NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 5 - Day 26

Back to NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 5 - Day 25

* * *

Dr. Maulden greeted Constable Hughes at the door to his practice. “Good morning, Constable. Come in, what can I do for you?”

“I’m here on business I’m afraid, Doctor,” Hughes said, stepping in. “We got word not an hour ago that Holdswaine’s got some sort of epidemic on their hands. They’re informing outlaying regions like ourselves. You seen signs of anything out of the ordinary?”

“Epidemic? No, can’t say that I have, officer. What else can you tell me about this epidemic? What sort of illness it is? How fast it spreads? How lethal it is?”

Hughes looked a little puzzled. “Not real sure I’d even know how to guess how fast an illness spreads, doctor, and they didn’t say anything about that on the communicator that I’d heard of.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Maulden was something of a renegade in medicine, a doctor who didn’t believe in bloodletting and festering, leaches and amputation and scalding as the forefront techniques of the medical trade. He studied illness and the many causes it had in attempts to eradicate the illness without killing the patient in the process. This was a large part of the reason he’d moved to Dolesham, a place that was becoming known for acceptance of unusual modes of thinking.

“Sorry Doctor, we’ll be sure to let you know when more information comes through.”

“Thank you, Constable. And I’ll be sure to be watchful for any patterns that might be helpful.”

The officer nodded, another puzzled expression crossing his face, and left. Yes, there’s much work to be done yet, Dr. Maulden thought to himself.

* * *

Lynna feebly reached for the pottery cup, hands jittery and shaking even when she wasn’t coughing. It seemed to be so far out of reach, and the effort stole her breath away. So … cold …

A spasm of coughing shook her, knocked her hand into the cup. It clattered to the floor and rolled away, spilling its contents to the ground. Nobody would notice, if there were anybody to notice. Lynna lived in a tiny room in a dirty, run-down Holdswaine tenement that was all she could afford on the pub’s pay. She’d been on her own since the last of her family passed a few years ago.

She tried to groan, but the coughing wouldn’t let go of her lungs and throat. She felt like she was going to suffocate. She managed to turn herself onto her side, intending to chase after the cup, but that was as far as she got.

All she could do was curl into a ball and try to preserve warmth. The coughing came again, and again the strangling feeling, stronger than before. There was nothing to do but ride it out, and so she did, and lay still at last, the world going to dark.

* * *

The early autumn night was cool, but the storm drove the temperature down until the traveler wished for nothing more than a chance to get out of the rain and the cold for just an hour. Her cloak was soaked clear through, and the cold water was working its way into every gap in the warm clothing she wore underneath. She’d been on the road for days, passing through smaller communities in the darkness until she’d come upon Holdswaine in the south. That city she’d had to skirt, passing around to remain unchallenged; a city that large never truly slept.

Ahead of her a faint light beckoned off the edge of the road. Embers from a fire, or a fire banked low perhaps. She started to skirt around, though she felt more reluctance than usual; the fire light looked welcoming, a temptation on a freezing night.

She almost got too close to be sure she’d avoided being seen when she heard a choking cough from the vicinity of the camp. She froze, indecision warring within her. The coughing intensified, great wracking barks, then went quiet.

She cursed to herself and changed direction, heading toward the warm light, afraid of what she might see there.

The fire was burning low, logs reduced almost to ash, with some low flames flickering over the charred remains of a few. Embers glowed red and orange across the bottom of the fire pit. 3 men lay sleeping around the fire, or so it appeared at first glance. She knew they would not be waking up any time soon, though, and noted the curled in position the bodies were huddled in. The weather could certainly account for that, but she knew that wasn’t it. She also knew it wasn’t safe to stay in their vicinity; she’d lingered too long already. She turned her back and vanished into the night, headed south.

* * *

Archerd Dolet ran a hand along the superstructure admiringly. “She’s really coming along, Waldon. You’re sure the brass isn’t going to be too heavy?”

“She’ll be fine, boy, ‘n it’s only a thin coverin’ for strength anyway. Biggest problem with it is expansion when it gets hot, ‘n constriction when it gets cold. M’boys took that all inna their thinkin’ when they put ‘er together.” Waldon Sias was an old, old family friend, and certainly looked the old part. In spite of his age, he was still tough as a bear and was Archerd’s first and only pick for the head of the construction team building the Skyward Bound, the air ship he’d spent the last three years designing.

“I’m sure you’re right, and I can’t fault her appearance. This will put typical air ships to shame.”

“Y’done a fine job designin’ her, Arch. We’ll ‘ave her up and ready fer a trial run in time for the spring, or I’ll kill ‘n eat a bear with my bare hands.”

Archerd was sure the old man could do just that, and grinned. “How’re the gas bags coming along?”

The old man stopped and rubbed at his back thoughtfully. “Gas bags are about done. It’s the rigid structures that concern me. We got a few guys off ill the last few days, it’s settin’ us behind schedule. Not to worry though, we’ll get ‘er done.”

“I have no doubt. Thanks for the tour Waldon, I’ll come again in the next week.”

He left the construction yard, eyes scanning the roads of Dolesham. His father was waiting out by the yard gate. “How’s she looking, son?”

“She’s a thing of beauty. I can’t wait to get her into the air. Soon all of this—” he swept his hand along the road, where people walked, or rode horses, or in horse-drawn carriages, or some few even rode carriages driven by steam engines, “all of it will feel so antiquated. We’ll be looking down upon it all from comfortable seats in the sky!”

Air ships were nothing new, but they were uncommon and as a rule poorly designed and built. Archerd aimed to change that, much as his father and he himself and worked to improve train designs. It was a bold move; trains were a very familiar sight throughout the land, but airships were far less common. Drastic improvements were sure to be seen as a direct challenge to the Conclave, throwing Dolesham’s technical prowess in their faces.

They were past the point of hiding though; the Conclave knew full well who and where they were and the concentration of talent in the area was becoming too high for any sort of concealment. Far from just engineering and power and material sciences, the town was growing at a fantastic rate even in just the last two years, and welcoming pioneering thinkers in medicine, politics, philosophy, mathematics … it made Archerd’s head spin to think about it.

They walked out to the road, where their own steam-powered coach waited. It was big, easily able to seat 6 or 7 people straight across the seat, with wide-spaced wheels. Archerd helped his father up and in, then sat beside him at the controls. “Father, could you put the roof up? The sky’s a bit gray, it’ll probably rain again shortly.

