Steam City Pirates

by Jim Musgrave

  “Literal? Who can believe anything as vague and symbolic as the Bible is the literal truth?” This discussion was getting into my major objection with religion. It was one thing to see the stories as literary lessons from which one may learn psychological or practical applications to our own experiences. It was a quite different thing to believe each story was to be followed as a commandment and taken as a literal fact.

  “Yes, and the major division came about when we decided that Jews did not have to go back to the Holy Land, Palestine, to establish the Temple again in order to atone for our sins and fulfill the word of our God,” said Doctor Adler, eating more kugel.

  “What is it you do believe?” I asked, picking up a turkey leg. “You must have taken some kind of political stand, if I get your meaning correctly,” I added, ripping off some of the meat from the bone. It was quite delicious.

  “Reform Jews conceive of the destiny of Israel as not bound up in the return to Palestine, and as not involving national political restoration under a Messianic king with the Temple rebuilt and the sacrificial service reinstituted. It is true, many of the commandments of the Torah cannot be executed by non-Palestinian Israel. Yet, despite this inability to conform to the Law, Israel is not under sin. It is not in exile. Its dispersion was a necessary experience in the realization and execution of its Messianic duty. It is not doomed to wait for the miraculous advent of the Davidic Messiah. Israel itself is the Messianic people appointed to spread by its fortitude and loyalty the monotheistic truth over all the earth, to be an example of rectitude to all others,” he explained.

  “What does ‘rectitude’ mean, Doctor?” I asked.

  “It means the goodness or morality that one displays wherever one happens to live. Sacrifices and sacerdotalism as bound up with the national political conception of Israel's destiny are not indispensable elements of the Jewish religion. On the contrary, they have passed away forever with all the privileges and distinctive obligations of an Aaronic priesthood. Every Jew is a priest, one of the holy people and of a priestly community appointed to minister at the ideal altar of humanity. The goal of Jewish history is not a national Messianic state in Palestine, but the realization in society and state of the principles of righteousness as enunciated by the Prophets and sages of old. This is what we Reform Jews believe,” explained the rabbi.

  I was finally assured of his logic and good nature, although I still believed in the Holy Trinity. I did not trust any person who fanatically adhered to a dogma which excluded others by its very principles.

  “Thank you for your explanation, Rabbi,” I said. “When did you first discover that Seth was a mazikeen?”

  “The first day that his father was kidnapped Seth came to my office. He played the chocolate game with Missus Schwartz, and then he knocked on my door. When I asked him what he wanted, he told me his father would be all right. He said his father was a mazikeen just like he was. I asked him how that was so, and he promptly disappeared right there in my office.” Doctor Adler’s voice was matter-of-fact and calm.

  “As we now have seen him do so well,” I said.

  “Yes, and when he reappeared, I knew I had met my first spiritual being. I have been a believer and protector of Seth and his father ever since that day,” Doctor Adler explained. “We must not see his visions as messages from God, however,” he added, frowning.

  “I understand,” I said. “No matter how amazing or insistent he is, I must realize it could be his human side telling me the story.”

  “That is correct. You will have your own path, and you must not stray from it. Your expertise is logic and reason, and you must use these talents in order to solve the puzzles set before you,” Doctor Adler concluded, and he pushed back from the table and stood up. “I have enjoyed this Thanksgiving discussion, Detective O’Malley. I hope you can now go forward more assured in your thinking.”

  I did not believe my thinking could be more “assured,” as these times we were living were not very practical and logical. I knew I had to proceed to look for the clues that could lead me to this group and their place of refuge, so I decided not to don my Reynolds disguise and go out into the streets of New York as myself. This was where I had always found my answers before, and this was where the new age of steam power was dawning for all of us.

  The WSASP (yes, I decided to use an acronym for the World Scientific Advancement Society for Progress, as it had become part of my regular parlance) was all over New York City. Some of the citizens who had refused to use the new devices called them the WASP. One could stroll down any street and see either the inventions of WSASP or hear about the influence of this new technology on the people themselves. Not since Tammany Hall had come to power had any single organization made such a marked impression upon the city.

  In fact, the citizens became so enamored by all the technical innovations that they started to behave with an almost fanatic bias toward anything with the WSASP label. New Yorkers were getting up in the morning and dining at the steam-powered breakfast nook. Coffee, tea, bacon and eggs, toast and cereal could all be cooked, assembled and handed out to waiting plates from the mechanical arms powered from the main hydraulic engine. This main unit also served to heat the house, clean the laundry, wash the floor and the walls, and even give one a hot shower of water inside the bath.

  The transportation inventions were all in use throughout the city. Steam-powered trolleys, trains, small boats, paddle wheelers, and automobiles, could be purchased or rented through the city’s public transportation system. In fact, in every vehicle created by WSASP, it had the Society’s insignia boldly displayed right under the New York City emblem. The Society had obviously made inroads with the Tammany Hall leaders.

