Cultwick: The Science of Faith

by J. Stone

  The professor himself was in no better condition than the state of his lab. His white coat was stained with all manner of liquids from both his concoctions and the spilled, secreted, and sprayed fluids of his pitiable test subjects. His at one point creased slacks had long since worn out, erasing any proof of such a crease. They were also frayed at the ankles and wore similar stains to the coat. He’d given up on wearing shoes, opting instead to simply wear a thick pair of wool socks, all the better to allow him to slide on the wood floor of his laboratory. The metal gauntlet on his hand had held up reasonably well despite the abuse it had been under recently. The device would certainly need a tune up from Erynn if he continued on much longer. Though, the one recent addition to the professor was his spectacles and respirator that he now wore. Erynn and Pearl tried to tell him that they had been returned to them by the empress herself.

  Poppycock, he thought. The empress would never deign to visit their household to simply return a few lost items. If he hadn’t heard Viola’s announcement regarding Erynn’s pardon over the speakers of Olivia’s skyship, he would’ve had great difficulty believing that as well. Regardless of the story Erynn and Pearl wished to sell him, Rowland was pleased to have his respirator and spectacles back. He felt like he could focus once again.

  Then there was the biojunk that Rowland continued to shovel directly into his veins. He had engineered, customized, and further refined it to such a point that it was hardly a step above poison. There had certainly been purpose involved in the biojunk’s augmentations, but they had eventually gotten away from him. So addicted was he to the substance though, that it probably would have been worse for him to stop taking it than it would to continue his current course of self-medication.

  Sleep and nutrition had largely become a thing of the past. Most of his meals came in the form of some variation of the biojunk he injected himself with. Pearl had, on a couple of occasions, finagled him into eating a meal of some sort, but he rushed through such wastes of time, so that he could hurry and return to things of greater importance. During his time working to rid Erynn of the genotoxin that had threatened to end her life, Rowland had come up with a version of the drug to allow him to bypass sleep. His biojunk now, however, had gone a step further, and attempted to instead of delaying sleep, force his body to go through the same process without that added nuisance of actually being asleep. The effects had so far been met with reasonable success. The waking dreams had served as the only true inconvenience and had, on occasion, been startling to behold.

  Given that Germ was currently absent, having been trapped inside the Pocket, Rowland was forced to work his experiments without the rat’s assistance that he had become accustomed to. Erynn’s companion, Pearl, had tried her hand at filling that void, but Rowland quickly discovered that she was simply not prepared for such a role. She had genuinely attempted to help in his research but after several shortcomings, the professor reacted harshly, sending her off. He felt guilty about the way he’d treated her, but an apology would have to wait until he had brought Germ back.

  Working alone was not something he had found himself able to easily cope with. Germ had been helping him for nearly two decades, and Rowland had discovered that he was overly reliant upon that assistance. If Germ had been there, the lab would not have been in such a sorry condition. Things would be orderly, under control, and properly managed--at least to the best extent possible given Rowland’s fickle and precarious nature. The rat had a soothing presence that managed to appropriately calm and focus the professor’s mind, and it was only in his absence did Rowland come to such revelations. Grief and guilt plagued him. For probably the first time in their decades of friendship did Rowland realize that he had always taken Germ for granted. Simply put, Rowland needed his friend back, and damn the price it cost him and everyone else.

  His current focus was put squarely on a series of about a dozen vials of chemicals in a rainbow of colors and smelling of a composite of garbage, saccharine-sweet sugar, and moldy paper with the slightest hint of burned flesh that altogether could only be described as an abhorrent violation against the senses. Rowland’s respirator seemed to mask the majority of the odor, but he suspected he would hear from either Erynn or Pearl regarding the stench sooner or later.

  Carefully measuring out specific amounts of the varying chemicals, Rowland looked up at scribbles on his chalkboard trying to piece together the formula that had once created his friend. Comparing each substance’s quantity to what he could remember of the formula, he desperately attempted to once again fabricate that elusive combination. He had living proof that it had once worked, but years of self-experimentation and biojunk abuse had ruined his memory. His continued failures to recall anything of use served as yet another reason that he was angry and disappointed with himself.

  Finishing the current batch of assorted chemicals, Rowland swirled the liquid around in the central vial he had combined them into. He wasn’t sure what color the original serum had been, but he was fairly confident that it was not supposed to be a burned orange color. Regardless, it was worth a try along with the rest of his utter failures. He turned and made his way to the still spinning centrifuge and flipped the switch to stop it. Corking the vial, Rowland slid it into place beside the existing one inside the device. Pulling the other vial out, he quickly examined its color and viscosity before deciding it wasn’t quite done and switched the centrifuge back on.

