Arcadia Snips and the Steamwork Consortium (5 page)

"You put down their names!" Snips' voice rose to quivering yelp. "The people I've been stealing from! Do you have any idea what they'll do to me?!"

Orwick's expression resembled a smile in the same way that the light of an oncoming locomotive resembled a tunnel's exit.

"
Especially
if you begged."

Snips slumped back to her seat, head spinning. The Count could have held anything over her head—execution, jail-time, the wanton slaughter of puppies—and Snips would have wriggled free.

Escaping was her specialty. But with a stroke of the pen, Orwick could turn Aberwick itself into her prison. Except this one had no locks to foil and no doors to open. And it would be filled to the brim with all the two-bit murderers, thieves, and ne'er-do-wells, who—until now—had been unaware that Arcadia Snips had been cheerfully robbing them blind.

Morgrim was suddenly looking extraordinarily comfortable.

"At least you don't know about the duck," Snips said.

"Check the back side."

Snips flipped the document over. "Oh."

"I hear Jake ‘The Beak’ Montgomery still shrieks like a little girl when he hears a quack."

Snips relented. "What do you want from me?"

"For you to solve a murder."

For a while, Snips let silence speak for her.

"I'm sorry. Come again?"

"Are you familiar with the Steamwork?"

"Big, noisy place. They build things there," Snips said.

"Like, uh, I don't know. Steam-powered butter knives or some such nonsense."

"I have reason to believe that their level of technological sophistication is far greater than what they have been reporting on their tax forms," Orwick said, leaning forward. "A gentleman under their employment sent word recently that he wished to speak to me about a very important matter."

"Breakthrough in steam-powered butter? To go with the knives," Snips said.

Orwick ignored the thief's speculations. "But before I could schedule a meeting, he met with his untimely demise."

"Oh, that's a shame. Let me guess—died in a horrible automated cutlery accident."

"He was killed in an explosion," Orwick explained. "His burning corpse was propelled out of his workshop and into the ocean."

Snips grimaced. "Ouch."

"And you will be aiding in the investigation of his death."

"Uh, I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly the investigator type."

"You do not need to be. The Steamwork has hired a detective agency to look into the matter. You will be accompanying them as a government consultant. It will be their task to provide the cover of an investigation into Basil Copper's demise, allowing you an opportunity to—"

"—be a sneaky little fink and find out what he wanted to tell you and why someone decided to put a stop to it?"

"Exactly."

"I don't understand. I'm no government agent," Snips said.

"I'm not even government material. I'm a con artist. Why me?"

"Precisely because you are a con artist, Miss Snips, and precisely because you are not a government agent. As I have stated: your methods are unconventional. They may work where other methods have failed."

Snips snorted. "You're a nut. A salty, roasted nut."

"All I ask is that you take your position seriously. Through hook or crook, Miss Snips, get to the heart of the matter. In exchange for your services, I will see to the disposal of this—"

Orwick gestured to the pardon notice, as if its mere presence offended him. "—odious document."

Snips' eyebrow twitched. "And what happens if I don't?"

"Then, Miss Snips, I think it would be wise for you to consider another profession. Before your colleagues decide to consult with you."

~*~

Shortly after Snips left, Mr. Peabody entered with a bundle of paperwork.

"If I may, sir," Mr. Peabody began, setting the pile down on top of Orwick's desk. "I would like to inquire as to what you are hoping to accomplish by assigning Miss Snips to this affair."

Count Orwick looked amused. "Are you questioning my judgment, Peabody?"

The assistant immediately grew pale, stepping back. "Ah, not at all, sir."

"Calm yourself." Orwick turned to stare through the window, watching the railway. "I assigned Miss Snips to this matter for two reasons."

"The first, sir?"

"An adequate solution that fails to accommodate for the unknown is neither adequate nor a solution. Miss Snips may solve the matter; she may not. She may serve to do nothing more than provide a useful clue—a clue without which those better trained than herself could never succeed. But any solution that constrains itself to the boundaries of merely that which we predict will happen is a solution doomed to stagnation and failure."

