Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  The body was where we'd left it – crumpled next to an instrument panel in a congealed pool of blood. A tremendous force had pulped the top of the man's skull down to his upper jaw, powerfully enough to splatter brain matter and blood all across the walls and floor.

  "Look here, James." Bartleby squatted next to the body, peering up at the fluids splashed across the bulkhead nearby. "Look at this spray. Whatever impact killed this man came from his front, like a powerful thrust, not from above like a crushing blow."

  "And?"

  "And that limits what the murder weapon may have been. There's no burnt flesh around his wound, either – no chemical burns. It wasn't a firearm or anything galvanic."

  "There's no firearms allowed aboard the ship," Dewit said. "It's too dangerous – an unlucky discharge might puncture the hull and depressurise the cabin, or even hit the gasbag and ignite its hydrogen."

  "That sounds unfortunate."

  "Yes. So firearms are out of the question."

  "It isn't just firearms. Any tools that can penetrate the hull are kept locked away," Chief Miller said. "And used only under very controlled circumstances."

  "What sort of tools? Anything that might do this to a man if misused?"

  "A tool that expels a great deal of lateral force," I said. "Silently enough that nobody heard it being used."

  "What about a pneumatic rivet gun?" the Chief said. "We've got one in the storage locker."

  Bartleby stood and gazed down at the body for a moment before giving me a studied look. "He's about your height and girth, James. Would you come and stand here, at his feet? Thank you." He stepped back, sighted an imaginary rifle towards me, then looked past me at the wall.

  "Yes, yes, I think that–" Light on his feet, he practically waltzed over to the equipment locker to examine the blood dried over its lattice grating. "Chief Miller, can you open this?"

  When he'd unlocked it, Bartleby opened the locker with a flourish. He examined the tools within for a moment before producing the a long cylinder ending in a tapered pipe, a pistol grip at its back end. The pneumatic rivet gun.

  "Gentlemen: Your murder weapon."

  "How can you be certain?" the First Mate asked.

  Bartleby tossed the tool towards him, and Dewit fumbled to catch it.

  "It's clean." Bartleby grinned and walked towards the door to the engine room. "Unlike the other tools in the cabinet, there's no blood spattered through the grillwork onto it. It wasn't in the cabinet when poor Henderson was killed – our killer must have replaced it after."

  "Killed by a pneumatic rivet gun!" The Chief shook his head. "And that exonerates Mr. Wainwright – it had to have been used a crewman with keys to the cabinet."

  "Well done, Bartleby," I knew my old friend wouldn't let me down. He can be a bit of a dandy at times, but he comes through when the pressure's on.

  "Not necessarily."

  "Bartleby?"

  "I'm sorry, James, as much as I'd love to clear your name, if we act on the assumption that the killer needed a key to access the tools we cut out a large number of suspects. The truth is–"

  "Bartleby!"

  "The truth is that the killer could have very well simply picked the lock, or through negligence it might have been left unlocked, or the killer might have acquired a duplicate key. Maybe the rivet gun had been left out, and he simply locked it away when he'd finished with the killing."

  "So we haven't learned anything new," Dewit said.

  "We know how Henderson was killed. And given the opportunistic nature of the murder weapon, it's likely not premeditated. A crime of passion, perhaps – tempers run hot on a closed vessel."

  "So what is our next course of action?" I asked.

  "James, stay here with the Chief and see what you can discover while I search Engineer Henderson's quarters."

  Dewit started after Bartleby for a moment before stopping to glance back at me. "Chief! Keep an eye on this one."

  The Chief Engineer waved him off, and the First Mate hurried after Bartleby.

  "What a mess." The Chief put his hands on his hips and let out a low whistle.

  "Oh, thank you for the reminder. Chief Miller, do you hear that slight whine?"

  "What?"

  "I woke in the night to detect a small deviation in the engine's oscillation. Perhaps a three hertz change."

  "No. I don't hear anything." He paused. "I beg your pardon, but did you say three hertz?"

  "Quite."

  "You detected, upon awakening, a difference of three hertz?"