Autumn was often a stormy season in that part of the country, but this year seemed more so than anyone could remember. The Ralladran river was broad and flowed low in high banks where the town was built, so they weren’t too concerned about flooding, but the farmers further down river might have a tough time of it if the rains continued as they had.

His father cast a glance out at the sky, then walked down the central aisle to unlatch the waxed canvas roof and draw it over a folding framework to hold it in place. Archerd had no sooner started the carriage and driven it out into the street than the first misty rain started falling. He flicked a switch on the instrument panel to connect electricity from the electrite generator to the lights mounted on the front of the carriage. Despite the great size of the carriage, the generator was nearly silent, and on top of the rain, it was getting dark.

The ride was smooth and quiet, and while not much faster than walking would have been, given the other people on the road, they were infinitely more comfortable than they would have been on the muddy streets. Before they’d been 10 minutes on the road, they saw the first boys rushing about, climbing street lamp poles with speed and agility, lighting the gas lamps and hurrying on to others. Without ever taking his attention from the road itself, Archerd found himself thinking about how one might design self-igniting gas lamps.

“Electric street lamps.” His father had his own musing expression on his face. “Save all that manual climbing and lighting the lamps. Though the light tubes would have to be changed eventually …”

“I was just thinking self-igniting gas lamps. Electrically igniting them, however — flip one switch and an entire street is lit!”

“I like it, son. We must draw up plans and a proposal over the winter.” He coughed, cleared his throat.

The rest of the trip passed uneventfully, the rain growing in intensity, dripping down from the roof as they passed the lamps, aglow in the growing dark. Thunder booming in the distance announced the imminent arrival of lightning.

It held off just a little longer though. The sky lit bright as noon with lightning just as they passed through the gate to the family home and parked the carriage off beside the house. They quickly retreated inside just as the real rain began, a pouring mass of water that could as easily have been the river draining right on top of the house.

They were met inside by Archerd’s sister Annis and the gentleman she’d been seeing for the past year, Dr. Tristram Maulden. “Father, Archerd, you were lucky to miss most of the rain! How is the Skyward Bound?”

“Mr. Dolet, Archerd, good to see you again.”

“And you, Doctor,” Archerd nodded, “Good to see you again. Ann, she’s shaping up remarkably well, old Waldon should have her ready as planned by next spring. A lucky thing too, seems he’s had a few of his workers get ill this past week.” He removed his overcoat and hung it in the small cloakroom off the main foyer, then took his father’s to hang as well.

Altman coughed and chuckled. “I may have picked it up myself, but I wouldn’t worry about Waldon. When he says he’ll get something done, he’ll have it done one way or another. He’s been working here with me for years.”

“Dinner’s ready,” Ann said as she led the way to the dining room. The rest followed.

“That’s Mr. Sias at the construction yard on the edge of town, is it not? The one with sick workers?” Maulden’s face was a bit more grave than Archerd was used to. He’d known the man for months now, since his sister introduced him to the rest of the family. They got along well enough, though their different fields meant that they had little opportunity to see one another save at dinners and events.

“Yes, he mentioned several workers have come down with something the last few days. Is there a problem?”

“Hmmm … I was visited by a constable from the police department earlier, apparently they received word of an epidemic that has broken out in Holdswaine. There was very little detail, so I don’t know that it’s of any relation to the sick workers, but I’ll have to keep an eye on the situation, and examine them if I can. You’ll want to keep an eye on your father too, just in case, and bring him to see me if he starts getting bad.”

They retired to the dinner table then, and to the parlor after that for an evening of conversation by the fire. Dr. Maulden said his goodbyes and returned home, and then the family drifted upstairs to bed, first Archerd’s mother, then Ann. Altman was rising to his feet, about to excuse himself when they heard a soft tapping at the front door, difficult to hear for the rain and the still crashing thunder. “Curious … Who could be calling at this late a time?”

“I don’t know, I’m certainly not expecting anyone.”

“I’ll get it son, you stay where you are.”

Archerd nursed a drink, hearing the front door open and muffled voices. His interest was piqued when the cloakroom door opened. He set his drink down and was rising to his feet when his father entered the room. “Archerd, there’s someone here to see you.”

He was just opening his mouth to ask who when suddenly he found his arms were full, the breath being squeezed from his lungs, and his nose filled with a powerfully familiar scent of jasmine. His startled eyes met those of his father, who simply smiled and left the room.

“Sunniva!” Worldly, serious green eyes met his with a sparkle that had an unaccustomed look to them; she hadn’t had much cause to smile in the past few years, he found himself thinking.

“Archerd. I’ve come a long way to get here.” She looked it, he thought with concern. Even with the traveler’s cloak hung away, her travel clothes were worn, dirty and damp, her eyes were black-circled with fatigue, and she looked drawn, and hungry.

“You look exhausted! Let me get a room set up for you, we have a spare.”

“Thank you, Archerd.” She was on the verge of collapse, exhaustion closing in fast; he could see it in her face. “We must talk, first thing in the morning, it’s vitally important.”

He led her upstairs to the guest bedroom; Altman, who had been anticipating this, was already finished dressing the bed. “Ms. Witherow will be staying then? As I expected. Wait just a moment, I think Kaylene has some bedclothes that will fit you.” With that settled, they retired to their respective beds.

When the morning sun rose, the rain remained, though the thunder and lightning had moved on to other lands. Sunniva had passed out before they’d had a chance to even offer food, so she tore through breakfast as though she were starving, somehow managing never to lose her decorum through the whole process. When they were done, which took some time since Kaylene and Ann insisted on meeting and fussing over the storied mystery woman of Archerd’s much-talked about train incident, she asked Archerd and Altman both to speak with her in the parlor.

“Mr. Dolet,” she exclaimed as soon as they were assembled, “I’ve heard all about you. Arch told me some of course, the night on the train, but in the three years since then I’ve heard much, much more.” She smiled. “Archerd, after we parted I spent a long time traveling, coming to terms with what I’d had to do, and what it meant for me and my future. A lot of that was about … well … killing those men. But more than that, it was also about betraying the Conclave.”

She sat down by the fire; the two men took their queue and joined her. She stared into the flames in the fireplace. “It would have been so very easy to simply return to them and go on as if nothing had happened. Or that’s what I believed at the time. They had no reason to think I was involved after all, and every reason to think you’d done it all. You certainly had reason. I could have slipped back into the ranks, resumed my post as a junior researcher studying physics and writing equations and all would have been well with the world, as far as they were concerned.

