Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "He isn't," Alton said, handing it back. "My own investigations revealed a string of thefts from his storehouses. Whoever built this... thing... did it with pilfered Fiske parts. Lucian would have no need to steal from himself."

  "Small favours," James said.

  "How close would someone have to be to transmit commands to this construct?" Alton asked.

  "Depends on the size of the transmitter as much as the receiver," James said. "But the further away the controller is, the more delay there would be in commands given."

  "How keen were the thing's reflexes?"

  "Very."

  "Then its master must be close by."

  "Within this very town, I would hazard."

  Bartleby picked up the skull. "What sort of commands does the controller give the machine? What can it do?"

  James poked at the analytical engine with his spanner. "There appears to be two modes to the control scheme. Firstly, there are a number of pre-planned routines built into the mechanism. I haven't had the chance to fully examine them, but from what contemporary automations are capable of I would assume routines to walk without falling, maybe open doors, perform simple tasks."

  "Swing a weapon or fire a rifle?"

  "Perhaps, though it'd be fairly rudimentary. It might be able to target the nearest moving object and fire without aiming, really. But there's also a means to control each joint individually to take a sort of direct control, rather than relying on routines. That's what we were seeing when this creature attacked... someone had taken direct control of it, to a frightful effect."

  Alton pursed his lips, James's revelations roiling within his head. The warehouse and its contents retreated into a dull grey periphery, and a series of images began to flash across his mind's eye in quick succession. The skull, the wireless receiver, the missing parts from the factory, the routes the missing men had taken before disappearing. Possibilities and probabilities warred within his brain, challenging and defeating one another in microseconds as one potential rose from the ashes of the others within him, bubbling to his lips in the form of a question. "This wireless telegraphy. Is the signal directed towards one receiver or an array?"

  "As I understand it, theoretically any capable receiver would pick up the broadcast signal."

  The image became crisp in his mind, a group of men, armed with rifles, marching and firing in unison. Not a group, a unit. On a battlefield. The tactical implications of these cog-driven men was astounding, particularly with the extrapolation of where the technology could go. With embedded call-signs, entire companies could be controlled from afar. With hundreds of soldiers firing hundreds of guns, the inability to aim would not be a factor.

  "A new age of war," he said.

  "I beg your pardon?" James said.

  "But how could they manage?" Alton put the skull back down. "How could the controller see you well enough to coordinate his attacks, James?"

  "That I can't tell you, not yet. There is a means of transmission, but it looks like it only translates ambient sound into a telegraphic signal."

  "Are you saying that they can hear us?"

  "Oh, no, I'd disconnected the transmitter from its power source as soon as we arrived."

  "So this workshop is the last place it transmitted from?"

  "Yes." James stopped, tilting his head slightly. "Oh."

  "Yes, 'oh'." Alton cast his eyes about the lab, then held up a hand, closing his eyes, ears straining.

  James waited, unmoving.

  "Oh, bloody hell."

  As soon as 'hell' left his lips powerful fists drove themselves through the light corrugated cargo doors. Bloodied brass-and-flesh hands gripped the edges of the holes they'd made..

  Alton ran towards the back of the workshop, skidding to a stop as the back-door was torn from its hinges. A half-man stood in the ruined doorway, the flesh-side of his face drooping, the other side of his skull gleaming brass. Other figures could be seen behind him, bits of copper and brass glinting.

  The shop's cargo doors started to lift, and James hastened to hold them closed. His muscles strained as he put his weight on the door's lip. "I can't keep it closed long," he said.

  Bartleby ran to the workshop's table, grabbing the lantern off of its surface. "The window! Be ready!"

  James nodded.

  Bartleby hurled the lantern towards the back of the shop. The glass shattered in front of the machine-men coming in through the back, fire spreading quickly. It did not seem to faze them, and they marched through the heat, heedless of how the oil's flames licked at their dead flesh.

  "The window!"