  "It's what drew me here to discover Henderson."

  He stared at me.

  I grew uncomfortable and changed the subject. "Do you mind if I look around a bit?"

  "As you would. I need to see to getting poor Henderson cleaned up anyway."

  ***

  With the Chief Engineer's blessing I passed through the hatch into the engine room proper. Beyond the control room the Rio Grande's engineering section was a vast chamber of steam turbines, furnaces, and auxiliary units. What little lighting the room afforded was provided by the furnaces, low ambient glows amongst towering black iron colossi and the glass and steel steam turbines. Automated stokers kept the furnaces fuelled, drawing from from long low coal bins, articulated spades shovelling fuel into the furnaces at a steady pace.

  The hot dry air, choked with smoke and engine fumes, raised sweat from my skin as soon as I'd entered. I could practically feel the thrumming from their operation against my skin. I stood for a moment in the threshold in a quasi-religious awe, just taking it in, feeling the almost electric pull of the technological marvel before me.

  I closed the control room hatch behind me and shut my eyes, listening, trying to track down the source of the whine I'd heard earlier. I could still hear it when I concentrated, among the sliding of the turbines and the dull roar of the furnaces. And something else, something soft, a scrabbling stealthy movement among the dark metal structures. It was rhythmic, something slapping against metal in a regular fashion.

  The whining seemed to be coming from the turbines – they were labouring harder and harder to function. The slapping sound emanated from behind a two by two panel set into a bulkhead. It was slightly ajar, tool-marks evident near its popped lock. I opened it, and found a fist-sized fat-diamond shaped cavity in which a series of pistons spun freely. Leather connective straps attached to the pistons flailed uselessly against the steel casing, whatever they had secured now absent.

  I took a quick look around the immediate area, but couldn't find anything that looked like it might have fallen from the compartment. Unfortunately I'm unschooled in the mechanics of areonautical engineering and had no idea what might have been removed from the ship's workings. I returned to the control room to put the question to the Chief Engineer.

  ***

  I described the empty panel to the best of my ability, and the Chief Engineer's face paled. I followed Miller as he raced, without a word, into the engine room, stopping in front of the open hatch and its empty cavity. He gave out a groan of mixed frustration and terror, grabbing handfuls of his hair and stumbling back a from the hatch, sliding down to the ground when he hit the wall opposite.

  "What is it, man?" I asked.

  "We are dead." The Engineer's voice was flat. Hollow.

  "Bad then, is it?"

  "Can you even conceive -- do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep an airship this size balanced upright?"

  He pulled small fluid-filled level out of his breast pocket, lay it on the floor, then dropped prone next to it, eyeing it carefully. I crouched for a look myself, and saw that we were listing a few tenths of a degree. The Chief let out another hopeless moan and rolled over onto his back.

  "The movement of the turbines, the mixture of gas in the air bags, the balance of the ballast – it's all precisely calibrated to keep the Rio Grande from listing," he said, "and it's the job of the gyroscopic stabiliser to control the analytical engine that calibrates it. Without it tho
se oscillations you've been hearing are going to intensify at a prodigious rate, the ship is going to flip over, and we're going to go tumbling out of the sky."

  "We'll hit London," I said. "Hundreds will die."

  "Hundreds?" He scoffed. "Mr. Wainwright, do you have any idea how much hydrogen we're carrying? We're an enormous bomb. If we crash, there won't be enough London left to fill a rubbish bin."

  ***

  We reconvened in the Captain's stateroom with Bartleby and Mr. Herbert.

  "It's sabotage, then," Bartleby said. "I've spoken to some of the crew about Henderson – he was well regarded and personable. Organized weekly poker games."

  "Yeah, I played with him several times," the Chief said. "He was good enough."

  "Pity his luck ran out."

  "It wasn't a matter of luck," the Chief said. "Henderson was a professional gambler. Played the long game. He won some, lost some, but always came out ahead. Patient. Calculating. Compare that to passionate men like the First Mate, they'll bid big on every hand. They might win a pot or two they end up losing entire months' wages in the long run."

