"War, of course!" Admiral blustered without hesitation or discretion, "War. War. War. A giant metal man of this caliber is only good for one thing and that is obliterating other things. Did you think I had created a giant metal man to pick flowers, Monocle? You want a daisy-picking giant automaton? Think about it, Monocle. Use your brain. And if this one works out, we'll build more. I'll have an entire brigade of giant metal men. And this one? This one is small. Yes, small! TransMetros and RailWorks donated these broken down Krusse Nimbulators for the project. While nothing whatsoever like the Flaggship Nimbulator or the Pentussen Nimbulator, my engineers are finding it easier to come up with a working model using the smaller model."
Krusse Nimbulators were small, but sturdy engines. On the right track, the Krusse could pick up more speed than any other train easily. Just the right combination of weight, aerodynamics, and pressure build. The engines themselves were quite sleek-looking and stylish, much different than most TransMetros engines which had a knack for being what I would simply refer to as, "boxy."
"How many engineers will it take to operate the thing?" I asked, my eyes covering what stood before me, propped up by girders, my imagination filling in the rest.
"Ah, that's the best part!" The Admiral boomed. "One."
"One?"
"One," The Admiral beamed. "Amazing, is it not? We've brought in a special consultant to lead our team-"
"Whom?" I was terribly curious. No one knew anything, just unsubstantiated rumor. Hafsen le Meuix, perhaps? Maybe Dr. Abbott Addington? Was it Ivan Stephenson? Grantly Bummlemound? Tegeishi Hammerstein? Dr. Rodrigo del Martinez? Who? Who could it be?
"Sebastian..." He muttered, embarrassed with himself. And rightly so.
"Oh, no," I uttered reflexively.
"Monocle, you tell no one of this," The Admiral demanded. "We drew the plans in haste. The Monarch wanted something new. Something that would send a message.”
I laughed, “To whom? This entire project is preposterous. You’re building a gigantic automaton man for no purpose other than to bolster The Monarch as their powers wane within The Clockwork Foundation. And you’ve hired a certifiably mad person to lead the entire operation? As impressive as it may seem, no thank you, good sir.”
I seem to recall The Admiral’s stonewall expression crack just slightly at that moment in time. It didn’t last for very long, just a glimpse of a man breaking.
I looked back to the schematics. There were notes written in pencil. I read them aloud as to question The Admiral on his special consultant’s psychological state, “Ah! Notes from the esteemed scientist: Light is a terrible state of decay caught in the never ending loop of time. Vibrating through the aether, oscillating secretly and violently. Despair in mathematical formula. Concentration could perchance be potential. I enjoy waffle batter immensely, must ask medical doctor about cravings. Back to--- Chemical reactionaries formulated in such quantities to power-charge such a burst of paraphenomenal output through counter balancing. Time meters reality. This, the work of your consultant, Dr. Sebastian Odd.” I rolled up the schematics and handed them to Admiral Emerald.
Harold walked over with a telegraphical printing. It was war, indeed. The Admiral then claimed the war starting within The Chasm could all be handled by a battalion of his metal maton men; just another reason for military innovation and advancement. I reminded The Admiral that unless these overweight metal men could fly, and there was slight to nil chance of that, they would be useless in a geographical area that consisted of a long, deep, jagged stretch of hole in the desert ground.
Before the argument could grow into a heated debate, Harold whisked me out of the lab. I couldn’t very well dispute that Sebastian, Dr. Sebastian Odd, was a great man of tinkering and fabrication, but he was unstable. The thought of his unstable mind teamed with that of Admiral Emerald was frightening.
I looked at the telegraph as we made our way to the ground level. It was the report outline of a slain journalographer caught up in the resulting turmoil that followed the bombings. There were following reports of disrupted rail service. I wouldn’t have imagined the strife between The Insectoid Six and the people of The Chasm erupting into war. Such an escalation of bloodshed so quickly was disheartening, but the Insectoid Six were not ones meant for negotiations or diplomacy. Simply, they were trouble, but by this point, that was an understatement of terrible proportions.