  James bolted from the door, allowing it spring up and reveal another half-dozen automatons. He took three steps towards the workshop's tinted windows and then leapt, curling on himself in mid-air to protect his face from the shattering glass. Bartleby followed shortly behind him.

  "How many of them are there?" James asked.

  "I counted at least two dozen," Alton said. "More than have been reported missing. I don't know who the others could be."

  "Look!" James pointed towards the town.

  Fires raged among the buildings, and in their light the detectives could see terrified locals running from slowly moving shambling forms that glinted in the burning light. There were easily several dozen of the cogsmen.

  "How are there so many?"

  Alton brushed off the question. "We've got to make for the Fiske estate. It's the most defensible structure."

  "Xin Yan--"

  "And Aldora, yes. We've got to see to them."

  There was a crashing behind them as the burning machine-men smashed their way through the window they'd leapt through.

  "Move!" Bartleby said.

  The detectives made their way through the fire-lit streets, easily outmanoeuvring the shambling machine-men. Their foes moved slowly, unnaturally, jerking into new directions suddenly, swinging saw-equipped limbs at anyone or anything that got in their way. Many of them acted in unison, turning towards a new target as one, attacking in tandem. As the pair made their way back towards the Fiske estate, a broader picture began to form within Bartleby's mind, and he saw them not as individual actors, but as pawns on a chessboard, moving as part of a greater plan.

  It was not a comforting thought.

  ***

  On the Feasibility of Creating Organic Automatons

  By James Wainwright

  RGEA mcl

  PROSPECTUS: While we are all familiar with galvanic electricity's capability to resurrect dead tissue, the problem with such resurrections has always been one of control. Those brought back from death are often bestial in nature, their oxygen starved brains reduced to a feral state that is alternately both terrible and childlike[1]. Various means have been attempted to address this unsuitability; brass shock collars, neurological lobe grafts, extractions and recycling of cerebral fluid, all with minimal success. What if, the scientist asks, the flawed human mind could be removed from the equation entirely? What if one could construct a complex analytical engine to take over the motive functions of the brain? This paper will attempt, in part, to not only discuss the feasibility of such a path, but also the advisability from a moral and ethical standpoint[2].

  [1] see On the Functions of the Scissorman by James Wainwright, RGEA Journal v.17 number 6, 1907

  [2] see Brief Observation of Neurological Disruption by James Wainwright, RGEA Journal v.17 number 4, 1907

  Chapter 6

  Charles and Constable Fuller were erecting a barricade in front of the main hall's doors when Bartleby and James returned to the manor house. They were admitted, and quickly helped move the heavy hall banquet table into position. Many of the days' guests and townsfolk had taken refuge inside the manor, including both the Brigadier and Regina, but just as many had gone missing. Aldora was doing her best to keep everyone calm, and watched the detectives' arrival with trepidation.

  James immediately crossed to where his adopted daughter stood huddled with Penelope.


  "How bad is it out there?" Brigadier Wilson asked.

  "Dozens of them raising havoc throughout town," Alton said. "Though they're converging on the estate."

  A frown set itself firmly on Aldora's face, a bit of spite in her words. "In no small part due to your leading them here."

  "No," Alton said. "They're deployed in a spiral pattern, and given the town's layout they're intending to funnel refugees here. Whatever malign intelligence commands these creatures wants us concentrated here."

  "That makes little sense," Aldora said. "The Fiske estate is the most defensible structure in Hillshire."

  "Built on the very hill the town is named after," Alton said. "And yet, there you have it. How does your mother fare?"

  Her thoughts turned to the woman resting in her bedchamber. "Recovering. Father's sitting with her."

  "Begging your pardon." Brigadier Wilson interposed himself between the two. "But you said that the machine-men are trying to herd everyone here. Perhaps the prudent thing would be to regroup elsewhere?"

  "Regardless of their intentions, we're better off fortifying ourselves here." Aldora moved to the barricaded window, peering past the bookcases blocking it. "They've almost passed the main gates and will be upon the grounds at any moment."