  "Speaking of, where is Dewit?" I asked.

  "Overseeing the clean-up in Engineering," Nussbaum said.

  "Regardless," Bartleby said, "nobody seemed to have a personal issue with Henderson – he was most likely simply unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Given that James found the body so shortly after the engineer was killed and that the room hasn't been left unoccupied since, we can surmise that the... gyrostabic... scopilizer–"

  "Gyroscopic Stabilizer," I said.

  "–device was taken first, and the thief encountered Henderson on his way out. And given that the weapon used was an improvisational one and the murder so inconveniently messy, it is most likely that our murderer killed Henderson out of panic, and simply ran off afterwards."

  "Who would gain from sabotaging the Rio Grande?" I asked.

  "Mr. Herbert." Bartleby turned towards the industrialist. "A man of your status has his share of enemies, doesn't he?"

  "I've stepped on more than a few petty men on my way to the top," Mr. Herbert replied. "Business rivals that would love to see me fail. The Luddites hate the technology I employ in my factories. My own son, fat lout that he is, can't wait until I die so he can inherit what he's too incompetent to earn."

  "Luddite fanatics might well sacrifice themselves to take down the ship," I hazarded, "but would your rivals? And your son – he's aboard himself, isn't he?"

  "So a fanatic or dupe is most likely," Bartleby said. "Unless the saboteur intends to steal one of the ship's aeroboats and escape the fate selected for the rest of us."

  "You've no spare aboard?" I asked.

  "The stabilizer is highly guarded proprietary technology, created using advanced alloys and manufacturing techniques." Mr. Herbert said. "The only other prototype is in our Dallas airshipyards. We of course plan to manufacture more, but it was imperative that we launch the maiden voyage in a timely fashion."

  "Your impatience may have killed us all, Herr Herbert," Captain Nussbaum said. "Chief, how long do we have until the ship destabilizes?"

  "Given the rate of oscillation and the current tilt," the Chief said, "a matter of hours."

  "I might be able to rig up a temporary solution," I said. "With the Chief's assistance."

  Mr. Herbert looked relieved. "I cannot begin to thank you, Mr. Wainwright."

  "I don't mean to bestow upon you false hope. With the limited spare parts and scant knowledge of what I'm doing, I can stave off disaster for another few hours at best. We still can't leave the city's skies."

  Captain Nussbaum reached for the ship's intercom. "I'll order evacuation proceedings immediately."

  "An evacuation won't save London," Bartleby said. "Give us time to try and find the culprit before you give that order – if he believes that James is still the primary suspect, his guard will be lowered and he may not hurry his escape. If we evacuate, he could melt through our fingers and off into the countryside, laughing all the way. Laughing at the dead, laughing at Mr. Herbert, and laughing at you, Captain."

  Captain Nussbaum's face tightened. "I will not risk the passengers and my crew–"

  "Listen." Mr. Herbert raised a sweaty palm. "I will not be made a fool of. I won't have it! A disaster of this scale would ruin my name, ruin my business. We have to try and bring this devil to justice and find the gyroscopic device to save the city below."

  Nussbaum set his face into a grimace. "Herr Herbert, you may have financed the Rio Grande, but I am her Captain, and in the air my word is law. I can allot Herr Bartleby two hours to find the gyroscope, perhaps three if Herr Wainwright can create a temporary fix. After that, the ship will be evacuated. Am I understood?"

  "Quite." Mr. Herbert nodded. "I would expect no less concern from you."

  "Very well. I suggest we waste no more time. I will tell Herr Dewit to place a guard on the ship's aeroboat."

  "The aeroboat?" Bartleby asked.

  "Yes. We cannot have this scoundrel escaping."

  "No, I mean you only have one aeroboat? For the entire vessel?"

  "Well, the chances of needing it were slim to none," Mr. Herbert said. "It's hardly likely that we'd ever use it. Mostly for show."

  "That doesn't seem very–"

  "No, he's right, Bartleby," I interrupted. "In almost any disaster scenario the Rio Grande's hydrogen would ignite, killing all hands almost instantly."