Maximilian Havis. Jarvis Havis. Randolph Havis. Pyotr Havis. Horton Havis. And Eldredge Havis. Brothers. Criminals. Gangsters. The Havis Clan. The Insectoid Six. Maldeviants in the sense that they share biology with quaymoths. They are a rare breed, one almost extinct. Part man, part quaymoth. The Chasm was a perfect place for them to thrive. Their wings and their natural gliding ability made The Chasm a playground. Their violent quaymoth tendencies, though, often brought out the worst in their antics. Through time, they built a following and a crime syndicate that rivaled that of their sister’s, Rust Waters own Mother Moth (who was rather benevolent in comparison to her brothers; fair, just, and reasonable, but equally ruthless).
The WingedMen of Chasm City, keeping vigilant watch over the citizens, were fighting a tough battle. Every time they had a victory and were able to take that step forward they were often forced to either take a step back or regain their footing altogether. The Insectoid Six wanted nothing more than lawlessness. They held the market on stolen goods. They decided the price on seavenly. They promised shop keepers protection from other gangs for a price, even though those other gangs were under the control of The Insectoid Six. They kept The Chasm frightened.
It was growing to be a serious situation which would call for outside intervention. I had been keeping an eye on the developments in Chasm City. It was very well history in the making.
Eldredge Havis was a martyr of sorts to his brothers and the criminal underworld. He was caught in a trap set by Leonardo Liani and his WingedMen. Liani was a fair man, but he had become less and less forgiving as time and age wore him down. Eldredge was wanted in connection with so many crimes and so many violent acts that it was almost decided to bring him out to Judgment Station, miles west of The Chasm, and have him hanged. Instead, Liani wanted to send a message to the rest of the gangsters turning Chasm City into a hellish hole of debauchery, crime, and villainy.
Captain Leonardo Liani was a true lawman, a lawman that could have only been birthed by The Chasm. He was second-generation to The Chasm, his father an original founding member. Chasm City was Liani's home and he was going to protect it by any means necessary. I do believe he was brought to a level of monstrosity as a result of being as battle-hardened as he was.
Eldredge was being held in a Chasm City lock-up, a few levels deep into The Chasm. His brothers demanded his release and threatened retaliation if he were hanged. Knowing The Inectoid Six were good on their word when it came to violence, Liani met with Eldredge Havis one evening in his cell in an attempt to reason with him. Alas, there was no communicating with him, though. No cooperation. No peaceable way to approach the monster before him. It was noted in a WingedMen Archives file that Eldredge spat directly into Captain Liani's face, the saliva partially burning his skin. A slight portion of his face scarred around his eye, the eye itself turned from brown to blue.
The man could work through pain, he never learned any other way. Leo Liani yelled for his secondary plan of action: An assistant rolled a table covered by a white sheet down the corridor. It rattled along the corridor floor and echoed within the cells. Without even a word, several guards rushed to Eldredge and held him down, face first on his dusty, dirty cell floor. He kicked, he screamed. He cursed, he threatened. Captain Leonardo Anthony Liani then removed the sheet from the table to reveal a plethora of surgical tools, seemingly whatever was on hand: uncleaned, some rusted, others dulled. And he went to work, surgically removing Eldredge's wings.
Eldredge was then brought out to Pierre Chavez Memorial Square, a densely populated and highly visited metro center within Chasm City, on th
e center platform which spans the width of The Chasm. He was left there in a slump, escorted in by Liani and two other WingedMen. Liani made it a spectacle by firing his pistol into the air to catch the attention of everyone. He made certain everyone was looking to him and his catch. The crowds drew. People stared from the windows of their store fronts, offices, and flats. People came scurrying up from lower levels as word spread that a member of the Insectoid Six had been murdered. Or brought to justice. Liani shouted for Eldredge's criminal brethren to come out for their kin. As a deep crowd amassed, Liani gave word, "Just like this one, I give you my word I will pull the wings from the rest of the Havis clan."
He breathed heavily and he was splattered with blood. He looked the crowd over as they stared back at him.
Eldredge groaned and hissed as the wounds on his back bled. He was somewhere between consciousness and a dreamlike state, the place pain takes you when it becomes unbearable. The two crimson stubs on his back twitched and sputtered like a malfunctioning machine, perhaps a reflex of sorts.