“What I found was that I couldn’t do that, Archerd. I went to the academy out of an intense need to know, to understand, and it seemed like that was my only route to that understanding. When I encountered you on that train, you opened my eyes to many things, but perhaps the most important was that the Conclave is wrong. They’re wrong to seal the knowledge of the world off from that world itself. They’re wrong to keep it locked away, accessible to only a few, leaving it unused, unknown, except when it suits their need for power or wealth.

“You showed me the possibility of knowledge escaped, of knowledge used, of practical uses that can make a difference in people’s lives. It’s a shockingly easy lesson to learn when the evidence is contraband technology that saves your own life. It took me time to accept it, but once I did, I knew I could never go back to them. At least, not as I had been.”

“As you had been?” Archerd’s brow raised.

“Yes. Many things about the incident on the train bothered me; chief among them the part where they tried to kill ever one aboard, of course. But beyond that, I wanted to why they handled the situation the way that they did. It was stupid, Arch, clumsy and stupid, and if there is one thing the Conclave is not, it’s stupid. The same can be said of their second attempt to reach you a year and a half ago. More ham-fisted brutality, throwing power out uncontrolled and half-blind.”

Altman was nodding. “I must confess the same thought has occurred to me.”

“Well, I realized I was in a position to at least find out, if not do something about it. About 2 years ago I got back in touch with friends I had there. Not people I’d worked with; people I’d studied with and who had moved on to other assignments after graduation.

“It was a dangerous game I played; you know the suspicion I held you in when I learned you weren’t with the Conclave, Arch. Things were made a bit easier by the fact that I did know these people, they knew I’d been in the academy, and they knew I’d gone on to work with the physicists afterward. It took a long time to start getting useful information about other areas of the organizations—”

“Organizations?” Archerd had thought it was just the one.

“Yes, the Conclave is often spoken of as a single organization, I know, but it works more like a … union of unions, I guess you could say. And that in fact was part of the reason for their ham-handedness. Information simply does not flow well within the Conclave, and they often find themselves facing situations where their left hand is acting without knowing what the right hand is doing.

“That brings me to why I’m here. That problem of information flow is beginning to change, and you — we — are going to have to be ready for it. The Conclave council recently elected a new chancellor, a man named Raedan Sholl. Everyone I know inside is in an uproar since he assumed primacy; he has the entire organization in a state of confusion. He’s implementing changes across all the individual unions and in how they inter-operate with one other.”

“It rather sounds like we should find this Raedan Sholl and thank him. They’ll be far less of a threat if they’re in a state of confusion, don’t you think?”

“For a time, yes, but maybe not for much time. His changes are attempts to improve efficiency and communication within the whole structure. He is also the picture perfect representative of Conclave policy with regards to renegades like yourselves … Like us.”

Altman sighed. “Yes, it would be best not to let our guard down too quickly, as nice as it is to hear that they Conclave is in disarray for the time being. If this Sholl is working to bring us more trouble, and do so more efficiently, we’ll have to use the time he gives us to be prepared. But Ms. Witherow, you said earlier that the flow of information was only part of the problem. Have you identified the rest?”

“Yes, and that’s the part that troubles me. I started looking into the history of the Conclave and their works; not a difficult task, they’re eager to let the whole world know how good and wonderful they are, after all. In that research, one thing became very clear, and that is that they have never faced a serious level of resistance to their ideas before. They’ve had the odd individual or two to deal with over the last few centuries, but never anything on the scale of Dolesham, an entire guarded community in a remote location with natural defenses resisting their ways. That is why they’ve handled their attempts to deal with this place the way they have; they’ve never learned how to deal with a threat like this. The approach they took with Archerd has always worked before; the approach they took with Dolesham was someone’s frightened “Get rid of them quick!” bungle compounded by poor communication with cooler, wiser heads above.

“With Sholl in the chancellor’s seat there’s a very real threat that that will change very shortly. As I said, the Conclave is not stupid. And they’ve studied their mistakes in handling you. They’re learning from those mistakes, and they’re not going to repeat them this time … and I am I afraid I know what it is that they’re planning to do this time. Have you had news out of Holdswaine lately?”

Archerd looked at his father. “Yes, a little. We discussed it over dinner. Ann’s man Dr. Maulden informed us that he’d been warned of an epidemic in Holdswaine. The doctor thought it might make its way down here, but he didn’t seem too concerned.”

“It’s possible it will, and it is a terrible illness so we should certainly be on guard for that. But more, it’s not just Holdswaine; many cities further north have been ravaged. It just arrived in Holdswaine recently and already thousands are sick, hundreds dead. I saw other travelers on the road myself, dead where they lay for the night.”

“I don’t understand; how does this help them deal with us? Are they going to send sick people here to make us all die of plague?”

“No; indeed, it would work better for them if we were spared entirely. They intend to strike at our credibility. They intend to blame Dolesham for starting the epidemic.”


Continue to NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 5 - Day 27

NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 5 - Day 25

The road seemed never-ending, eternal, always one bend after another. It passed through wood and town, field and hills, crossed river and valley. Other roads came and went, leading off to their ultimate destinations, but this one just went on.

The traveler stopped for rest in the daylight hours. Farms and fields offered haystacks that well suited the need for rest. What they lacked in refined comfort they made up in other ways. They were quiet, insulated, and most important, kept one out of the prying eyes of others on the road.

When night would finally fall, she would move onward by moonlight. She ignored the inns others frequented, and moved quietly out of her way to avoid travelers’ camps when she came upon them between inhabited areas.

There was a doggedness, an intensity to her travel that suggested not quite urgency, but a fierce determination. The road might not have an ultimate destination, but she certainly did.

* * *

Flagons clanked and beer spilled while the pub air was filled with the usual sounds of revelry, Academy students venting their stresses into deep pitchers while regulars clustered around tables, talking loud over the din. The windows lit briefly, throwing the pub interior into sharp relief, and seconds later a clap of thunder punctuated the night.

Huddled alone in a corner a figure slouched in a booth, shying away from attention. A traveler’s cloak was pulled tight about his spare frame, a mug of dark ale on the table in front of him. The candle on the table sat unlit; those seated near him seemed almost to have forgotten he was there. Now and then a deep, wracking cough would remind them, and they stole uneasy glances his way.

Lynna, a serving girl at the pub, moved to his table, hesitancy clear in her gait. “’Scuse me, sir, you’re running a bit low there, can I get you another?”

He said nothing, waving her off with a weak gesture. Just as he did so, his body shook with another powerful wave of coughs.

