"Exactly."
"I don't understand. I'm no government agent," Snips said.
"I'm not even government material. I'm a con artist. Why me?"
"Precisely because you are a con artist, Miss Snips, and precisely because you are not a government agent. As I have stated: your methods are unconventional. They may work where other methods have failed."
Snips snorted. "You're a nut. A salty, roasted nut."
"All I ask is that you take your position seriously. Through hook or crook, Miss Snips, get to the heart of the matter. In exchange for your services, I will see to the disposal of this—"
Orwick gestured to the pardon notice, as if its mere presence offended him. "—odious document."
Snips' eyebrow twitched. "And what happens if I don't?"
"Then, Miss Snips, I think it would be wise for you to consider another profession. Before your colleagues decide to consult with you."
~*~
Shortly after Snips left, Mr. Peabody entered with a bundle of paperwork.
"If I may, sir," Mr. Peabody began, setting the pile down on top of Orwick's desk. "I would like to inquire as to what you are hoping to accomplish by assigning Miss Snips to this affair."
Count Orwick looked amused. "Are you questioning my judgment, Peabody?"
The assistant immediately grew pale, stepping back. "Ah, not at all, sir."
"Calm yourself." Orwick turned to stare through the window, watching the railway. "I assigned Miss Snips to this matter for two reasons."
"The first, sir?"
"An adequate solution that fails to accommodate for the unknown is neither adequate nor a solution. Miss Snips may solve the matter; she may not. She may serve to do nothing more than provide a useful clue—a clue without which those better trained than herself could never succeed. But any solution that constrains itself to the boundaries of merely that which we predict will happen is a solution doomed to stagnation and failure."
"She's a mongrel, sir, and self-destructive," Mr. Peabody noted. "It is likely that she'll die."
"Yes," Orwick said. "In which case, we come to my second reason. Should she die in her service as a government agent, I will have every right to investigate the Steamwork at my leisure—for suspicion in the murder of an official operative."
Mr. Peabody smiled. "She succeeds, you win. She fails, you win. Very good, sir."
"The only way I can lose is if she manages to do nothing.
And considering Miss Snips' history, I find that possibility to be the least likely of them all."
~*~
CHAPTER 5: IN WHICH WE RETURN TO THE PAST IN ORDER TO INVESTIGATE GOINGS-ON CONCERNING RAINSTORMS, SECRET SOCIETIES, AND BUTTERFLY WINGS
~*~
An engine growled beneath Aberwick's streets.
The machine occupied a hundred feet of space; it was a geometric puzzle of precisely arranged gears and cogs, gnawing at mathematical enigmas presented to it by means of a series of levers. It was powered by a crank, which Jeremiah now turned; each revolution brought it one step closer to a problem's inevitable solution.
"Incredible," Abigail said.
"Jeremiah called the original design a 'calculation engine',"
Nigel explained. "A machine capable of performing all manner of mathematical formulae, removing any element of human error."
"And it works?"
"It does."
"I hope to replace this portion with a steam engine,"
Jeremiah commented, panting. He finished with the crank, stepping away and wiping his sweat-soaked palms off on his trousers.
"It is a fascinating machine, and surely deserving of attention," Abigail said. "But it does not explain how you predicted the rain."
"When Jeremiah finished the machine, he showed it to me.
I realized at once that its applications extended far beyond matters of simple maths," Nigel said. "With modification, it could perform incredibly complex calculations—processes that could predict nature itself. A sort of 'probability engine'."
"But that is not feasible," Abigail said. "As my paper showed, even the slightest change in atmospheric pressure—"
"—disrupts the most precise predictions," Nigel agreed.
"We discovered this on our own, independently; we were quite surprised when you discovered it without the aid of our probability engine."
Jeremiah stepped to a basin of water, splashing his face.
"The problem was that there were too many variables," he said.
"To be successful, any system of prediction had to account for them all."
Abigail hesitated. "You found a way."