The crowd expressed their astonishment with hushed gasps which died into the eerie ambient metro noise that emanated from below. Liani's message was delivered with a slap to the face. There Eldredge Havis bled profusely, wingless and haggard, broken and shamed. Liani and his men took off down into The Chasm, onto another mission.
A few thugs associated with The Insectoid Six emerged from the crowd to rush Eldredge to safety. The belief amongst the crowd, as rumor spread, was that Eldredge was dead. No, he was alive, but maimed and horribly disfigured. The group of men crowded around Eldredge and picked him up. They swiftly and hurriedly took him down a few levels into a saloon and that was the last that was seen of Eldredge for a while.
It was believed that the attack on the WingedMen and the subsequent bombings were in retaliation for what Liani did to Eldredge. If this was only the start to their war, I feared for what was to come.
7
It was quite a turn out, indeed. And lovely weather to accompany the festivities. University Square was teeming with individuals ready to see off the valiant adventurers, as they were so touted to be. The rest of us were there for show. Though, I will admit, the Square was brilliantly transformed into quite a showpiece. There was a four man band in the garden gazebo playing an upbeat marching fanfare. A stage was set up with blue trim and white ribbons. There was even an oculargraphicalist on hand to capture the day on filmature.
The crowd mingled about before taking their places. Harold and I grabbed our seats in the center of a section of three blocks of seating for formal, important persons and the like. The remaining seating behind the main section and on the trim were filled with students and the general public. I recognized the man playing the tuba in the gazebo band as Professor Winkle. Hours on end he spent in his office, the office beside my own, practicing. Such a small and rather sinewy man to be enveloped within such a seemingly over-sized instrument, I thought. Harold had pointed out the man on the trombone, Blind Ernie Stetson, an interesting musician from the more dour parts of Haverton, including Rust Waters.
“He’s a master of many a-horn.” Harold said, “Trombone, obviously, but also the trumpet. And a rather newer instrument designed for the Royal Brigade Marching Band, called a saxophone. He plays a strange wobbly sounding music.”
“Wobbly?” I echoed in a perplexed manner.
“It’s incredibly unlike what we’re used to hearing. It’s different.” He explained without having to say that we were too old to understand.
As I sat, watching the band play, my eyes wandered over the attendees.
And there was Rotterdam. Yes, pardon me, Lord Baron Rotterdam McMonocle. To write his name without such titillating titular, I fear his TrustWorks cronies upon my shoulders breathing down my collar like the looming vultures they so wish to seemingly emulate. I tipped my hat, nodded and smiled as I adjusted in my seat.
“What ever is he doing here?” Harold wondered aloud.
“I haven’t the faintest,” I allowed my gaze to remain on Rotterdam.
“Perhaps the limits of his parole have been lifted?” Harold offered.
“Unlikely.”
“I heard he paid off officials,” Geraldine broke between our shoulders from the row behind us to throw in her bit.
“Where ever did you hear that?” Harold asked.
“Aye, she’s correct.” I turned to Harold, “Word is bribery freed the caged bird.”
“The entire system is corrupted. The crooks make the rules.” Harold sneered.
It was true. My cousin Rotterdam was a man of means. He was also a man of corruption and greed. A man of lies, of deceit; a man of falsehoods and hurt. He was the type of man who lied about dessert so there was more for his own gullet. He was the type of man who would step forward to accept lost goods not belonging to him and claim them as his own. He was the type of man who would steal from another, and upon being caught, would claim the man a liar and insane, going the distance to discredit the man and have him locked up in an insanitarium for life. He was the type of man who taunted the sick and trampled the spirits and hopes of the poor. He was the type of man who would gunk up the works just to watch the whole thing crash to the ground for his own amusement.
His latest venture, I believe, was a mad land grab. He took official maps granted to him by BureauWorks, hired his own surveyor and engineer, and found discrepancies. Plots, really. Small areas which could be covered in a few steps or stepped over without notice. Usually where owned lands bordered each other. He found discrepancies all over the map. And he bought them all. Little plots of land dotting the map, laid unclaimed. He snatched them all up. No one could understand why he wanted these seemingly useless plots of land not even big enough to bury a body. (Well, I do supposed if you buried one long-ways down.) Whenever asked about his odd purchases by the journalographers, he claimed to know nothing about such tomfoolery. He does these things to be a nuisance, really.