  The information was apparently unsettling to the others, for they simply stared at me for several moments.

  "I strongly suggest we limit the spread of this information, lest we cause a panic and alert our quarry," Bartleby said. "I'll question your son, Mr. Herbert."

  "Better... better question my wife, too," Mr. Herbert said. "And Tolby Ives is one of the guests – he's one of my competitors, and he'd love to see me fail. If he's behind it he's had his Pinkerton bodyguard do the dirty work."

  "Why would you invite one of your rivals?" I asked.

  "The better to rub his face in it," Bartleby grabbed me by the shoulders and steered me towards the door. "Now get to work saving our lives, James. That's a good lad."

  ***

  Chief Miller endeavored, to the best of his ability, to walk me through the construction and functioning of the gyroscopic stabilizer. His terrible fright at the spectre of our impending fiery doom was a bit of a hindrance – he'd stop mid-lecture to wail or bemoan his fate, and his crying jags were starting to get on my nerves. When he started taking nips from his hip-flask I sent him out of his engine room and, with the help of his hastily scribed notes, continued on my own. A state of affairs that I found quite acceptable.

  After a half-hour's labour I managed to cobble together a small gyroscope from the engine room's spare copper wire and mouldings, using the heat of the furnaces to solder it all together. It was an ugly kludge but if luck was on our side would buy us another hour or two.

  ***

  When I returned to our stateroom, I found that Bartleby had finished his own interrogations. Herbert's son, he told me, was an unpleasant and priggish young man with few manners and even fewer compunctions.

  "Fortunately he's no Machiavelli." Bartleby sat in a chair opposite the door, sipping his brandy. "I doubt the lad has two brain cells to rub together. If he wants to strike at his old man – and I'm almost certain that he eventually will – it'll be with a blunt object to the back of the skull. Even then, he's unlikely to do anything that will harm the business he's to inherit."

  "And the mother?"

  "Likewise a low creature. Just another nouveau-riche American trophy wife who has thus far spent the voyage trying to insinuate herself into the good graces of her betters. No doubt she holds hopes of an introduction into the London social scene. As if I'd inflict her upon them."

  "Do you consider her a suspect?"

  "She does hate her husband for his infidelities," Bartleby said. "And I have no doubt that she'd delight in
humiliating him publicly, but not in a way that would endanger herself or the ambitions she holds towards social advancement – and mass murder is a bit beyond the pale for such an ordinary person."

  "So, no, then."

  "It is possible, I suppose, that she's a dupe. I could see her stealing the gyroscopic stabilizer to sell to one of her husband's rivals, without being aware of the consequences. I doubt she's got the finesse to remove it without damage. That rules out the son as well."

  "So much for easy answers," I said.

  We had nice appointments aboard the ship, as befitted guests of our host Mr. Herbert. Everything was plush and crushed velvet with a golden brocade fringe trim. The berths were softer than I was used to – I prefer a firmer mattress – but I'd managed to clear off the top of the room's vanity to use as a temporary workstation.

  Bartleby, of course, would not have it. We were guests of an industrialist grateful that we had dispatched an assassin targeting men of his ilk, and we were to spend our time drinking, playing cards, and playing shuffleboard. Our vacation, he insisted, was not a working vacation.

  So much for that.

  "Let's take another look at the crime scene," I said.

  Bartleby put his drink aside and accompanied me, prattling on as we returned to the engineering section. "I've also spoken to Mr. Ives and his Pinkerton bodyguard. Wasn't able to get much out of them without giving the situation away, but I don't think they know anything. While I wouldn't put it past Ives to strike at Herbert, he's savvy enough to know the consequences of removing the stabilizer, and Johnson is too much the professional to panic and kill Henderson like that."

  "Blast."

  "Unfortunately all I managed to do is alert them to the fact that something's gone wrong. We'll have to play it carefully around them."

  "Yes, playing it carefully is the way to go with these pesky murder investigations," I said.

  "Don't be cross."

  "Forgive me for being short, Bartleby, but it doesn't sound like you've been making much progress at all."