  Having completed his current task, he finally came to the realization that the other liquid he’d been heating on another table had boiled over, leaving a foamy substance on the outside of the glass and in a small puddle around the fire. He hurried over to the table, sliding along the wooden floor in his wool socks, and twisted the knob to the fire until it had completely turned off. Lifting the glass up using his gauntlet hand, Rowland held the remaining liquid up to the light that was peering through one of the lab’s windows. Through his respirator and spectacles, he scowled at the burned liquid disapprovingly. There was too little of it left to work with, and he knew he would have to start over. He placed the glass back down on the table, intending to deal with that particular failure later.

  A crackle of energy erupted behind him from the strange, swirling sphere of emptiness. Its intent was to allow him a small window into the Pocket that he had created so many years prior. This was just the proof of concept that he was working on, and the final version would have to be much bigger. Enough to allow Germ to be extracted through. So far, he had not tested its actual application and was wary that he had hit upon the exact success that he would need. Leary to try sticking any body part of his own through the experimental tear between universes, Rowland mused on what to use.

  He had plenty of glasses, vials, and beakers sitting around on his tables and considered tossing one of them through. No, he decided. The subject would need to be organic. Alive. Perhaps the alley cat? Too unwieldy. The small white mice he had dozens of seemed his best bet. Opening the top of their cage, he reached in with his gauntlet and grabbed one unlucky rodent, pulling it out by its tail. Returning to the swirling experiment, Rowland shrugged apologetically at the mouse before swinging it lightly and tossing it through the portal. The creature landed on the other side of the sphere, in a heap. Its body didn’t move or flinch, as it collided with the table, and Rowland could quite easily tell that the mouse was dead.

  “Hmm, not ready yet,” he said aloud, musing to himself.

  The professor carefully picked up the remains and brought it over next to the other dissected rodent. Pushing that tray aside, he laid the mouse out on a new metal slab with its tiny paws flopping strangely to the side. Rowland soon discovered that there was something startling lacking from the rodent’s body. To prove his impromptu theory, he picked up a scalpel and sliced down through its abdomen. The mouse’s insides looked mostly intact, except for one glaring omission. Traveling through the portal had not only killed the creature, but its bones were now completely missing. Rowland wasn’t sure wh
ether this was an improvement over the last test subject he had sent through. Its post mortem had showed the growth of an extra set of lungs and an excess of blood when he carved into it. The creature’s innards had quite literally exploded out at him, when the scalpel opened its belly. This new test was certainly a development, but whether it meant he was getting closer to recovering Germ was still to be seen.

  A soft dinging noise coming from the cylindrical tube that was leaking green mist reminded Rowland that his other experiment was just about ready as well. The puffing green smoke flowing out from the poorly sealed hatch had grown more and more frequent, as the doses administered to his subject inside increased and nearly finished. He walked over to the tube, grabbing the hem of his lab coat’s sleeve and rubbing away the condensation of the window revealing inside the contraption.

  Writhing in the tube was a gruesome sight. The rodent he had injected the last batch of test serum with was having a terrible reaction. The creature had grown wildly inside the tube, which was part of the intent, but the growth hadn’t been regulated well enough. The development was uneven and out of control. From what he could tell, some of its bones had enlarged to match the intended size, but the skin and muscle hadn’t kept up. Instead, they had ripped horribly into pieces, stretched too far by the new sized bones.

  He was certain that the creature was in pain, and the failed test had proven its point. That serum was not an accurate copy of the correct formula. Rowland no longer needed the subject, so he was forced to discard it. He considered putting the poor rodent out of its misery, but the formula that was mutating it, was regenerative in nature. Rowland suspected that it might be impossible to end its life, while the process was ongoing. He had to resort to his other method of disposal then. The Pocket.

  Rowland ran over to a cabinet, where he had stored the silver, thermos-looking device. Rushing back to the misting tube, the professor slid open a compartment, releasing another puff of the gas. He twisted each side of the thermos and then dropped it through the opening, shutting the door back on the tube. Peering through the window, he watched as the thermos split further apart, revealing a swirling, misty portal not unlike the one on the desk to his side. Unlike the other, this one grew and expanded, wrapping the contorted creature in its embrace. The void filled the confines of the tube, completely concealing its effects in darkness. After a few moments, the blackness receded, and the tube was emptied of the experiment that had been inside.

  “Perhaps you will have better luck on the other side,” Rowland said to the absent creature. With the subject gone and his experiment appearing to be a failure, the professor returned to his other endeavors in hope of better results.

  Chapter 11. Vincent’s Arm

  The city was no place for Polly. She would’ve hated it there, and Vincent would’ve hated to put her through that. Back in Chrome City, the bounty hunter had put her up with a stable, while he was away in Cultwick. If he was honest with himself, he wasn’t entirely sure he would be returning for her. He gave the man more than enough money to look after her, making him promise to let her out in the pasture to run now and again. That horse had been the only static thing in his life for some years now, and it was difficult to abandon her like that, but it had to be done. Cassie needed his help, and he couldn’t live with himself if something were to happen to her again.