  "All the more reason to evacuate." Brigadier Wilson stood and turned to address the assembled guests and refugees. "While the Fiske estate is certainly defensible, the enemy has surely anticipated this and remaining plays into their hands. We should mobilise immediately."

  Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd, and a few guests began edging towards the main hall's exits.

  "Please remain calm," Aldora said. The last thing they needed was a panic. "Father has sent a request for aid via his wireless telegraphy machine. If we secure ourselves here--"

  "You will forgive us if we do not defer to your civilian assurances in this case." Brigadier Wilson said. "But speaking from military experience, one does not make the plan the enemy makes most appealing."

  "It's obviously a trick," the Viscount agreed.

  "A trap of some sort?" Regina asked.

  "Without doubt," the Brigadier confirmed.

  "If you would please just listen to me--" Aldora said, surprised at the slight whine entering her voice. She was not used to her suggestions being so soundly rejected.

  "Listen to you?" Regina Worth said, stepping free from the crowd. "Listen to you, when you can't even organise a simple wedding without it becoming a deadly embarrassment?"

  "Regina," Aldora said, unable to believe her ears.

  "Look at you," the woman said. "I used to look up to you, you know. Fear you. Respect you. We all did. Aldora Fiske, quick-witted mistress of the social season, the woman who with but a single word could make or ruin the aspirations of any Lady in London."

  Aldora's face burned, but she didn't have the stomach to disagree.

  "You can't talk to her like that--" Penny stepped up to defend her guardian.

  "No, do go on," Aldora said. "You have some point, I assume?"

  Regina let a mocking laugh roll from her lips. "Is that the fierce tongue that I used to cower from? Oh, Aldora, you've changed. I don't mean to be insensitive--"

  "Of course not," Brigadier Wilson agreed, his voice soothing. "You've been through so much in the last year, Miss Fiske. It's understandable."

  "I'm perfectly--"

  "Oh, but dear, you're not." Regina almost sounded sympathetic. "Kidnapped twice in the last two years? People are talking, dear."

  "Oh really?" Aldora felt a dead calm settle over herself. "And what are they saying?"

  "That you're unwell." Regina put a hand on Aldora's shoulder, and it took a good deal of self control for the gentlewoman not to break the woman's wrist.

  "She saved us," Penny said. "Me, and the film people. And stopped the soldiers."

  "Brave deeds indeed, but hardly befitting a gentlewoman," Regina said. "And the business in Istanbul, being held by that foreign prince, held hostage--"

  Aldora stepped away from Regina. The pity in her voice was a thousand times worse than the scorn.

  "We've all been worried, dear. The way you've been acting. Your nerves. Especially after that false brother of yours showed up..."

  "My nerves."

  "So you can understand why we might defer to the Brigadier in this manner?" Regina asked.

  "My nerves are not your concern," Aldora turned back to the crowd. She had to give them a chance, had to explain. If only they'd listen. "And I can assure you that my recent misfortunes do not change the fact that we've nowhere to go. The machine-men are at our gates, they've taken the town, and we've nowhere to go beyond it for miles. If we run, they'll hunt us down like dogs."

  "We have to do something," Brigadier Wilson said. "Given your fragile mental state, we would be remiss in taking your advice at this time."

  "We should listen to the Brigadier," Regina said.

  A chorus of agreement followed. Aldora turned, and saw nothing but faces filled with concern and pity, but empty of confidence in her. A small seed of panic began to well up from the pit of her soul.

  A piercing whistle came from the balcony above. Alton Bartleby stood there, leaning on the railing. "I have a difference of opinion."

  "I'm sure that you do," the Brigadier called up to him. "But wine makes fools of us all."

  "I can assure you, sir, that after that flight through town, I'm as sober as a church-mouse." Alton idly twiddled his walking stick. "You all saw the destruction wrought by my fiancée's brother's impostor." He started descending the staircase to the others. "Well. I can tell you. The creatures beyond those walls are no less formidable."