"She's a mongrel, sir, and self-destructive," Mr. Peabody noted. "It is likely that she'll die."

"Yes," Orwick said. "In which case, we come to my second reason. Should she die in her service as a government agent, I will have every right to investigate the Steamwork at my leisure—for suspicion in the murder of an official operative."

Mr. Peabody smiled. "She succeeds, you win. She fails, you win. Very good, sir."

"The only way I can lose is if she manages to do nothing.

And considering Miss Snips' history, I find that possibility to be the least likely of them all."

~*~

~*~

An engine growled beneath Aberwick's streets.

The machine occupied a hundred feet of space; it was a geometric puzzle of precisely arranged gears and cogs, gnawing at mathematical enigmas presented to it by means of a series of levers. It was powered by a crank, which Jeremiah now turned; each revolution brought it one step closer to a problem's inevitable solution.

"Incredible," Abigail said.

"Jeremiah called the original design a 'calculation engine',"

Nigel explained. "A machine capable of performing all manner of mathematical formulae, removing any element of human error."

"And it works?"

"It does."

"I hope to replace this portion with a steam engine,"

Jeremiah commented, panting. He finished with the crank, stepping away and wiping his sweat-soaked palms off on his trousers.

"It is a fascinating machine, and surely deserving of attention," Abigail said. "But it does not explain how you predicted the rain."

"When Jeremiah finished the machine, he showed it to me.

I realized at once that its applications extended far beyond matters of simple maths," Nigel said. "With modification, it could perform incredibly complex calculations—processes that could predict nature itself. A sort of 'probability engine'."

"But that is not feasible," Abigail said. "As my paper showed, even the slightest change in atmospheric pressure—"

"—disrupts the most precise predictions," Nigel agreed.

"We discovered this on our own, independently; we were quite surprised when you discovered it without the aid of our probability engine."

Jeremiah stepped to a basin of water, splashing his face.

"The problem was that there were too many variables," he said.

"To be successful, any system of prediction had to account for them all."

Abigail hesitated. "You found a way."

Jeremiah dried his face with a towel. "We did. Our equations were perfect—too perfect. We needed an agent of chaos; an element of imperfection. We needed something that made our engine’s calculations fallible."

"We experimented with sub-systems—mechanisms in the engine that would create inaccurate results. And in the process, we blundered upon something very interesting," Nigel said.

"The larger and more unpredictable a system was, the more accurate our flawed predictions became," Jeremiah said.

"Predicting the weather became child's play. Yet predicting something as simple as the rate of speed at which a feather should fall was impossible."

"Your findings are remarkable," Abigail said. "Why have you not submitted them to the Academy? Why have you kept them secret?"

"Because we haven't told you the whole story," Nigel said.

"We didn't predict the rain," Jeremiah said. "We made it happen."

Abigail stared at Jeremiah as if he had just confessed to secretly being a monkey in a person-suit. "I beg your pardon?"

"The flapping of a butterfly's wings half way across the world can cause a thunderstorm over our heads," Nigel said. "We discovered that, with the right calculations, we could become the butterfly."

"We predicted what action would be necessary to attain the results we wanted," Jeremiah said. "And then we took that action.

Whether it be the flapping of a butterfly’s wings or breaking a teacup on the floor, we discovered how to identify the first domino in a chain that could lead to any result we desired."

"That's—that's absolutely impossible," Abigail stuttered, leaning forward to hear more.

"There are limits," Nigel confessed. "The system must be large, and ultimately of an unpredictable nature; such as the weather, or a civilization. In addition, changes must happen slowly over time. The more rapid of a change we propose, the more powerful the initial catalyst must be."

Jeremiah nodded. "If you attempted to make it rain tomorrow rather than next week—"

"You would have to find an awfully large butterfly," Nigel finished.

"I still don't understand. Why keep this silent?" Abigail asked. "Why, we could control the weather—end droughts! Prevent famines! Circumvent floods!"

"I thought much the same at first," Nigel said. "Jeremiah revealed to me the error of my ways."