Jeremiah dried his face with a towel. "We did. Our equations were perfect—too perfect. We needed an agent of chaos; an element of imperfection. We needed something that made our engine’s calculations fallible."
"We experimented with sub-systems—mechanisms in the engine that would create inaccurate results. And in the process, we blundered upon something very interesting," Nigel said.
"The larger and more unpredictable a system was, the more accurate our flawed predictions became," Jeremiah said.
"Predicting the weather became child's play. Yet predicting something as simple as the rate of speed at which a feather should fall was impossible."
"Your findings are remarkable," Abigail said. "Why have you not submitted them to the Academy? Why have you kept them secret?"
"Because we haven't told you the whole story," Nigel said.
"We didn't predict the rain," Jeremiah said. "We made it happen."
Abigail stared at Jeremiah as if he had just confessed to secretly being a monkey in a person-suit. "I beg your pardon?"
"The flapping of a butterfly's wings half way across the world can cause a thunderstorm over our heads," Nigel said. "We discovered that, with the right calculations, we could become the butterfly."
"We predicted what action would be necessary to attain the results we wanted," Jeremiah said. "And then we took that action.
Whether it be the flapping of a butterfly’s wings or breaking a teacup on the floor, we discovered how to identify the first domino in a chain that could lead to any result we desired."
"That's—that's absolutely impossible," Abigail stuttered, leaning forward to hear more.
"There are limits," Nigel confessed. "The system must be large, and ultimately of an unpredictable nature; such as the weather, or a civilization. In addition, changes must happen slowly over time. The more rapid of a change we propose, the more powerful the initial catalyst must be."
Jeremiah nodded. "If you attempted to make it rain tomorrow rather than next week—"
"You would have to find an awfully large butterfly," Nigel finished.
"I still don't understand. Why keep this silent?" Abigail asked. "Why, we could control the weather—end droughts! Prevent famines! Circumvent floods!"
"I thought much the same at first," Nigel said. "Jeremiah revealed to me the error of my ways."
"In your defense," Jeremiah said, grinning, "neither of you were raised by mad scientists."
"I do not understand," Abigail replied. "What error am I making?"
"You're assuming these equations would be employed for the better good," Jeremiah said. "You look at this and see an end to famine; I look at it and see a way to inflict it. You see a way to bring about peace; I see a way to strangle nations and topple governments."
Abigail hesitated, staring at the probability engine. "Then you wish to keep your discovery away from those who would abuse it," she said.
"Yes," Nigel replied. "But the possibilities it offers are far too great for us to ignore. We must understand it, but resist the temptation for its abuse."
"Such as creating unnecessary rainstorms to impress a lady," Abigail snapped, but then quickly abandoned her indignation. "I understand all this, but—why me? Certainly, I am an exceptional mathematician and engineer, but there must be others who are more qualified than myself."
"You are a br
illiant mathematician," Nigel said. "But you are also a woman."
Abigail blanched.
"Please do not be offended, Miss Parsley. I feared that whomever we came to would turn about and reveal our discovery."
Abigail stiffened in realization. "No one would believe me if I did."
"Indeed," Nigel agreed. "Were you to betray us, you would be dismissed as merely another 'hysterical damsel'."
"How shrewd. Your mind must be a frightful place,"
Abigail said, her voice dry.
"Perhaps so, Madame. But do you not understand our need for duplicity? For secrecy? Do you not see what is at stake?" Nigel asked.
Abigail hesitated, allowing the silence to speak for her.
When she at long last grew tired of what it had to say, she reluctantly nodded. "Yes, I do. But Professor Arcanum—"
"Yes?"
"To what end shall we ultimately put this machine?"
Jeremiah and Nigel exchanged glances; they looked back at Abigail, who regarded them with absolute disbelief.
"You have no idea, do you?" she said.
"Well—" Jeremiah began.
"Our primary concern has been to prevent its misuse, while simultaneously investigating its feasibility," Nigel said. "As for what we shall do with it—that has yet to be decided."