  "All the more reason to make a rapid withdrawal."

  "I'm certain that they've anticipated that, dear Brigadier. As you may recall, they are deployed in a spiral pattern. I choose the term deploy with care; they act in concert with a tactical mind guiding their efforts."

  "Are you saying you believe they're acting as a military unit, Mr Bartleby?"

  He stopped in front of the Brigadier. "That's Commander, sir. You forget; I am a naval man. Attended the academy in Dartmouth. Served aboard the Benbow during the war in Zanzibar. I can assure you, I know a military deployment when I see it."

  The Brigadier stroked his moustache absently. Aldora could see that his estimation of her fiancée had shifted abruptly. "So, Commander, you would disagree with a tactical retreat?"

  "In this case, yes." Bartleby turned.

  Most of those in the crowd were staring at Alton with a shock that Aldora could understand. Alton lived a very public life when it came to his vices, but played his virtues close to his chest. Chief among those was his military service. She knew that her fiancée had witnessed terrible things near the end of his service, things he did not like to speak or even think of.

  "We're facing a secret foe with unknown capabilities and superior technology. In his examination of the false-Grayson, Mr. Wainwright discovered wireless telegraphy technology enabling instant communications and coordination between the machine-men."

  "It's worse than that," James spoke up. "Don't think of them as individual automatons. Think of them like a colony of ants, acting in unison with a singular drive, goal, and motivating force."

  Bartleby nodded. "You see? Whomever controls them controls all of them directly, like the fingers of a single hand."

  He whirled, stick pointing towards Regina near the window. "Miss Worth! What are they doing at this moment?"

  Regina started, then peered out through the window. "They've gathered at the gate and along the fence. Just... standing there."

  "What are they doing?" Penny asked. "Why don't they attack?"

  Bartleby gave an unpleasant chuckle and resumed his pacing before the assembled. He was in top form, the showman, drawing his audience into his presentation. This was the man Aldora could trust. This was the man she could marry.

  "They're giving us the opportunity to flee. I surmise that sho
uld we retreat to the house's northern exposure, we'd see no massed forces near our means of egress."

  "So. They do want us to leave," the Brigadier said.

  "You owe Aldora an apology," Penny said.

  "Being correct doesn't make her nerves any more stable," Regina said.

  Aldora caught a look of dark irritation crossing Alton's face, but it vanished almost as soon as it had appeared. She chose to believe that it was a protective impulse, and not just aggravation at the unpleasant Worth woman.

  "Regardless, evacuation is not an option -- and they'll soon realise that we've no intent to flee."

  "What do you recommend, Commander?" The Brigadier deferred to his technical subordinate without realising it.

  "We organise a defence. Mr. Miller, you're the warehouse foreman. Take James, Charles, and some of the larger men and barricade the ground floor's doors and windows. Constable Fuller, Brigadier, take the rest of the men and arm yourselves from whatever you can find. I'll draw up a quick floor-plan and assign defencive positions. The women can either join the menfolk or secure themselves with the young girls in the cellar."

  "I want to help--" Penny began.

  James stopped on his way to join the others and knelt by the girl. "Penny, I cannot keep an eye on Xin Yan. I need you to do it for me. Can you watch her? Keep her safe?"

  Penny looked down at the younger girl. "Okay. Okay, James."

  James nodded, tousled the girl's hair awkwardly, then continued briskly on his way.

  "And what would you have me do?" Aldora spoke quietly, reaching out to Alton's arm. "You heard the others. They have no confidence in me."

  "It doesn't matter what they think," Alton said.

  "Until it does. That's why we're here, after all."

  "Is it?"

  "Alton..."

  "Aldora." He clasped her hand. "We have much to speak of, you and I. I... our arrangement... well. This is neither the time nor the place."

  "But soon."