"In your defense," Jeremiah said, grinning, "neither of you were raised by mad scientists."

"I do not understand," Abigail replied. "What error am I making?"

"You're assuming these equations would be employed for the better good," Jeremiah said. "You look at this and see an end to famine; I look at it and see a way to inflict it. You see a way to bring about peace; I see a way to strangle nations and topple governments."

Abigail hesitated, staring at the probability engine. "Then you wish to keep your discovery away from those who would abuse it," she said.

"Yes," Nigel replied. "But the possibilities it offers are far too great for us to ignore. We must understand it, but resist the temptation for its abuse."

"Such as creating unnecessary rainstorms to impress a lady," Abigail snapped, but then quickly abandoned her indignation. "I understand all this, but—why me? Certainly, I am an exceptional mathematician and engineer, but there must be others who are more qualified than myself."

"You are a brilliant mathematician," Nigel said. "But you are also a woman."

Abigail blanched.

"Please do not be offended, Miss Parsley. I feared that whomever we came to would turn about and reveal our discovery."

Abigail stiffened in realization. "No one would believe me if I did."

"Indeed," Nigel agreed. "Were you to betray us, you would be dismissed as merely another 'hysterical damsel'."

"How shrewd. Your mind must be a frightful place,"

Abigail said, her voice dry.

"Perhaps so, Madame. But do you not understand our need for duplicity? For secrecy? Do you not see what is at stake?" Nigel asked.

Abigail hesitated, allowing the silence to speak for her.

When she at long last grew tired of what it had to say, she reluctantly nodded. "Yes, I do. But Professor Arcanum—"

"Yes?"

"To what end shall we ultimately put this machine?"

Jeremiah and Nigel exchanged glances; they looked back at Abigail, who regarded them with absolute disbelief.

"You have no idea, do you?" she said.

"Well—" Jeremiah began.

"Our primary concern has been to prevent its misuse, while simultaneously investigating its feasibility," Nigel said. "As for what we shall do with it—that has yet to be decided."

"And have you determined how you will finance this research?" Abigail asked. "I have no small fortune at my mercy, but I am unconvinced that it will be enough."

"We're still working on—" Jeremiah started again, but Nigel soon cut him off.

"Yes, actually—I have formulated a plan that should serve our purposes quite adequately. Both to fund our research and insulate it against the curiosity of those who might misuse it," he said. "We will create a secret society. One with an intriguing name; perhaps 'The Society of Distinguished Gentlemen'?"

Both Abigail and Jeremiah stared at him. It was Abigail who spoke first:

"So your solution to the matter of money is to construct some sort of secret boy's club?" Abigail asked. "Shall you have secret handshakes, and meet in a hidden tree-house?"

"Yes, actually," Nigel replied.

"I, uh. Beg your pardon?" Jeremiah asked.

Nigel laughed. "People thrive on mystery. They’ll happily donate money to any organization that provides them with an opportunity to add a sense of enigma to themselves."

"But I don't understand. To what end, Nigel?" Jeremiah pressed on. "Why create some secret society? The whole notion seems so silly."

"It most certainly is silly," Nigel agreed. "However, we cannot accomplish our research without additional funding; your profits from the Steamwork and Abigail's considerable fortune are not sufficient. We require sponsorship—and simultaneously must refrain from allowing the scientific community to learn of what we have discovered."

"At the very least we should think of a better name,"

Abigail complained.

"What's wrong with the one Nigel proposed?"

"Really, now," Abigail said. "The Society of Distinguished Gentlemen? What a wholly boorish title."

"Oh, come off it," Jeremiah said. "Don't tell me you're going to get on Nigel's case about the 'gentleman' thing, Abigail.

There are bigger concerns to be addressed here."

"I am one of the founding members of this little group of yours, am I not?" Abigail reasoned. "And I am certainly no gentleman. The name will have to be changed."

"To what? ‘The Society of Distinguished People’? It makes it sound like some sort of book-of-the-month club," Jeremiah said.