Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "Why me?" I asked. "I'm not what one would consider adept when it comes to these sort of interviews. That's more your forte."

  "Nonsense. You're an excellent interrogator. And besides, these are men of science. You speak their language."

  "They're men of psychology," I whispered, seeking to avoid insulting Doctor Teague. "I'd hardly consider that science."

  "Please do this thing for me, James."

  I frowned but nodded. It was hard to resist Bartleby when he was being needy. "One thing I've read in Vogle's journal. He wrote of a suspicion that some of the patients were being abused by the staff. None would speak of it, but he alludes to seeing burn marks and bruising, as well as disturbing indications within their dreams."

  "Do you know of any of this, father?"

  "I haven't had any but the finest of treatment," Dennis said. "And none have complained to me."

  "But if they feared their tormentor..." Bartleby trailed off. "Another matter to investigate. Maybe I can elicit some truth from the other patients."

  "Excellent. I'll arrange that group therapy session immediately." Dennis inclined his head towards the Giant. "Escort Mr. Wainwright to the other patients as he requests."

  The Giant nodded mutely, heavy head on a thick neck. I wondered, not for the first time, how I could possibly manage to incapacitate him should the need arise.

  ***

  "Vhat is das object you seen before you," Doctor Aufbauren asked, placing a pencil on the table between us. I'd been escorted to a spartan visitation room, the doctor brought in to see me. Before asking him about the asylum and its patients, I decided to ask him about the psychiatry he practised.

  "It's a pencil."

  "Nien." The doctor spoke dispassionately, his gaunt face without expression, his long arms at rest alongside his narrow frame. "Zee name of der object does not describen zee vay vee perceive das object. You tell me vat it is."

  I looked down at the pencil, then back up at the doctor opposite me. "It's an octagonal wooden cylinder approximately 3 inches long, sharpened to a point at one end, containing a core comprised of lead and graphite. Divots in the surface of the wood appear to be dental, indicate a high probability of mastication."

  Normally I found myself having to eschew such observatory conversation. People seemed to prefer brevity to accuracy.

  "Brilliant!" the German shouted, clapping once. "You see, zat is das heart of Shtructuralism. Das vay der subject's mind catalogen and categorizen der datum it receiven tells us how zat mind is shtructurt. Vat ve perceifen and fiew as important enough to schare tells us about zee mind vee are examinink."

  "Observable data is observable data." I didn't hold much respect for psychology, but I could understand the diagnostic concept that this "Structuralism" was built around. I shifted in my seat, leaning backwards. "What does my description of the pencil tell you about me?"

  "It tells me zat you have a fery shtructurt, analytical mind, Herr Vainwright," Doctor Aufbauren said. "You vould maken an ideal Shtructuralist. Tell me, haf you efer consideren a career in psychiatry?"

  "No," I said. "I'll stick to the real sciences, thank you very much."

  Doctor Aufbauren's face puckered, and the man wasn't very helpful after that.

  ***

  Doctor Tucker was escorted in next.

  I was surprised at his apparent youth. Should I have passed him on the street I would have thought him an errant first-year student or senior link-boy. He was handsome with youth, face lacking even the slightest hint of beard or moustache. I wondered if he even need shave.

  It's a practice I myself abhor, but I abhor the way that sweat collects in my workshop even more. I've been contemplating the construction of an electrical apparatus that one wears strapped to the chin while sleeping that will potentially retard the growth of facial hair, absolving one of the ritual of shaving, but as yet the classified advertisements I've been taking out in the local broadsheets have not yielded any volunteers.

  The doctor cleared his throat, breaking through my musings about facial hair to remind me that he was there. He'd taken the seat opposite me.

  "How old are you?" I asked.

  He seemed surprised by my directness. "I'm twenty, Mr. Wainwright."

  "You don't look it."

  "Thank you?" His accent was decidedly American.

  "It wasn't a compliment," I said. "Twenty is rather young for a doctor. Have you completed your schooling?"