  There were no clues to go on since we discovered that Superintendent John Kennedy was not the connection to the pirates. He led us instead to the WASP’s hive on Fifth Avenue, and I decided if I were to get anywhere in this case, I first had to discover what this organization had on me. McKenzie and I had planned this raid for weeks in advance, and we were now ready to act. We were going to invade the Italianate mansion under cover of darkness to see what we could find out. This was the only major clue we had to go on, and we collectively agreed it was worth the risk.

  I met up with Walter and his young man, Bill Maguire, inside one of the new steam-powered taverns on Fifth Avenue. Most of the new technology had been introduced into the wealthier areas of New York City first, so the neighborhoods in the Bowery and Five Points were not yet able to enjoy the “privileges” of the new devices.

  Walter waved to me from a back booth inside “The Steam City Ale House.” The odors in the bar were the same as in any tavern I had ever visited: a mixture of burning tobacco, pungent spirits and the sweat of working men. But the sounds of this bar were that of a night train roundhouse. All along the bar were hoses that attached to the main steam engine that was spewing out a regular exhaust of vaporous clouds. Whenever a lad sitting at the bar wanted a draft of ale or beer, he would pick-up one of these hoses and place it into his stein. The patron would then nod to the bartender, who was always standing near the engine, and the barkeep would flip a numbered switch. The foamy alcoholic beverage would be shot through the hose in seconds to fill the mug to a flawless level, complete with a foamy head.

  When I sat down at the table with my comrades, however, I was able to witness the most extraordinary application of the engine’s genius. “Send an ale over, Sammy!” Walter yelled at the bartender, a skinny young man with a pencil-thin mustache trying to grow on his upper-lip. “A ginger ale!” McKenzie laughed.

  The bartender reached inside the cupboard beneath the steam engine and pulled out a small balloon! It was a miniature airship with the initials WSASP on the surface of the craft, and the young man fastened a small hose under the balloon to inflate it with the lighter-than-air gas from the engine. He then attached the end of a draft hose connected to the barrel marked “Ginger Ale” and dialed something into a small vertical panel o
n the small balloon’s gondola. The airship lifted up into the air with the hose, and it floated directly over to our table in the back and hovered above us. McKenzie then took the end of the hose and held it inside an empty mug. He nodded to the bartender, and the lad flipped the number for ginger ale, and the liquid whooshed down the pipe in seconds and filled my stein to perfection!

  “Ain’t it grand, O’Malley? I want to get one of these for me bar in Hoboken. What did yer have in mind about the visit we’re ta be makin’ tonight?” McKenzie’s jowls were flecked with foam, and his face was red from imbibing however many steins of ale he had consumed before my arrival. His big gut pressed against the table like another kind of hot-air balloon.

  “We need to get into the mansion and find out anything we can about their group. I also want to see if we can get into the dungeon where I met my dream mother. We have had no clues since we went down that blind alley with Kennedy, and this is our one chance to see what we can discover,” I said, sipping the ginger ale.

  “It should be easy,” said Maguire. “I know the layout of those Italianates. The bay windows are like getting inside a child’s doll house,” he added, smiling.

  “I am worried about any alarms they may have. They could be steam powered. What do you suppose we can expect?” I asked.

  “Me boy Billy’s been keepin’ up with all their new devices. He can take apart anything they might have in there, right me boy-o?” McKenzie placed his big arm around Bill’s shoulder.

  “Right. Technical things are kind of a hobby of mine,” said Bill.

  “You give me a draft or I’ll shoot a hole in that infernal engine!” The deep voice came from the bar, and we could see a small figure in a ragged frock coat and top hat standing upon a stool with his face thrust into the face of the skinny bartender. In his small hand he held a pistol pointed at the steam engine behind the bar. At first I thought he might be the butler from Kennedy’s mansion, but then I noticed the hump on his small back. It was Cerberus, the little Roman soldier from the WSASP mansion.

  “I can’t serve midgets. You people get drunk too easy. Then you start busting things, and I have to call the coppers. Not in here, boy!” The bartender’s voice was firm.

  I got up immediately and walked over to the bar. I placed my arm around the little man’s shoulders. “Hello, Cerberus! Remember me? Patrick O’Malley. Come on over and say hello to my friends,” I told him.

  He turned around and looked up at me. His eyes were bloodshot from partaking in the spirits earlier in the day, and I almost thought I should lift him bodily and carry him over to our booth. “O’Malley? You’re not dead yet? They have you in their sights now. You better keep low,” he said, slurring his words.

  “What do you mean? Come with me. We need to talk in private. You should keep your voice down,” I told him, and I did lift him up off the barstool. He allowed me to do so, and he belched vociferously as I was carrying him. His breath smelled of liquor and sardines. I stood him up inside the booth, and my friends stared at him in amazement.

  “What’cha got there, O’Malley? A kid from the Jews’ Hospital?” McKenzie laughed.

  “Jew? I’m no Jew, you moron!” Cerberus shouted and took a swing at McKenzie’s bulbous nose.

  Walter pulled back and laughed some more. “Hey, me boy-o! Stand back. I’ll be gettin’ you in the ring with me boy Gator.”

  McKenzie was referring to one of his other men, Gator O’Neil, who did boxing on the Hoboken docks for extra money. I wondered if the little hunchback had been let go from his employment.