  In his current condition, however, he wasn’t quite up to trying to take down one of the richest men in Cultwick and the right hand of the new empress. The train ride into the city gave him time to think of what he would need to do, and one thing kept coming up as a hindrance, his arm. He could cross draw with his left hand just fine, and shooting with it wouldn’t be a problem either, but there were simply too many things he would need both hands for. He reminded himself that he couldn’t open a damn can of beans if he’d wanted to. After his experience with the Sweeper Bot Plague and hearing about the things Fiona Newton did in Cultwick, Vincent was far from eager to inject something into his body that might allow him to grow a new arm, though he was certain that science could accomplish such a feat.

  What did seem reasonable to him was to have a mechanical arm built for him by a chromesmith. During his time as a bounty hunter, Vincent had met many capable chromesmiths working freelance. That was how he had come upon so many of the contraptions, weapons, and tools that he used in his trade. He had, however, met one specific chromesmith who seemed to far exceed the others. Though for some reason, he didn’t like to admit it, he knew he would need to find Erynn Clover again.

  Before returning to Cultwick, Vincent and Cassie went to Pendulum Falls, where he had last heard the chromesmith had been. Things had changed quite a bit, since he was last there. He’d heard the city attempted to secede from the empire, and it had certainly left its mark. Before trying to kill Vincent, Maynard mentioned that the city was going to be purged of any remaining confederates. The bounty hunter wasn’t sure if he would even be able to find anyone left alive that could tell the tale of what happened.

  It turned out that Maynard hadn’t been quite as thorough as he probably would’ve liked. Though it was clear that many died to his team of hired killers, there were survivors. Chief among them was Samuel and Eva Stilts, which he had met when their group had cured the Sweeper Bot Plague. They had happened to be out of town when the assassins came through the city, and they were overlooked. They didn’t have much to add to the story of what Maynard had done, but they did at least know where Erynn had gone. Back to the capital.

  Apparently, he discovered, Erynn’s companion, Pearl, had been abducted and the chromesmith followed her back to Cultwick. Whether she had been successful in her efforts or where she had gone from there, Vincent was unsure. He had, however, heard a recording of the speech Viola Arkmast had delivered the night of the Carrier Plague’s end, in which she pardoned Erynn. He suspected, if anything, that the young chromesmith had stayed in the city, where she’d lived prior to her excursion out west. Walking up the steps to her adoptive father, Rowland’s, mansion, he and Cassie were about to find out for certain.

  The bounty hunter pounded his fist on the door several times before backing up and waiting. He stood there with the tailcoats of his duster flapping in the cold wind, while the sleeve of his right arm hung empty at his side. His pistol was situated on his right side, angled where he could cross draw it if necessary. As usual, he wore the mechanical eye patch over his left eye, but it was currently not turned on or supplying him with any additional information. His brown, felt cowboy hat was old and musty, but he clung to it regardless, letting it hang down nearly covering his eyes.

  Within the mansion, he could see the flickering of lights, so he suspected that he was not far off, when he guessed that they would return here. A couple minutes passed, and he was about to knock again, when the doorknob finally began to twist. With a creak, it was pulled back, and standing in the doorway was a very surprised looking Pearl.

  “Hicks,” he simply said.

  “Vincent?” she asked. “What are ya--” Her eyes drifted down to his absent arm, and she released a little gasp. “What happened to ya?”

  “Just a bit of bad luck is all,” he replied. “It’s why I’m here. Your girl Clover, around?”

  “Yeah, she’s here,” Pearl said. “Come on in.”

  Pearl held the door open for them, and Vincent walked inside the foyer.

  As Cassie walked through, Pearl introduced herself. “I’m sure he hasn’t even considered it, so I’ll hafta do it myself. I’m Pearl.”

  “Cassie,” she replied, joining Vincent inside the entryway.

  “So, what’d’ya need Ryn for?” Pearl asked, closing the door.

  “I need her to build me an arm,” the bounty hunter answered. “Figured she could set me up.”

  “Yeah, I imagine so,” she said. The three of them stood there awkwardly for a moment, each seeming unsure what else to say. Eventually, Pearl continued, “I guess I’ll take ya to her.”

  Vincent an
d Cassie followed, as the young woman led them down a series of hallways and a set of stairs, where they arrived at a large, open area with a collection of shelves holding various mechanical contraptions and scraps. Facing them and seated at a workbench near the far wall of the room, Erynn was focusing on a strange looking pistol with a green-tinged metal chamber. Her goggles were pulled down over her eyes, and a large set of tools and parts were splayed out in front of her. Her typically loose red hair was instead tied into two braids, falling to either side of her neck and resting on her chest. When she saw them coming, she pulled out a drawer and dropped the weapon into it.

  “Vincent Rourke,” she said, standing up from her stool and pulling the goggles from her eyes and letting them fall to her chest. “You’ve looked better.”

  “Yeah, well…” he trailed off.

  “We get so many visitors these days…” Erynn continued, looking over to Pearl with some meaning that escaped Vincent. “What have you been up to, aside from the obvious?”