  The question appeared to make him uncomfortable. "I began my medical education at sixteen years of age."

  "Don't they require a full period of secondary education in America?"

  "I completed it early," was his explanation. "But are we here to talk about my education, or did you want to talk about psychiatry?"

  "I've already described a pencil, so if it's all the same to you I'd rather skip that part."

  "Spoken to Aufbauren already?" Doctor Tucker chuckled. "Don't worry, I'm not a Structuralist."

  "Structuralism. It seemed very different from Doctor Teague's approach, and what little I've read in Paddock's notes about his own dream interpretation." I said. "I'm not seeing a great uniformity in the methods employed here."

  "Psychiatry isn't an exact science, Mr. Wainwright." Tucker looked pained. "We're only beginning to scratch the surface of the brain and its workings. This asylum in particular has attracted a faculty prone to experimental methods."

  I leaned back in my chair. "Why do you suppose that is?"

  "We have Director Paddock to thank for that. He encouraged us to develop new methods to treat the patients, as long as we stayed within the bounds of medical ethics."

  "I'd expect nothing less from a Guildsman."

  "Oh, are you a Guild member yourself?" He leaned forward, eyes widening.

  "My journey-work was accepted Maximum Cum Laude," I said.

  "That's quite the accomplishment."

  "Yes, it is."

  He chuckled, hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Not one for humility, are you?"

  "I won't deny that I take pride in my work." False humility served no purpose.

  "As well you should. I don't get the impression that you're one to bask overmuch in your success."

  "I see my past achievements as a challenge," I said. "Benchmarks to surpass."

  "Why do you suppose that is?"

  "Why do I suppose what is?"

  "Why are you never content with your successes? Who is it that you're trying to impress?"

  I was a little unnerved by his sudden scrutiny. "I don't need to impress anyone."

  "Is it your father?"

  I felt the blood flush my face as I realised what he was doing. "You're at it, aren't you. You're analysing me."

  "Does that bother you?"

  "Stop it." My eyes narrowed.

  He maintained the same vaguely concerned yet disconnected tone. "Stop what?"

  "Psychiatricking at me. I'm not here to be analysed."

  Doctor Tucker spread his arms wide. "You wanted to know what we did, what my process was like. This is it."

  "I fail to see how asking invasive questions about my family history relates to anything."

  "The key is to get you thinking about these topics." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Introspection is the one true diagnostic tool we as psychoanalysts have."

  "Your colleagues don't seem to agree." I leaned back again, crossing my arms. "Both Director Paddock and Doctor Teague seem to think that observation of the subconscious mind directly is the key to diagnosing mental aberrations."

  "And Doctor Nash believes in a physiological basis for madness that can be treated with drugs and medicine. That's the true strength of New Bedford; the same patient pools being exposed to multiple treatment types. We're each experts in our fields, Mr. Wainwright, and together we come up with a regimen that treats our patients on multiple fronts. Paddock's dream analysis, Aufbauren's Structural analysis, my guided introspection, Nash's pharmopsychiatry, and Miss Teague's--"


  "I never asked Doctor Teague what her process was," I said.

  He seemed to consider the matter carefully. "I'm not entirely clear on the details, but from what I understand she uses some sort of drug-induced hypnotic state to help the patients' explore their subconscious urges."

  "Not entirely clear?"

  "We're not one another's keepers, Mr. Wainwright." His tone was almost scolding. "We're academics as well as healers, and we're all involved in publishing in the journals of note. Competition for recognition can be fierce, so it's not unusual to be secretive about one's studies until after publication."

  "I see." It wasn't terribly different in the real sciences.

  "What do you see? Does it relate to your father?"

  I looked back over my shoulder and gestured the Giant over. "We're done here."

