And They Called Her Spider (Galvanic Century) (5 page)

I winced as Bartleby placed an alcohol soaked cotton swab against my chest wound. "Not a big deal for the living-- us-- our bodies are producing the necessary charge for the connection to resume. We don't even notice the break."

"I don't understand. Why would that affect a clockwork?"

"Galvanic clockwork." I leaned my head back against the wall and let the man patch me up. "Mostly mechanical, but with a human brain and spinal column. Her motions build up the galvanic charge to keep her clockworks moving and to keep her brain functioning. It's why she was always in motion-- she had to keep building that steady charge. The more she moved, the faster and stronger she'd get. The Synaptic Disruptor breaks that cycle, and grounds her charge-- unless someone winds her again, she can't move or think."

"That's monstrous!" Bartleby finished wrapping my wound.

"It's a perversion," I agreed, interrupted by the timely arrival of the Metropolitan Police officers the Home Office had insisted be waiting nearby.

Just as I'd thought, though, the entire affair was over long before they even managed to arrive.

***

They took the Spider, of course. I asked permission to study her workings, but the request was lost in the bureaucracy, along with my request to look at her schematics or any of Whitney's other affairs. The broadsheets exposed Whitney as the mastermind and an anarchist sympathiser, and he was the talk of the London gossips for a time. The Platinum Jubilee went off without a hitch, and everyone agreed it was a spectacle that would not soon be matched in the early twentieth century. I fear that Hector Whitney's predictions of a Great War will prove them wrong, however. Fields of toxic gas, galvanic soldiers both dead and alive, weapons of war designed by a secret think tank -- it's all almost too fantastic to believe, and yet I've seen the proof. I've seen what my fellow engineers can create for the good of mankind, and what the ignorant and powerful see fit to do with it.

Something tells me that the poor old bastard took the easy way out, but I could never join him. I've too much hope. Too much trust, perhaps. There's great evil and greed in men, but great good and compassion as well. Cheers to the wonders of the new age!

If you've enjoyed this book and would like to read more, you can follow the further adventures of Bartleby and James in
Maiden Voyage of the Rio Grande
:

The detention cell was a far cry from the cabins that the luxury airship provided its honoured guests. I only can assume that, should one find oneself to be clapped in irons and escorted to the brig, that one no longer is classified as "honoured." While my previous appointments had plush carpeting, elegant wallpaper, carved hardwood furniture, and delicate electric lighting, the brig (as the American crew chose to call it) was uncomfortable and utilitarian. Frost formed on the bulkhead's unadorned steel, and beside the crude bench a bucket in the corner served as the totality of its amenities. A grate in the entrance hatch the only access given the outside world.

To say that I was uncomfortable would be an understatement. I can only imagine the dreariness of being left alone in that miserable hole for the duration of a voyage. Without a task to occupy my mind and hands I had little doubt that I would go mad after only a few days. Fortunately that didn't seem to be the Captain's intent, for half-an-hour after my incarceration he returned with one of his officers.

"Wainwright." Captain Nussbaum conveyed a military demeanour that matched his uniform.

While the
Rio Grande
was a civilian vessel, the crew's uniform was based loosely on that of the American Navy, perhaps a little more ornate and a little less saturated. If the Captain was a retired German officer, they were a far cry from what he would have worn during his term of service.

He refrained from further comment, standing near the hatch as a trio of airmen brought in a small folding table and a pair of chairs, which they set up in front of me so that the seats were across from my bench. When they'd left, shutting the hatch behind them, Nussbaum and his officer sat.

"You have already met Herr Dewit?" Nussbaum asked.

Dewit, First Mate by his insignia, scowled at me. As the man had walked in on me amidst a blood-soaked murder scene I cannot entirely fault him, though I must admit to some annoyance at the entire business.

"Let's cut to the quick, Wainwright," First Officer Dewit said. "Why did you murder the Second Engineer?"

"He was an engineer?" I asked. "Pity."

You can read all four Bartleby and James mystery novellas in
The Collected Bartleby and James Adventures
.

Fancy something longer?
March of the Cogsmen
, the first Galvanic Century novel, features the wedding of Aldora Fiske and Alton Bartleby.

The footman led Alton Bartleby and James Wainwright from the drawing room towards the stairs.

"I say, Bartleby, you're drinking a good deal more than is typical," James said.

"Why so I am. How astute of you to notice."

"I'd say that the escapism is typical." The bride-to-be, Aldora Fiske, stood at the top of the stairs like a statue of white granite in her wedding gown, a cold and severe expression on her face, gazing down without passion at the men below her. "Whatever could you be hiding from, Alton?"

"Aldora, dear." Bartleby straightened up and ran fingers through his blond hair. "It's ill fortune to see the bride before the ceremony."

"It's worse luck yet to have the groom fall ill and vomit on the vicar."

"I've never gotten sick from drink." Bartleby held up a finger. "Not once!"

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised." White lace armlets framed Aldora's fingers as they slid along the banister. "Father may have not said anything, but he did notice. And he will remember."

"I can assure you that such mild intoxication shan't impair my ability to function in the slightest," Bartleby said.

"I'm sure you'll be as useful as ever. In fact, I've a task for you."

"Wonderful." Bartleby leaned against the wall. "Just what I need after a four-hour train trip to refresh myself before my wedding."

"After you've unpacked... and honestly, Alton, do freshen up a tad... I need you to go out to the grounds and greet the guests as they arrive."

"What?" Bartleby said. "Your servants will be out in force. Have Charles here do it."

"It's important, Alton. I've been trying to get you to go over the guest lists and seating arrangements for weeks, but you've been far too busy of late. Now, on the very day of our wedding, I'll need you to guide our guests to where they need to be and introduce them to whom they need to know."

"Won't your mother be--"

"You're the only one who can, Alton. Even half in the bottle, you've an instinctive grasp of people and their connections beyond any I've ever seen. You know how important this wedding is. It sets the tone for our partnership among our peers, and if we can manage to impress here we can largely ignore society and get on with the business of living our lives."

She paused, casting a glance away from the men, down the hall. "And mother is... unwell."

"Yes," Bartleby said quietly. "You're right, of course."

"And do stop drinking. You smell like a vintner."

"Yes, dear."

"There's a good lad." She tilted her head towards his partner. "James."

"Aldora. Is Xin Yan free? I'd like to say hello."

"Yes. She's with Penny in the playroom. Charles can show you the way once you're settled."

"Thank you."

Aldora stood and watched as Charles led her fiancée and his partner up the stairs, towards the guest rooms. She placed a hand on Bartleby's shoulder, stopping him as they passed.

"I can trust you to handle this, Alton? Please?"

Bartleby hesitated, looking into Aldora's eyes. Her expression hadn't changed, but something in it gave him pause, and the retort he'd prepared died on his lips. He gave a brief silent nod in its place.

"Thank you, Alton." She turned and walked away down the hall, her skirt's train making it seem like she was gliding.

Bartleby turned to his partner with a drunken smile, spreading his hands wide. "See? Bad luck."

About The Author

Though a prolific writer Michael Coorlim found the prospect and process of submission daunting, often preparing query letters and researching markets only to never get around to submitting any of his work. It wasn't until he reached his thirties that he took the steps to write professionally.

He currently lives in the city of Chicago with his girlfriend and their cat, living his life-long dream of supporting himself as an author of fast-paced character-driven fiction about authentic people in fantastic situations.

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