The girl stepped back uncertainly. “Are … Are you okay, sir?” She untied the rough kerchief that bound dark blonde hair to her head and wiped her hands; she’d been misted a bit by his spasm. “You don’t seem well …”

He simply waved her off again, and she retreated. His coughing got worse, sounding raspy and deep. An air of unease and uncertainty crept among the tables surrounding him. Finally he stood and half-shuffled, half-staggered his way to the door; the pub was hushed, people watching the thin apparition leave. He hadn’t paid, but he was such a sight that neither Lynn nor the proprietor made a move to go near him. He pushed out the doors into the storm; as he left, a nervous rush of voices picked up, slowly at first, then with more enthusiasm.

Lynn stared after the man for a moment and shivered slightly. She retied her hair and grabbed a cleaning rag from the bar, returning to his table. She grimaced; spilled ale darkened the table, and he’d been coughing up a storm. She set about wiping the whole thing down.

* * *

Constable Durk picked his way through the alley carefully, eyes watchful, his partner close behind. “Which way’d ‘e go?”

“Took a right further down.” Smoak kept his voice low to match Durk’s. “I know this area, we got ‘im bagged. He’ll have no place to go in a minute.”

Durk nodded, but stopped. What was … “’Old up, what’s that?”

The alley was trash-strewn, covered in slops and discards and worse. “It’s a drunk. We got bigger issues on hand, mate.”

“Don’t look drunk to me.” Durk bent over the figure laying in the waste. “Ain’t breathin’. Man, ‘e smells, too.”

The figure was terribly thin, and curled in on himself as if freezing and trying to keep warm. He was wrapped in a long traveler’s cloak so soaked through with filth it was impossible to tell the color, but the man’s skin was a pale blue, and distinctly cold to the touch.

“Oh … Oh, no.” Smoak stepped back. “He was sick! Look at him.”

“He’s just dead. We need to find out who he was. The cut-purse can wait.”

“You’re not going to … search him, are you?” But Durk had already gone into the cloak.

“No wallet. Smoak, why does this guy make you so uneasy? He’s dead. You’ve seen plenty ‘o dead guys before. Made some of ‘em that way too as I recall.”

“Only in the line of duty. It’s the way he’s curled in like that. It reminds me of stories I’ve heard, people getting the chills. Thousands died, years ago. It was a full-on epidemic. They called it the Blue Chill back then. Sounds silly to me, but the undertakers didn’t think so, and neither did the families that were putting their own underground.”

“Eh, that was 20, 30 years ago. Ancient ‘istory. As like he drank too much and ‘it his head, drowned in that crap. Nasty way to go, that. We gotta report this. You want to run it in, or am I doin’ it?”

* * *

“Chief Inspector Hew! Word just came across the communicator from Holdswaine of a growing problem in the city. Some sort of epidemic is sweeping the area up there, they’re posting alerts to outlying communities.”

Hew looked up from his desk, a worried frown creasing his face. “Epidemic? How bad is it?”

“No word, sir. It was a rote broadcast, they’re not acknowledging transmissions.”

“Keep trying, Sergeant.” Hew rose and grimaced. Rosston Hew was in his early 40s, a bit on the old side for his relatively low rank of Chief Inspector, and he’d only just earned that in the last year at that. The price one paid for making the unpopular choices, he thought. On top of that, he was the highest ranking officer in Dolesham, the admittedly small town he presided over.

Officially, Dolesham was due to receive an officer of sufficient rank to maintain authority. Unofficially, Hew was certain it would never happen, and was just as glad; he could cull the ranks of the police at low levels, which was precisely how he’d gained the ire of his superiors, but if a ranking officer were assigned there’d be little he could do.

He rounded up several of his men. “Constable Huxby, we need to get word to the mayor’s office. That’s your job. Hughes, you’ll take the word to Doctor Maulden. They’ll have questions, and I’m afraid we have no answers to give them yet. Inspector Greene, I’ll be out; you manage things here until my return.”


Continue to NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 5 - Day 26

NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 4 - Day 24

* * *

He turned his eyes back to the device in the middle of the floor, willing his heart to slow and his hands to steady. From what he’d already seen of this, it was an incredibly complex mechanism, and while he didn’t know what the explosive itself was composed of, the way it was secured inside assured him that he’d been correct; it was volatile.

The constant ticking of the timer wore at his nerves. Timer. He wished he had his magnification goggles with him. Stop the timer.

He rose swiftly and returned to Pilch’s body. His tools were held in an interior pocket of his jacket; he took them and returned to the device. No magnification glass nor goggles, but at least he had the fine instruments he needed to work with tiny parts.

He had to admire the craftsmanship of the timer. It was clockwork of the finest order; in an actual clock he suspected it would keep accurate time for months without adjustment. It was a crime all on its own that such a device should be intended to self-destruct in such a manner.

There he sat for several moments, examining the mechanism and attempting to locate the best place to begin dismantling it when sounds from upstairs took his attention. The door opening; voices, several of them, making no effort to conceal their presence. Footsteps on the stairs, and exclamations of surprise.

“Archerd?” His father’s voice, and light flooded the stairway.

“Father, stay clear! Out of the house, if you can. Mr. Pilch there was setting up an explosive as a gift for us, and I’m attempting to disable it.”

His father appeared on the landing and joined him. Upstairs, worried voices called down, but were unintelligible; his mother and sister, he was sure.

“We came with a police officer. He’ll get your mother and sister out of the house, and return for Pilch’s body.”

“And yourself?”

“I’ll stay out of your way son, I know this is your area of expertise.”

“At this moment, I don’t know what the explosive agent is. I’m afraid I don’t feel like much of an expert.”

“That’s why I’m here. That’s my area of expertise.”

Altman Dolet was a master of the physical earth sciences. Had his life progressed the way the Conclave determined it should have, he’d have been a senior master in the Academy by now, but he’d barely graduated when he broke out from under the Conclave’s rules and had never looked back.

Archerd sighed but accepted the inevitable with as much grace as he could, though in the back of his mind he couldn’t escape the thought that a slip of the hand could now mean not only his own death but that of his father as well. No pressure there, he thought.

He took a deep breath. “Okay. First I have to stop this timing mechanism. I have no way to know when it will run down and trigger the device to explode.”

Altman wisely kept his words to himself, and Archerd found to his surprise that he was a bit calmer, a bit more self-assured with the steady presence of his father next to him.