  “Are you still working for the Vicereine Dustbey?” I asked.

  Cerberus bent over at the waist, put his head next to mine, and whispered, “Listen. My name is not Cerberus. That’s what she called me. My name is Doctor Franklin Biggs-Pemberton. I am originally from England. I was employed to watch after Lela Dusteby and service her new lung engine. I was also in charge of your dream mother. When Dusteby died last week, they let me go. I was blamed for their faulty engine! It exploded in her chest cavity. She looked like a broken piñata!” Biggs-Pemberton laughed. “Can you let me have some of that?” he asked, pointing to Maguire’s stein of ale.

  Maguire handed the little man the stein. It looked like a big metal trough in his tiny hands. He was able to quaff it very well, and he wiped his foamy lips with the back of his forearm. He belched. “I was not always like this,” he said.

  “What do you mean? Did you acquire the back problem on the job?” I asked.

  “No. I mean I was once a big man, just as you are,” he said.

  “What? How can that be true? Dwarfism is genetic, is it not?” I was quite amazed.

  “I was a genetic scientist from the future. I was living in London, and the year was 2048. I had just perfected my genetic engineering technique using the human genome sequence. I could mix any genes to protect an organism from disease and to give it new abilities from other cross-species. I was visited by a woman in my laboratory at Cambridge Medical School. She touched me, and we were both transported back to 1867 right here in New York City.”

  “Jane the Grabber!” McKenzie said.

  “Jane Haskins. Hester Jane Haskins,” said Doctor Biggs-Pemberton.

  “We know her by another name. Please continue,” I said.

  “When they told me what they were doing, I was intrigued, but I voiced my displeasure about using only the single technology of steam. This was when I was given the genetic stem cells of a midget. This gave me the hunch back, as most of my normal cells had become impacted inside this large growth,” the little man took another big drink from the stein of ale.

  “I don’t understand what you say about this gen-ethics, but you must have been devastated by the change in your appearance,” I said.

  “Of course I was! What if you woke-up and found your body had shrunk, and you looked like a swollen bulldog? They told me the only way I could pay them back was to do the implant on this woman Dusteby. Her father was doing some important work for them, so she was given the promotion, and I was to be her caretaker. It was all going fairly well until her steam device burst open and killed her on the spot. I was told to leave the Society forever, and now I am without funds or a job,” he said.

  Maguire looked at him strangely. “Can’t they send you back to where you came from?” he asked.

  “No! They never do that. They don’t even worry about setting their captives free to live in New York. How would any other human ever begin to believe the story I have just told you? The only reason you have any idea it could be remotely possible is because you were chosen by them to be part of the plan,” he explained, and he was staring directly at me.

  “Who or what was my dream mother?” I asked him.

  “She was a clever ruse. They knew you had inquired about their business at Superintendent Kennedy’s home. Whenever someone becomes a suspected terrorist, the Society likes to go about things with some amount of creativity,” the midget said, irony dripping from his voice like vinegar.

  “You mean, there is no dreamer who is my nemesis? What about the Master Dreamer? Is he not authentic either?”

  “This is a society with a master dreamer, but he has no ambitions other than using this period of time to exploit it for personal aggrandizement,” said the diminutive doctor.

  I was quite perplexed at this point. I wanted to get to the bottom of what he was telling me. Of course, this little man could also be a ruse, and we could be getting set-up for some kind of trap. Pirates might come through that barroom door at any moment, and I wanted to get the word out to my two friends before that could happen. However, I decided to put some trust in the little man.

  “We were going to break into the office where you used to work. Who works there now?” I asked. I watched his face for telltale signs of surprise or discomfort. Instead, he laughed out loud.

  “Ha! That place has been shut down for two weeks! I thought you were a detective. Once the Vicereine had her accident, the Society p
ulled out. She was also proven to be a spy for the Network,” he explained, adding to our present confusion. Was this the incoherent ranting of a drunken, unemployed lunatic?

  “The Network was never mentioned before. Could you explain specifically what it is?” I asked.

  “You are not alone in the detection business, Mister O’Malley. The Network is a multiverse conglomerate made up of officials from the Organization for Time Travel Independence. They represent scientists and inventors across the space-time continuum who realize what the Society is doing.” The doctor grabbed the stein again. “The World Scientific Advancement Society for Progress is kidnapping people and using them for personal profit. I can attest to that fact. The Network sends its spies throughout the multiverses to get recorded proof in order to punish the violators and ban them from time travel forever.” The little man drank another big gulp until the stein was empty. He set it down hard on the wooden table with a great belch.

  “What about this Network? What do they look like and how does one tell a Network spy from a member of the Society?” I was trying to focus in on some important information, but I could see that the little man was now too drunk. He began to sing an old pirate song, quite off key, and McKenzie and Maguire were not very impressed.

  To the mast nail our flag it is dark as the grave,

  Or the death which it bears while it sweeps o'er the wave;

  Let our deck clear for action, our guns be prepared;

  Be the boarding-axe sharpened, the scimitar bared:

  Set the canisters ready, and then bring to me,