"And have you determined how you will finance this research?" Abigail asked. "I have no small fortune at my mercy, but I am unconvinced that it will be enough."
"We're still working on—" Jeremiah started again, but Nigel soon cut him off.
"Yes, actually—I have formulated a plan that should serve our purposes quite adequately. Both to fund our research and insulate it against the curiosity of those who might misuse it," he said. "We will create a secret society. One with an intriguing name; perhaps 'The Society of Distinguished Gentlemen'?"
Both Abigail and Jeremiah stared at him. It was Abigail who spoke first:
"So your solution to the matter of money is to construct some sort of secret boy's club?" Abigail asked. "Shall you have secret handshakes, and meet in a hidden tree-house?"
"Yes, actually," Nigel replied.
"I, uh. Beg your pardon?" Jeremiah asked.
Nigel laughed. "People thrive on mystery. They’ll happily donate money to any organization that provides them with an opportunity to add a sense of enigma to themselves."
"But I don't understand. To what end, Nigel?" Jeremiah pressed on. "Why create some secret society? The whole notion seems so silly."
"It most certainly is silly," Nigel agreed. "However, we cannot accomplish our research without additional funding; your profits from the Steamwork and Abigail's considerable fortune are not sufficient. We require sponsorship—and simultaneously must refrain from allowing the scientific community to learn of what we have discovered."
"At the very least we should think of a better name,"
Abigail complained.
"What's wrong with the one Nigel proposed?"
"Really, now," Abigail said. "The Society of Distinguished Gentlemen? What a wholly boorish title."
"Oh, come off it," Jeremiah said. "Don't tell me you're going to get on Nigel's case about the 'gentleman' thing, Abigail.
There are bigger concerns to be addressed here."
"I am one of the founding members of this little group of yours, am I not?" Abigail reasoned. "And I am certainly no gentleman. The name will have to be changed."
"To what? ‘The Society of Distinguished People’? It makes it sound like some sort of book-of-the-month club," Jeremiah said.
"The Society of Distinguished Gentlemen rolls off the tongue. It is clearly the superior name."
"It is an exclusionary name," Abigail snapped. "Why can a lady not be distinguished, hm?"
"I agree with Abigail," Nigel said.
"Exactly, Nigel, thank you very mu—wait, what?!"
Jeremiah spluttered.
"Her point is valid, Jeremiah. We are in the 19th century, yes? We must be modern in our mindset," Nigel explained.
"Language is important, and as Abigail’s work has demonstrated, exclusionary practices are outdated relics of the past."
"And yet here we are discussing the creation of an exclusionary social club," Jeremiah pointed out.
"We'll only be selling exclusiveness, not practicing it,"
Nigel said.
"But certainly, people would eventually realize it’s all a sham," Abigail said. "You can’t just make mysterious societies appear out of thin air."
"Why not?" Nigel asked. "We need only insinuate that the Society has existed throughout antiquity. People are drawn to mysteries without answers—references and symbols without meaning. Given the opportunity, they shall construct the meaning for you. In addition, by maintaining this 'air of mystery', we shall insure that the scientifically minded avoid our work."
"I have asked you before, and neither of you could provide sufficient answer. So I ask again: What is our ultimate goal, here?"
Abigail said. "What is it that we seek to accomplish?"
Jeremiah thought on it for a moment, and then said: "To build a more powerful probability engine, and perhaps to use it for some small good."
Nigel hesitated. "And yet we have used the engine frivolously, Jeremiah. Abigail was quite correct when she criticized us for employing it to impress her with a rain storm. It is never a large step from benevolence to despotism."
Abigail nodded. "Then from now on, we shall refrain from using it frivolously."
"Let us set a rule," Jeremiah said. "No change may be wrought through this means by any one of us without the consent of all three of us."
"Yes," Abigail said after thinking it over for a moment. "I find that to be a most agreeable solution."
Nigel thought it over the longest; after a minute, he reluctantly nodded his head.