  ***

  As young Doctor Tucker was escorted away, I realised belatedly that I still hadn't asked about administrative procedure, potential abuse, or any of the patients. I inwardly cursed myself for the quickness of my temper, but had little interest in discussing my family with an inquisitive psychoanalyst, or therapist, or whatever it was they called themselves. When the giant that Doctor Teague had called Dunstan returned, he was escorting an elderly balding doctor wearing thick glasses. He looked all the world like my clockworks professor at the Guild Academy, though not quite so short. As I'd already met the rest of the faculty, I assumed that this was the pharmopsychiatrist that Doctor Tucker had referred to as Doctor Nash.

  He eyed me cautiously as he approached the table I sat behind, and I resolved not to drive him off as I had his two predecessors. This would take finesse. Social graces. I asked myself, what would Bartleby say?

  "Hello, Doctor Nash." I smiled what I hoped was welcomingly and gestured to the chair opposite me. "I'm James Wainwright, here working with my partner Alton Bartleby to discover who murdered your Director Paddock."

  "Paddock is dead?" He seemed shocked.

  "Oh. Yes. Right. You've been locked up, haven't you? Well. At some point over the last night someone stabbed your Director to death, and the mad have taken over your facility. My partner and I have been asked by their leader to discover who killed him."

  "Their leader. You said that your partner's name was Alton Bartleby?" he asked. "Then I assume that their leader is Dennis Bartleby?"

  That was surprising. "Correct. How did you guess?"

  "Mr. Bartleby – the elder – is a charismatic and highly intelligent organiser by nature. He has a focus uncommon to most of our patients: strong, but not so focused that he obsesses over minutia. More importantly, though, he's spoken often of his son, the consulting detective."

  "If he's so charismatic and collected, then why did he end up locked up here?"

  "The courts have dictated him incapable of managing himself or his family," Nash continued. "And rendered him into our care until such a time as he can be expected to be self-sufficient. As of yet he has not been deemed thus fit."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "To start with he's a dedicated alcoholic with no desire to moderate his overconsumption. That on its own would be insufficient to keep him committed, but he refuses to acknowledge the changes he needs to make to moderate his behaviour. For all his organisational talents he remains incapable of performing basic household maintenance. Until he's willing to admit his flaws, he cannot be helped, so he remains a ward of the asylum."

  "Doctor Tucker said that you believed that there was a physiological basis behind insanity."

  "I believe that madness is an illness of the body, of which the physical structure of the brain is part. Mr. Bartleby is not, however, conventionally insane. Simply incapable, unwilling to change, and in our care. If it were my choice I would release him – his treatment here is a legal, not medical, matter."

  Dennis Bartleby seemed capable enough to me. Capable enough to dominate and organise a collection of lunatics, at any rate. "Doctor Tucker mentioned that both you and Doctor Teague treat your patients with pharmacologically-based therapies."

  "That's not entirely true."

  "No?"

  "I use mood stabilisers such as lithium and valproic acid to regulate my patients' moods. Once in a productive mindset they can work on the issues that have brought them here, perhaps in therapy with the other physicians. I see my work as a sort of psychological triage."

  "And Doctor Teague?"

  "What little I know of her therapy is that she uses some sort of South American plant extracts to assist patients in reaching a mental state conductive to her own processes."

  "What sort of state?"

  "I'm afraid I don't know. I'm not familiar with botanical folk remedies." He snorted.

  Two doctors administrating drugs to patients without consulting one another. Psychology.

  "One last thing," I said. "I read in Paddock's journal that he had suspicions that a member of the staff was abusing the patients, but he doesn't name anyone."

  "I haven't seen anything but professionalism and concern for our guests," Nash said. "And I haven't heard anything in any patient therapy.

  "Paddock seemed quite sure of it," I said.

  Nash tapped his fingers on the desk. "I'm afraid I can't offer any further suggestions."

  "Very well. Thank you, Doctor Nash."

  In Which Alton Bartleby has a Breakthrough

  "I'd like to open this meeting by thanking you all ever so much for attending," Baden said.

  Alton Bartleby watched the dark-haired man carefully as he spoke, arms folded, sitting on a bench alongside the others gathered for the group therapy session. Doctor Teague sat a short distance away, at a separate table, largely ignored by the patients.