Hands as steady as he could make them, working with the dead man’s tools, he started extracting tiny gears and shafts from the assembly. Gradually the mechanism stopped, the incessant ticking faded, but the tension never left him. The explosive was still there and still volatile, and any wrong move could still blow them apart as thoroughly as the school and the police headquarters.

He still felt a sense of profound relief. At the very least they had the option of waiting and studying the device at leisure now, without the fear that each new tick of the mechanism would be the one that would end them.

His father let out a long sigh of relief. “Well done, son. Now this next part is mine, I believe.”

He stepped aside and Altman immediately set himself next to the device. A set of heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the arrival of the officer that his father had mentioned. He glanced at his father, who was carefully inspecting a small glass container that held a grayish-yellowish substance he presumed was the explosive agent, then climbed back up to the landing.

Between himself and the officer, Pilch’s body was moved out in front of the house. His mother and sister were outside, impatience and worry written over their faces. They ignored the body, turning to him.

“Where’s father?”

“What’s the situation with the explosive? Were you able to stop it?”

“Where—”

“One at a time! Father’s down with it now. It was equipped with some sort of clockwork timing mechanism, which I disabled, yes. Father is studying the explosive compound to determine how we can best deal with it. We don’t want to try moving it without understanding how volatile it is, or we may set it off ourselves. But at least we know now it won’t go off while we wait and study.”

* * *

The wait was long and frustrating; Altman worked for 2 hours to identify the compound and assess the destructive capability it had. In the end he could only give an educated estimate. “This just isn’t a type of material I’ve run into before, I’m afraid. The Conclave must have secrets unknown to those outside their walls. This shouldn’t be a shock to anyone here, of course.”

“So what do we do?”

“We’re going to have to trust that we can move it safely; we certainly don’t want to sleep with this down here.”

“We’re going to move it anyway? But—”

“But Pilch had to get this here somehow, it’s not like we keep a store of this material down here for him.”

“That’s true, father, but what if it’s a compound of some sort? I regularly use sealants that don’t become viscous until two separate ingredients are mixed one with the other.”

“If that’s the case, we may have some … difficulty. But there’s also nothing we can do about that if it’s true. One way or another, I have to get this out of here and dispose of it somewhere safe.”

“You? But I—”

“You’ve done your part, son. Don’t worry, your old man has handled dangerous materials before, since long before you were born.” There was a firmness to his tone that brooked no argument. “Now go on, out of the house. I’ll meet you out front with this and then we’ll decide what to do with it. Keep your mother and sister back out of the way.”

When Archerd left the house, Inspector Hew had arrived on the scene. The officer was examining Pilch’s body, while Hew poured over several sheets of paper.

“Archerd. Where’s your father?”

“We need to get everyone out to the street. He’s coming out with the device. I disabled the timer, but he’s unfamiliar with the explosive agent.”

“He’s moving it! But—” he took control of himself and continued, “of course, you can’t just leave it there. Is he sure it’s safe?”

“Actually he is certain it’s very unsafe, but we don’t have much choice in the matter.”

Hew sighed. “True enough, true enough. And I certainly don’t have anyone more qualified than he is to handle it. Archerd, I do need to talk to you.”

“Of course. What is it?”

“First, you’ll be relieved to hear that while the number of injured was great, there were only two deaths in the explosion at the police station.” Archerd could say nothing to this; his shoulders slumped though, as though their lives had paid for an extra burden upon them.

“It is not your fault, Archerd. Do you think your father is the only person in this community that can see the Conclave for what they are and do? They stifle progress and advancement at the expense of everyone but themselves, until it serves their interest to do otherwise, and there are people across the country and beyond who see it.”

“And this is what happens when you resist? They come to the community in secret and kill and destroy until you give in?”

“That’s why this place is so important. We have to become a beacon against acts exactly like this. Look, I am an officer of the law, Archerd. I was appointed in the capital, and served in Holdswaine for several years. I don’t think you realize how deeply the Conclave’s influence runs through government and the law, but … I could tell you stories that would scare your hair white.” He sighed. “Your father told me all about your run-in with the Conclave last year. I know you must feel responsible for bringing them down here, and honestly, I can’t assure you that they aren’t reacting to your innovation.”

Archerd nodded. “So it is my fault, but I won’t—”

“No. Whether they’re reacting to you or not changes nothing. If it wasn’t you, they’d have found a reason sooner or later. Dolesham is gaining a reputation, Archerd. Increasing numbers of craftsmen and tradesmen are moving here because of it, and my own— I arranged my transfer to Dolesham yourself after your father filed for the Dolesham charter of township. I knew of him, had helped him with a few spots of trouble in the past. Even back then this place was attracting … undesirables. I’ve quietly been culling the ranks of the local force in favor of those with no links back to them; you can bet that hasn’t won me or the town any favor with them.”

“Yes indeed, Rosston.” Altman nearly scared his son out of a decade of his life by appearing at his side suddenly. Looking back, Archerd saw the explosive device set carefully on the stone walk leading up to the steps to the house. “I didn’t hear the whole conversation, but I can guess well enough, and Rosston’s right, son. The Conclave loves nothing more than their own power and they’re well aware that we’re becoming a symbol working against them. They might have seized on you as an excuse to come here, but they would have been here sooner or later regardless. If not you, something else.”

Archerd nodded. “I can accept that, for now. But we need to be more vigilant. I can’t imagine they’re going to let this lie after they learn what’s become of their agents.”

“Indeed, if anything it’s only likely to force them to step up their activity. But now, gentlemen, we have to find some place to dispose of this rather unwelcome gift they’ve left for us.”

“Is there any hope of separating the explosive from the rest of the device, father? I’d love to study the internals if possible.”

“Hmmm … I think we can do that safely enough. I’ll leave that honor to you, however. I do have the tools here.” He removed them from a pocket, passing them over.

Several minutes passed as Archerd very slowly and carefully disconnected the explosive’s housing from the rest of the device. It was surprisingly small, assuming it held a similar quantity of the substance to the device that had destroyed the school. Whatever it was was more powerful than TNT, perhaps even more powerful than nitroglycerin. He held the small container securely in the palm of his hand.

“This should make it easier to move where we want it. There’s an empty clearing up the road out of town; we could take it there and detonate it safely.”

“That sounds fine to me, son. I certainly don’t have any better ideas.”

“What other secrets do you suppose the Conclave is hiding from the rest of us?”

“I wish I could say we’ll never know, Archerd. I’m terribly afraid though that we’ll be finding out soon enough.”