~*~
CHAPTER 6: IN WHICH WE ARE INTRODUCED TO RECKLESS MATHEMATICS AND AN ASSASSIN MOST FOUL
~*~
"How I loathe intrusive little weasels," Mr. Eddington said, his hands clenched into bundles of frustration. "How I despise nosy finks!"
He stepped into Daffodil’s workshop. William was currently scribbling away at a blackboard with a long stick of chalk. The young man's work was a labyrinth of geometric shapes and equations; it was steadily filling the wall's entire surface. At only a glance, any sane mathematician would have instantly declared them to be meaningless gibberish. He hadn't limited himself to dividing by zero; he had divided zero by zero. When he had been feeling particularly sadistic, he subtracted by cat and multiplied by dog.
But beneath the fanciful whimsy and frolicking chaos was an underlying structure that no one could quite comprehend. Real numbers choked on their irrational counterparts only to spit out imaginary ones. Formulae appeared out of nowhere, treated the other equations rudely, then ate and ran without paying the tab.
Brief and spurious flashes of precision emerged from the madness
—and each time William found such a point, he stopped to meticulously write down everything that had lead up to it in his notebook.
Mr. Eddington cleared his throat. The mathematician jumped, turned, and politely smiled.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Eddington."
"Mr. Daffodil," Mr. Eddington said, glaring. "Am I to understand, then, that you have once again wasted company time on this fanciful whimsy of yours?"
"Oh, merely more preventative measures, sir. I want to ensure that our calculation engine can sustain every feasible manner of attack," William quickly explained. "There may still remain several possible ways to disable it—"
"I understand your desires, Mr. Daffodil, but must I remind you once again of the dangers of reckless mathematics?" Mr. Eddington said. He stepped up to the board, glaring at the equations. "This is absolute drivel—pure madness.
Incomprehensible babble. Are you attempting to follow in the footsteps of your parents, Mr. Daffodil?"
William nearly became a statue; only his eyebr
ow moved, twitching in a steady rhythm. "No. Of course not. Not at all," he said, his voice sliced open and drained of its strength.
"Because I would hope that you, of all people, would know the disastrous consequences inherent in practicing mad mathematics, Mr. Daffodil. After all, it is only a small step from mad maths to mad science."
William cleared his throat. "With your indulgence, sir, we must first understand the enemy if we are to defeat him."
Mr. Eddington sighed. "How does your work on the engine go?"
"Very well," William said. "We're nearly complete. We just need the data from the banks and we'll be ready to make a test run of it."
"Mr. Tweedle is seeing to it that it is shipped here tonight across the pipes," Mr. Eddington said. "In the meanwhile, Mr. Daffodil, please return to your work. And see to it that this—" he pointed at the wall of equations. "—is erased immediately."
William's left eyebrow twitched yet again. Regardless, he obediently nodded. Mr. Eddington turned and headed back to his office.
Shortly after the administrator had left, William fetched a damp rag with which to obliterate his work. But as he lifted it up to his equations, the mathematician paused—he was struck by the sudden silence. The constant chatter outside was absent; the steady hum of the calculation engine next door had inexplicably stopped.
William pinched his eyebrows together and sat the rag down, poking his head out of the workshop.
No one was present. William frowned, walking out.
"Um. Hullo?"
His voice echoed through the lobby.
"That is odd," he said, and then he noticed the clock mounted above the lobby's exit.
It seemed to be broken. The second hand struggled valiantly to usher in the next moment, but could not get past the three. Instead, it would tremble with effort before snapping back to the point where it had rested an instant prior.
William watched, perplexed, as the hand fought to move forward. It gave another spasm, and then sprang a second backwards.
"Mr. Daffodil?"
William nearly jumped out of his clothes. At once, the world was precisely as it should be; he was swimming in noise, surrounded by researchers going about their daily business. The engine rumbled beneath his feet, and one of his fellow engineers stood beside him. The clock's second hand was ticking merrily along, having long left the three behind.
Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium Page 4