  "While I am not myself a therapist, I have been involved in a sufficient number of group environments that I feel qualified to understand and convey the protocols involved--"

  "How many?" a balding patient with a thick moustache and beady eyes asked.

  "I beg your pardon?" Baden seemed caught off-guard.

  "You said a sufficient number. What's a sufficient number, and under what authority do you deem it such?"

  "Easy, Redvers," the patient to his left said.

  Redvers had half risen from his chair. The Weasel-faced guard – Earm, Alton reminded himself – giggled shrilly, and Redvers slowly sat back down.

  "I just want to know who appointed him lord and master of sufficiency," he grumbled.

  "Forty-three," a pale man across from Redvers said.

  "What?"

  "F-forty-three." He stammered. "Meetings. Th-that Baden has attended."

  "Thank you, Hector," Baden said.

  "What, you've counted?" Redvers asked.

  "F-forty three."

  Baden held up a hand. "I've attended forty-three group therapy sessions in the two years I've been at Bedford, sir. I trust that suffices, unless you think you would fare better chairing this meeting?"

  Redvers crossed his arms and shook his head. "No. You have satisfied me. For now. Please, continue."

  "Thank you." The icy smile left the man's face, and for a moment Alton had a fuller image of the man. Baden was a natural autocrat, of sorts. Every group had them. Men who needed a semblance of control in their lives, preferably from an external source, but when deprived of this order, they would provide their own. Unfortunately, many of them could not cope with having that order challenged, and it looked to Alton like this Redvers lived, in part, to challenge authority.

  "Normally in meetings such as this we begin with accounts of how we've fared since the last, but as this is the first time the group has assembled--"

  "Now what then, Baden?" Redvers said. "What will we do instead?"

  Baden rose, fists clenched. "I was just getting to that part--"

  "I say, I might have a suggestion," Alton spoke quickly.

  "Who the devil are you?"

  "This is the detective," Baden said, some of the colour leaving his face as he calmed. "You remember. Dennis'
s son."

  Redvers gave Alton an appraising stare.

  He smiled back. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mister--?"

  "We don't. Don't go by surnames here," Hector said. "Creates distance. I'm Hector."

  "Introductions. Yes. Let's start with that." Baden latched on to the ledge of procedure.

  "We all know who you are, Baden."

  "It's not for your benefit, Redvers. As mentioned, I'm Baden."

  "I'm Hector."

  "Redvers. You'd do well to remember."

  "Hector."

  "Robert," said the patient to Redvers' left, a younger man with a clean-shaven head.

  "Alton, then," Bartleby said. "Charmed. Do you suppose we might talk about Director Paddock? He's who we all have in common. Surely his death must have affected all of us."

  There was a moment or two of silence.

  "All of us?" Redvers asked. "You've only just arrived here. After the Director was killed. What makes you think you're one of us?"

  "Takes more than a white uniform," Robert added.

  "Let's not be exclusionary," Baden said. "But you must understand, Alton. It takes some time to establish trust."

  "Trust," Hector said.

  "You might not know me," Alton said, "but I knew the Director. Am I not allowed to grieve?"

  "You knew him?" Robert asked.

  Alton caught Doctor Teague watching him out of the corner of his eye. "It isn't something I speak of."

  "This is a place of safety," Baden said. "Of confidentiality. Nothing said here will be spoken of outside these walls."

  "You cannot expect us to trust you if you do not trust us," Redvers said.

  Alton shifted in his seat. This was getting a little more personal than he'd have hoped, but if he was going to have any chance of getting these men to open up to him, he'd have to confide in them. But what to say, what version of the truth to share.

  "I was a Commander when I left the Royal Navy. The experience left me a changed man. I don't want to get into the particulars of what I'd seen, what I'd done, for I have no great desire to worsen whatever nightmares already possess you. Suffice it to say that my training failed to adequately prepare me for the horrors of real war."