With that disquieting thought in mind, the three of them started off on foot to the clearing.

NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 4 - Day 23

Archerd’s inspection of the towers continued a moment before he realized Inspector Hew had slowed and was staring at the same towers with a look of watchful concern. “Inspector? What is it?”

“They’re unmanned. There should always be at least one lookout up there. Something’s not right.”

“And the streets …”

“Yes.”

The streets in the immediate area around the police headquarters were empty, but a block away in every direction were a few people, all just standing and watching. A black premonition danced in Archerd’s mind.

“Inspector?”

“I see them. We have to get down there.”

“Let me see your communicator for a moment.”

Hew stopped and handed the device over, and Archerd fiddled with the exterior switches, finally turning the volume knob all the way up. Voices suddenly burst out of the device, low but still audible.

“—away from that thing if you know what’s good for you!”

“Okay, it’s okay, I’m away—”

A sound like a pistol crack came through over the device.

“Anyone else gets near that thing, same thing happens to you. We know all about what you Dolesham traitors have done with your communicators.”

Archerd cursed; it was one thing to know your work had prompted a response like this, but quite another to hear and see the direct results.

“Communicators? What are y—”

BANG

Pilch and his men didn’t know he’d kept his communicator technology to himself, he realized. They’d know of its existence from the same reports of the conference that had drawn the Conclave agents to the train the last year, but they believed it was in use by the police of the town, so naturally they’d try to neutralize them.

“I said, everyone keep QUIET! You think I’m not serious? You—”

BANG

Another pistol shot rang out.

BANG, BANG

“They’re trying to take him down. They don’t … this can’t—” Hew’s voice was drowned out by a crash of thunder that shook the ground. They were two short blocks from the police headquarters, close enough to see ground-level windows shattering along with several on the upper floors of the building. They broke into a run.

The scene was chaos. The police headquarters had been built more solidly than the school and appeared sound; certainly it hadn’t collapsed, not so far at least. But the interior was a mass of fire, smoke, dust and debris. Alarms pierced the air from the upper floor, where people were visible in the windows, gasping for breath as smoke rose and poured from open windows.

Down the wide street a brigade of firemen were racing up toward the building, riding a long carriage dominated by a massive water tank and pulled by a team of 3 horses riding abreast. The small but growing crowd moved aside hurriedly to let them through, and they wasted no time pulling long ladders from the back and dragging out hoses, men already manning the hand-pumps.

Before the pumps had even been primed, ladders were set up and men were swarming upward and others setting up below to rescue those trapped above.

Hew seemed to shocked to speak, and Archerd could hardly make his mouth move himself. One thought and one thought only circulated in his brain; my fault. He had no idea how many officers and employees of the headquarters had just been caught in that explosion, but every one of them was on his conscience. So many injured, maybe dead, and still at least one more explosive unaccounted for.

His fault. One more. With a sudden sick twisting of his stomach, he knew where it must be headed.

“Inspector — the last bomb — my home, my family — no time for explanations!”

He wasn’t even sure if Hew had heard him, but he wasted no time finding out. He was off at a dead run, hurtling up the street toward home.

When he arrived far too many minutes later, he hurried up the stone steps to the door. It was closed, but unlocked. The instant the handle turned under his hand, alarms equal to those at the station assaulted his mind. He didn’t know whether anyone was home; he hadn’t noticed them on his way, but there was at least the possibility they’d left. The bells of the police station were easily heard even this far away, which surely would’ve attracted their attention.

A distraction.

Entering the house, he didn’t call out. Near the entrance was a little used door down to the cellar, only used for the storage of wines and spirits. That door was never left open, for it was terribly drafty, but it stood open now. The chill down Archerd’s neck had nothing to do with the draft.

He paused for only a moment, and then moved; he closed the front door, quietly, and then ascended the stairs as quickly and quietly as he could to the upper level.

He knew his parents kept an old pistol up in their chambers, but instead he crossed the landing to a prominent tapestry hung on the wall. To either side were mounted two stout staves, decorative in their own right, being topped at each end with heavy, ornate iron caps. He grabbed one, feeling the weight and balance in his hands, and so armed headed downstairs again.

He stopped at the door to the cellar and listened; his breath caught. He heard a distinct rustling and clanking sound, and the clanking was distinctly not the glass of bottles, but of metal.

He chewed his lip in indecision, mind whirling. Every instinct screamed at him to rush down and confront whoever it was — Pilch, almost certainly — but the cellar wasn’t large; he’d have no room to use the staff.

No, he corrected himself mentally. Just not the traditional way. He felt his way down the first few steps, as the stairway was pitch black, and looked back up. Some light came in from above, but not enough to get in his way. A landing further down where the stairs turned at a right angle obscured whatever light Pilch was working with. As quietly as possible, he wedged the staff between a corner of the stairs and the wall. Anyone rushing up without knowledge of the staff’s location would at best be delayed, or perhaps even trip in the dark.

He crept down toward the landing; the faintest of glows was becoming visible as he descended. Edging around the corner, he surveyed the scene.

The cellar was maybe 6 meters by 6, brick walls packed with racks and racks of wine and casks of spirits set on the stone floor, many covered with thick layers of gray dust. There was a pervasive odor of dust and dampness to the place, stale mustiness. There was one occupant.

The man was small, slender, but moved with a certain slightly awkwardness that suggested age. He was working in the light of a single candle, so it was hard to be sure, but Archerd was certain this must be the … gentleman … that Lukey had described. He was crouched down in the middle of the cellar floor, making fine adjustments to a roughly circular apparatus a bit more than roughly a quarter-meter square in diameter. A small bowl or dome of metal lay on the floor next to him; as best Archerd could see in the limited lighting, it did look like a match for the fragments he’d inspected the night before.

The small man grunted in satisfaction and Archerd’s breath caught as he looked in his direction; he simply picked up the metal dome and turned his attention to very carefully replacing it.

Archerd knew the time was now. He stepped quietly but swiftly down the stairs between them and bowled Pilch over. The air filled with his startled cry of surprised anger; the candle dropped to the floor and sputtered, but kept burning feebly.

Archerd’s speed had knocked Pilch deeper into the cellar, and he reacted with speed that belied his age. The metal cover was still in his hands. He launched himself at Archerd with shocking ferocity before Archerd had finished picking himself up from his own charge. The cover slammed into the side of his face with a solid thud that set his head to spinning, and then Pilch was past him and running for the stairs.

