for your sovereignty over personal affairs," Count Orwick said.

  "Then what is this talk of an investigation? Why were we not informed?"

  "I planned on scheduling a meeting with you this afternoon to discuss the matter," Orwick said. "Her Majesty has requested your full compliance in a government investigation of your facilities. She is concerned about the recent rash of attacks against our banks, and what it might mean should your inventions at the Steamwork fall into the wrong hands."

  "Our security is second-to-none," Mr. Eddington said. "I will not have your men interfering with my work, blundering about in my workshops and disturbing my machines. We can carry out our own investigation, thank you very much."

  "And what have you unearthed concerning the recent demise of your research assistant, Mr. Copper?"

  "A tragedy, to be certain, but a wholly inevitable one," Mr. Eddington said. "Mr. Copper's research was highly dangerous. He ignored safety protocols time and time again."

  "Her Majesty has reason to believe it may be part of an anarchist plot," Orwick said. "She wishes for the case to be re-opened and investigated."

  Mr. Eddington's scowl deepened. "I have no desire to see your 'agents' in my house of business, Orwick."

  "Please, Mr. Eddington. Agents? In my employ?" Orwick brought a narrow hand to his chest, as if fending off violence. "I have no such thing. I am merely a humble instrument of the Queen's will."

  "In that case," Mr. Eddington said, stepping backward and folding his arms over his chest. "I demand the investigation be carried out by a third party, unrelated to you or your government."

  "Such a strange request," Orwick said. "Do you think us as little more than a motley collection of spies and thieves?"

  "I think that history speaks for itself, Count Orwick."

  "Very well. Hire any investigative agency you would like, so long as it is clear that they are impartial to the matter. I only ask that a government consultant be allowed to join the investigation, to ensure that our concerns are addressed."

  Mr. Eddington's eyes narrowed into a stare that could slit open stone. "One consultant," he said.

  "Only one," Orwick agreed, and then he smiled. Both Eddington and Tweedle instinctively recoiled; Orwick's smile was a vicious thing, full of malice and sharp edges. Nary a friendly flat-topped tooth lay in sight.

  ~*~

  Beneath Arcadia Snips' derby hat and short black curls was the face of a silver-fanged cherub—a mocha-toned angel with enough charm to sell a pack of matches to a man doused in lamp-oil. But whenever she grinned, the very tip of that silver fang would tuck over the edge of her bottom tooth. It gave her a savage, frightful look.

  Snips squirmed in the grip of the prison's complimentary straitjacket and accompanying chains, left hanging by her feet from the musty cell's ceiling. The nearby locksmith rattled off items from his list, scoring checkmarks as he went.

  "Straitjacket, check."

  Beside the locksmith stood Morgrim Prison's warden. The man resembled an old goat with all the mental flexibility of a chalk brick. Recent months had taken their toll on him; his once proud uniform fit him like a glove fitted a foot, and his eyes had sunk into deep craters.

  "You see, Miss Snips," the warden began, "I want you to be extra comfortable. I've realized why you keep escaping. It's because we just haven't taken that extra step for you. We haven't been giving you the special attention you deserve."

  "Manacles, check. Padlock on manacles, check."

  "Really, I feel this whole sordid affair has been my own fault. But don't you worry. We're going to take every step possible to make sure you are comfortable." The warden twitched. "In fact, once we're through, I'm sure you'll never want to leave Morgrim again."

  "Suspension cords, check. Padlock on suspension cords, check."

  "Twice now," and here the warden's voice trembled, much like the plucked note of a cello string wound a quarter of an inch too tight, "you have vanished from your cell without apparent explanation or effort. Twice now, you have soiled my reputation as a capable jailer. I will earn my reputation back, Miss Snips. There will not be a third occasion."

  "Reinforced triple padlocked deadbolts on the door, check.

  We're finished here, sir," the locksmith said.

  Snips smiled.

  "Oh, do you have something to say, Miss Snips? Perhaps some sort of amusing quip? A clever parting word?"

 
Rather than reply, Snips just kept on smiling.

  "All for the better. Rest assured; there is nothing on the tip of your tongue that can change the fact that you will die here, alone and in the dark."

  The warden spun about on the heel of his boot, stomping out of the room with the locksmith in tow. The door slammed shut, followed by the clamor of many, many locks snapping into place.

  Once the sound of their footsteps put them at the far end of the hall, Snips stuck out her tongue.

  On its tip was the warden's key.