What I did know was that it was somehow benefiting him to be at the send-off, for he only goes where the coin has fallen. I looked at him indignantly and thought how even now, in our later years, what an utter bag of tripe I’ve had to carry behind me throughout life. How I still have to explain to new people I meet, once they’ve made the connection, that we are absolutely, and undeniably, without a doubt in any right-thinking man’s mind, not at all alike in even the slightest of manners. There he was, a man of coin, an opportunist, a bottom-feeding sub-species from the most wretched hole. On his arm, a gorgeous young woman - she, I might add, young enough to be his daughter, though, she was beautiful enough to make you forget that fact. She was blond; her eyes, a deep green. My eye was drawn to her and I was held by the look upon her face. She was aloof, unaffected by the fanfare as she cooled herself with a collapsible fan.
Rotterdam walks in with her, I walk in with Harold. Where was the justice, I pondered.
On Rotterdam’s other side, his assistant, Mr. Dominique Tsue. I hadn’t seen Mr. Tsue in some time, such was the sorry state of our sour relationship. Rotterdam was definitely trying to impress someone. Mr. Tsue lifted his cane, tipping his hat to me. I was caught in a deep gaze, but I shook it off and gave a polite wave in return. I don’t believe Rotterdam noticed the exchange, but if he had, so be it. Dominique was like a nephew to me. Rotterdam wanted emotion vanquished from his being and surroundings. He needed to purport the pleasantness of a putrid pickled plum. He liked his reputation, that of a greedy pig of a beast, cunning beyond the point of plotting and conspiring, and foul beyond words. He lived up to his reputation astoundingly, always striving to do better.
Mr. Tsue, despite his affiliation with Rotterdam, is a fine gentleman stocked with potential, but held back by his loyalty. Rotterdam, forever an opportunistic rat, would save a child only for his own good. Through a good deed does shine ulterior motives. Rotterdam fashioned himself a perfect heir apparent, deadly with a cane, sharp as a scalpel, and lacking remorse or any of the finer emotions that may
steer morality or ethical reasoning.
Dominique Tsue had been orphaned somewhere in the backstreets of Eastern Bay, approximately aged four, starving and sickly, beaten and bruised. Fifteen years later and he is a revered man of finance. A young man who has earned his side by my cousin through means which would curdle the milk in your glass and twist the hair of your brow. Rotterdam made certain Dominique knew from a young age, his life he owed him. Whatever Rotterdam asked him to do, he would; a perfectionist, a job never undone, nor slap-dashed or terribly rushed through. He could run through a home, searching every nook and every cranny without leaving a trace of his presence. He could swipe a man’s legs out from beneath him with his cane within a fraction of an instant. He could withstand the pain of torture, physical duress, mental anguish. He could do all of this and did, all by order of his adoptive father, Rotterdam McMonocle.
I knew the young man was troubled around the age of seven when he demanded of all to refer to him as, Mr. Tsue. Not Dominique. Nor Dom. Not Nick, or Nicky. Just, Mr. Tsue.
His father embraced a strict dress code. He wore tailored suits, always grey, like fine ash. Mr. Tsue, aside from his strangeness as a child, was very bright, far above normal, a chess master by age 14.
And he was dexterous and agile as he was smart. I had taught the young man how to fence over the course of a summer when he was six. From there, we would spar as frequently as Rotterdam was away on business alone. From his lessons in fencing to his study of the fighting arts of Eastern Bay, he adapted a curious fighting style with his cane which he was all too happy to share with me, a lesson I’ve kept dear to my heart, a lesson I was all too happy to learn. My umbrella, always kept close and on my person, was a fine tool to learn with.
A twirl, a low and slow pendulous swing, one, two, three, and up and around, and jab to the throat. Perhaps a thwack to the side of a kneecap. Maybe a sideways shunt to the bridge of the nose followed by a quick slap to the side of the head. Let the brunt of the blow be upon your cane, he told me, a child’s voice informing how to quickly crush the trachea of an opponent.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 6