Shaking his head to clear it, he was turning to follow when he heard a shout, a clatter and a series of thumping impacts that ended with one very final snap.

Grabbing the candle, he went forward to meet what he knew he’d see. Pilch had indeed tripped over the staff and fallen backwards down the stairs, breaking his neck on the way down. Archerd stared at the body dully. He didn’t look sick, or twisted, or evil, or monstrous. In that moment he looked scared more than anything. Archerd checked the man’s coat and saw the now-familiar Conclave insignia pin.

Filch was the third Conclave agent he’d run afoul of now, and the third who’d died as a result. Archerd hadn’t killed the first two; a … friend had had to shoulder that burden. He shied away from that thought. I’m in the club now, he thought instead, then turned back to the cellar.

The explosive device lay uncovered on the stone, the metal enclosure laying a short distance away, bearing a small smear of Archerd’s own blood. He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding.

Bringing the candle in closer to the device, his breath caught in his throat. It was a marvel of machinery, clockwork components softly ticking away as he watched. It was even more complex than he’d suspected. He closed his eyes and tried to focus. Reaching into a pocket, he retrieved his communicator.

Clicking the transmit button, he said, “Inspector Hew?”

For several moments, nothing. He was about to repeat himself when finally he heard, “Archerd? This is a bad time, there are wounded to attend—”

“I found Pilch.”

“I’m listening.”

“He was in my cellar. He’s dead now, fell down the stairs trying to get away from me. I’m here with the last bomb now.”

“I … see. Is it …?”

“Yes. I am going to have to try to disable it, and … I’m terrified to try and move it, so I will have to do it here. There is some sort of clockwork mechanism inside which I believe controls the timing of the detonation.”

“I’ll get someone out there to assist in any way they can as soon as I can. Archerd, outstanding work.”

“Thank you, Inspector. I … had better get to work on this.”

“Understood. I’ll speak with you soon.”

“I hope so.” He clicked off and returned the communicator to his pocket.

NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 4 - Day 22

With play time over, Archerd and Inspector Hew left to walk the distance to Archerd’s first recommendation. The day was promising to be another scorcher, though it was early yet and the heat hadn’t reached its peak.

“First we should talk with Werian Lukey.”

“Another inventor?” Hew walked with the long, easy stride of someone who practiced out of necessity.

“No, not at all. Junk dealer. I frequent his shop on occasion myself, though I usually prefer to make parts that I lack. He has no shortage of people willing to buy his wares around here however.” While inventing wasn’t exactly the region’s specialty — that would be mining and refining — there was an air of invention around the town, a certain indefinable freeness of the imagination that attracted intelligence and creativity in equal measure. Archerd had never appreciated that fact, not truly, until he’d left the year past for that fateful conference. And now he was certain that same atmosphere of intellectualism, so rare in any community, but a mining community especially, was partly responsible for the Conclave’s attention.

“Indeed,” Hew chewed the thought over. “Lead on, Archerd.”

Lukey’s home was a fair distance from the house, located on the main road out of Dolesham that ultimately lead to Holdswaine. It was a fortuitous location for him, being as it was along the main trade route of the community where travelers were most likely to abandon scrap that they no longer had any use for, while remaining close enough to town that the towns-folk’s leavings were accessible as well.

The house was not exactly a palace — the term “hovel” came more quickly to mind — but it was surprisingly comfortable for all its poor appearance. Werian Lukey was working outside cleaning scraps. He was a big, broad-shouldered man who would’ve been quite imposing if he weren’t so gaunt. He worked with his left hand to clean a length of scrap iron held in a vice; his right arm was withered and bound to his torso. He looked up as they approached and grinned.

“Come a slummin’ Dolet? Haven’t seen ya in weeks, I ‘aven’t. An’ you’ve brought the law along too. They haven’t gone an’ made it illegal to clean scrap on me, ‘ave they?”

“Just thought you might be in the mood to sell some information today instead of the usual scrap, Lukey. How’re you getting by?”

“Ah, well enough. Well as ever. If I know somethin’ you can use, I’ll be happy to take yer money for it, sure enough. What’re you lookin’ for?”

“Strangers.” Hew stepped forward and offered his hand; his left, Archerd noted. Lukey shook it. “Inspector Hew of the Dolesham police force. Archerd here tells me you’re the one to talk to about suspicious sorts who may have been buying odds and ends over, say, the last couple of weeks or so?”

“I likely am at that. The town’s not so big that there’s a lotta competition o’er that sorta thing now is it?” He grinned a broken grin. “This ‘ave somethin’ to do with the school gettin’ blowed up?”

“It certainly does, Mr. Lukey.”

“Rumor floatin’ round town was the guy what did it got ‘imself caught in it and won’ be doin it again.”

“That’s true. We believe he might have been working with someone though, and whether he was or not, we can’t assume this is the end of it.” Hew produced a folded sheet of paper. On the paper was a crude sketch of a man. “We think the one that destroyed the school looked something like this.”

“Aye. That’d be the one fella. An’ as fer th’other, well now … that much I think I can vouch for. Firs’ time I met ‘im he weren’t alone. Had another fella with ‘im. Small guy, slim. Older. Seen ‘im around before, sold ‘im some scrap bits now ‘n then. Name of … Pilch, it were.”

“You said you sold him some scrap? Do you remember what he was interested in?”

“You better believe I c’n do that,” and he rattled off a list of descriptions that Archerd had to pay careful attention to, nodding as the man spoke. When Lukey finally trailed off, Archerd drew a bill purse from his belt and counted out a decent sum.

“As promised, Lukey.”

“That’s mighty genrous ‘o you, Dolet. I’ll ‘ave to save some ‘o the best for ya, ‘stead of sellin’ to Pilch, if ‘e e’er comes by this way again.”

Hew shook his head. “No, it’d be much better if you did sell to him again if he returns, and then make sure you let us know what he was after once he’s gone. It’d be best if he didn’t know we’ve been here at all.”

Lukey glanced down at the money in his fist and grinned. Hew quirked a smile of his own. “There’ll be more in it for you if you sell him any more without mentioning us.”

“We ‘ave a deal, inspector sir. Pleasure doin’ business with ya.”

They took their leave and started toward the police headquarters, roughly central in the town. “A name and rough description, that’s something. What did you make the list of supplies this Pilch bought?”

“I recognized several as good matches for what you brought to me last night, but the quantities are wrong, unless he was planning to build several of them. 3, I should think. Lukey couldn’t supply everything he’d need, so they must have another source, or else they already had some of what they’d need. In particular, the shaped casing bothers me. It’s difficult to imagine anyone local being able to supply that. Either they brought those with them, or they had them custom-made.”