  Snips pulled the key back into her mouth and began to writhe with great violence, rocking from side to side. Every minute would end with a rattle of metal or cloth as she threw down yet another implement of bondage. After five minutes of this, she had shed her bindings much like a snake might shed its skin. She unlocked the chain that held her feet in the air and tumbled to the floor, now clad only in her prison arrows and beloved hat.

  She didn't get far out of the cell before stepping out in front of someone.

  "Now what do we 'ave here," asked the towering guard. He was swarthy and broad, with palms large enough to seize skulls and arms strong enough to crack them. When he spoke, it was with barking alacrity—as if he found the language somehow distasteful to his tongue, and was glad to have it off. "Still tryin' to drive the warden mad, eh?"

  "Morning, Agrippa," Snips said, unflinching. "And, yeah.

  You got a mind to try and stop me?"

  Agrippa laughed; it was a short and violent noise that sounded like something he had caught from a fellow who had died of it. "Maybe," he said. "You think y'could take me?"

  "Probably not," Snips admitted, meeting his smile with one of her own. "But I'd charge you an eyeball for the right." She wiggled her thumb.

  For a moment, there was silence. Then Agrippa chuckled.

  "Give me a strike to th'back of th'head," the guard said.

  "Make it look good, eh?"

  Snips searched the room until she found a crowbar. She advanced toward Agrippa, who obligingly turned his back.

  "Some world, eh?" Agrippa said. "You can't even trust your own kin not to turn you in for a nickel."

  "It's always been like that," Snips said. "Besides, the only two things I've ever trusted were myself and a sturdy crowbar. And I ain't too sure about that first thing."

  "Well, I think—"

  She brought the makeshift bludgeon down with a brutal blow.

  ~*~

  CHAPTER 3: IN WHICH OUR TITULAR PROTAGONIST MEETS, GREETS, AND FLEES FROM HER NEW EMPLOYERS

  ~*~

  It was always the smell of the Rookery that hit Snips first—

  like a flaming freight train filled with manure. The stench stabbed its way to the back of the brain, signing a signature at the top of your spine. It was a smell you could always recognize but never quite pin down.

  The Rookery was several hundred tight knots of vendors, carts, and houses tied along a crooked and winding length of road.

  The looming brick walls drew so close in some places that no more than two people could pass at a time—and the way they tilted toward the street implied an imminent avalanche of mortar and wood.

  To the right, an immense mechanical spider picked its way up and over the crowd, its delicate bronze legs scraping across cobblestone while while its smokestack belched thick ribbons of steam and soot. A gondola containing a mobile smithy sat on top, filled to the brim with metalworkers who diligently reinforced buildings that showed signs of wear and potential collapse. Valves along the machine's belly hissed and released great clouds of vapor, thoroughly drenching any unfortunates below. Street urchins in war paint dashed in between the pincer-like feet to snatch up pieces of metal that tumbled down from the workers' hands.

  Sometimes, a coveted lump of coal would fall, inciting the children into a frantic scrabble.

  To the left, a crowd of spectators laughed at a mechanical puppet show made of metal and timber. Its automated clockwork cast went through the same motions they did every day; a hook-nosed jester with a nasal voice sang a jaunty song as he clubbed his wife and infant with a steady series of thwacks, drawing whooping laughter from the crowd.

  Above, restaurants kept afloat by sheepskin balloons inflated with hot gas catered to the whims of those on balconies and airships, who enjoyed their lunch while watching the going-ons from a lofty perch. A few of the nastier customers dumped their finished meals onto the people below, or even relieved themselves on some poor sod's head. Snips ducked through an opening to avoid the aerial flotsam and stepped into Dead Beat Alley.

  No one there would give her a second glance. It didn't matter that she was still wearing a prison uniform; the people of Dead Beat Alley didn't much believe in the law. It was an imaginary thing that applied to fictitious people—something you paid a penny to read about in cheap news rags not fit to clean the ground with.

  The buildings here were frightful affairs conceived by daredevils and madmen. The sky above was blotted out by a quilted canopy stretched across the rooftops, giving the alley a feeling of perpetual gloom. Here, gold-toothed hags tried to sell Snips bottles bubbling with strange new experiences—narrow-bodied men with sinister smiles offered her discount back-alley surgery to add, augment, or replace limbs—and pamphlets on the ground promising a hot meal and regular pay in the Isle's army cushioned her every step.

  Snips shoved her way through a narrow door located near the back. In the dim light, she could see the outline of her apartment; a wide and open room with a cluttered, cramped second floor overlooking the first. Furniture here was made up mostly of books; one table was nothing but dusty tomes, arranged in four piles with a massive copy of the popular penny dreadful, Professor Von Grimskull and the Zombie Sky-Pirates, balanced on top. Snips lit a candle on a shelf to the side and then headed upstairs via the ladder.

  A barrel half full of alcohol was stashed in a corner. Snips swiped a glass beaker she had filched a week ago from a local alchemist and took a swig. She grimaced as the stuff burned on its way down—the rotgut doubled as floor cleaner.

  She grabbed a change of clothes and slipped behind a faded scarlet curtain, trading her prison attire for something a bit more respectable. When she emerged, she looked at herself in the broken and rusty mirror she had hammered to the far wall. She had left the off-yellow jail shirt on, but subdued its presence with a tattered black coat and her beloved derby hat.

  She tilted the hat to the side, then laughed and curtsied to her own reflection. "A pleasure to meet you, Lady Snips."

  "The pleasure is mine."

  A pistol barrel hovered several inches from the reflection of her tanned nose.

  It was held by a one-eyed thug who had to hunch over to fit inside the upstairs quarters. He and his companion had emerged from behind a bookcase; both were built from a wide variety of large-bodied ruffians and animals—in fact, the stitches still looked quite fresh. The one with the gun had been cobbled together from parts of an ape, and wore a tiny red fez on his head. The other one had a wide-brimmed hat and the head of a jawless jackal, his tongue dangling out from the base of his muzzle. They were dressed in very sharp and high-class suits; a pair of metal bolts jutted from the sides of their necks.

  But the one who spoke was directly behind them—he was a gentleman in an expensive cream-colored vest, charcoal black dress coat, and matching top hat. His eyes could quiet jovial laughter with but a glance, and his muttonchops were thick enough to qualify as tusks.

  "Oh Lord," Snips said, staring at the pistol with her eyes crossed. "Is it Tuesday already?"

  The bearded man presented a most unpleasant smile. "My name is Charles Peabody. The gentleman with the pistol—I apologize for the implicit threat—is Mr. Cheek. His companion is Mr. Tongue."

  "Pleasure to meet you," Snips tipped her hat up with the rim of the beaker.

  Mr. Cheek grunted. Mr. Tongue gurgled.

  "You don't say," Snips replied.

  "Now that we have completed the
pleasantries," Mr. Peabody said, stepping forward. "My employer wishes to speak with you."

  "Is this about the duck?" Snips asked.

  Peabody tilted his head. "Duck?"

  "Duck? Did I say duck? I didn't mention any duck," Snips said. "Why do you keep bringing up ducks?"

  Mr. Peabody scowled. "Enough of this. Miss Snips."

  "Hey," Snips said, turning to Mr. Cheek. "Did you know that rotgut can cause blindness?"

  Mr. Cheek blinked his eye. "Eh?"

  "Oh, yeah. Especially when applied directly."

  In one smooth motion, Snips slapped the pistol to the side and threw the contents of the beaker into his face. Mr. Cheek roared, dropped the gun, and ground a pair of meaty mismatched fists into his eye sockets. Snips hurled the glass at Mr. Peabody and sprang out the back window.

  Peabody swatted the glass aside, cursing. "Get her!"

  Snips slapped her palms against the next building's wall, pushing herself off and diving into a roll that left her crouched in the alley. She flew to her feet and ran down the narrow street, heading for the heart of Dead Beat Alley.

  As Snips moved, she unraveled a length of twine from her leftmost pocket and looped it over her hat, tying it down. "Soar," she whispered.

  And then she sprang into the chaos of the Rookery.

  The front door to her apartment exploded from the inside.

  Mr. Cheek emerged with his fists swinging like sledgehammers, his eye as red as an overripe strawberry. The wolfish Mr. Tongue soon followed. He threw his head back and sniffed at the air, then dragged Mr. Cheek on after Snips' scent. Mr. Peabody soon ran out behind them, disappearing down the street.

  With a twist of her shoulders, Snips flowed through the crowd like a pebble through a stream; she sprang over the head of a thieving ragamuffin (busy picking the pocket of a plump fruit-mongerer) and brought her hands down on the shoulders of the victim, shoving hard and vaulting herself to a windowsill. As her feet met the mantle, she kicked back and landed on the roof of the clockwork puppet show. Below her, its hook-nosed mascot had moved on to beating a policeman until the officer's head popped off with a comical boing, spurring the audience to applause.