“Why go to the trouble of bringing some pieces and not others?”

“Difficulty with transport I suppose. Nothing he supplied them with would serve as an explosive agent, and that concerns me. Of all the things I’d have expected them to acquire locally, that’s the most important, since everything about the design suggests to me that the explosive agent is volatile. I can think of no other reason for cooling equipment inside, as just a single example among many.

“Further, I can’t yet fathom why they needed such an elaborate design. Was it purely a mechanism, if you’ll pardon the expression, by which Pilch can eliminate his ‘partners’? If so, what does he plan to do with his remaining bombs? I’ve too many questions, and I find suddenly, Inspector, that I don’t envy you your job as much as I did just yesterday.”

Hew chuckled. “Indeed, they sometimes paint the job with a rather picturesque and heroic brush, don’t they? Alas, it’s not always that way, as you’re now learning.

“My questions are whether Pilch was working with more than one associate, and if so, does he plan to eliminate them similarly. I’m not sure how he’d plan to accomplish that after the first one, though, as the word is all over town that the original saboteur died in the attempt.

“More importantly and more pressingly though, if he has or could have several other explosive devices, then where and when is he planning to use them?”

By this time they were drawing near the police headquarters, a handsome building of dark brick, all columns and arches and topped with towers upon which officers could get what must have been a breathtaking overlook of the town.

NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 4 - Day 21

Back to NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 4 - Day 20

“Mother, Father, I’ll be back at the house. I really must finish the air hull designs. Please let Inspector Hew know in case he needs me for anything, and assure him that if I think of anyone who might have relevant input I’ll be sure to ask them.”

“Of course, Archerd.” His father laid a hand on his shoulder and he turned back toward the house, mind racing.

He didn’t think he knew of anyone who’d have anything to say, at least not anyone that Ann wouldn’t already be asking. Stomach churning with the unwelcome feeling of helplessness, he let his feet carry him back home through the still largely empty streets.

The Dolet family home had been in the family for many generations; Archerd’s father had inherited it from an uncle before Archerd himself had been born. It was a large building, and Archerd had several rooms to himself. One of these he used as both office and design studio, and this was where he went now.

The room was a feast for the eyes, covered with carefully hand-drawn maps, diagrams, charts and schematics on the walls instead of art, with piles of books, gadgets and components thereof tucked in alcoves and shelves and on tables everywhere there was space. A large desk occupied one half of the room, while the center was dominated by a draftsman’s drawing table. Large windows overlooked the yards out back, and in front of those windows, a long workbench held more parts in carefully organized disarray.

He stood before the draftsman’s table, breathing in the familiar curious mixture of bookish dusty warmth and metallic tangs of filings and alloys, overlaid with wood and metal polishes and grease. It helped calm his nerves a little. He turned his attention to the plans spread out over the table. At first glance, it looked much like the plans for a locomotive engine. A long, very broad chassis stretched through the virtual space of the paper, with three large stacks rising from it to allow steam pressure to be vented from various parts of the engine assemblies inside.

From there the resemblance grew harder to see, as instead of the great wheels of the track-riding trains, this vehicle was to be outfitted with what looked like outrigger pods connected with a half-dozen braces on each side, and linked to the body again with railed steps for passengers and crew.

It was larger still, both longer, deeper and wider, for unlike a train it would not be hauling anything behind it. It would instead be hauled itself, through the air, kept aloft by … and that was what Archerd was presently considering.

Transports that float through the air had been built before, held always by heated air that buoyed the craft upwards, but he wasn’t convinced that would be sufficient for a craft of the size he was designing.

He was writing notes in a journal of the merits and detriments of various alternative buoyancy mechanisms, including the use of helium or possibly hydrogen gas, when a knock came at the door. A glance at his pocket watch told him that he’d lost track of time, and it was now late in the afternoon. Hours had passed.

Setting aside a brass-handled quill he’d been scribbling sketches with, he answered the door to find himself face to face with Inspector Hew once more. He was dusty and soot-stained, and holding a small leather sack which jangled a bit as he moved.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dolet. Your father said you’d volunteered to lend your expertise to the investigation if it should be required, and I do rather think it’s required, if you have a few moments.”

“Yes! Yes, of course, please, come in.” He opened the door fully and stepped aside to allow the inspector entrance. “What can I do for you? Please, have a seat.”

The inspector nodded and sat himself on a brass stool at the workbench, there being few other options as Archerd was unaccustomed to guests in his office. “Well, Mr. Dolet, we found the source of the explosion, or rather the pieces thereof. It was an explosive device of some sort, and I have to confess that neither I nor anyone else on the force are knowledgeable about such things. Frankly, nobody’s even heard of such things before, but the physical evidence is hard to dismiss.” He sighed.

“We generally keep to a strict policy regarding civilian involvement in law enforcement matters, Mr. Dolet, but your father has helped us out on several occasions in the past, and he told me that in this particular matter, you’re the expert. Would you take a look at this … wreckage, and see what you can make of it?”

Archerd smiled. “With pleasure, Inspector Hew.” He cleared space on the work table top. “If you would? Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.” His mind was racing with possibilities; he was familiar with explosive devices, though the most common type he knew of were firearms, simple devices that used a controlled, directed explosive compound to drive projectiles at high speed in the desired direction. That hardly seemed to describe what had happened at the school. Something larger, perhaps, without the directional control …

The inspector spread the components out across the table and Archerd immediately threw those thoughts out the window. This was something else entirely, nothing comparable to a firearm or simple bomb; that much he could tell at a glance.

“Well now.” He took a pair of multi-lensed work goggles from the worktable and dragged up another stool. “What have we here …”

He fiddled with the lenses of the goggles, flipping some of the several lenses up then down over each eye until he got the magnification he needed. All of the pieces were of course badly damaged, burnt black in places. There were fragments of what must have been an outer shell or casing of some sort, with thinned edges suggesting seams or perhaps thinner grooves.

“Inspector, could you describe the wreckage of the school to me? What did you learn from examining the remains of the building?”

“Quite a lot, though not enough. First, I learned my early suspicions were correct; whoever set the device met his end there. He was still present when the explosion occurred, though there’s not much left of him now. At least he won’t be setting any more bombs in the future.

“Second, the walls and roof were blasted out; the perpetrator set the bomb inside the building, not outside, and the floor is relatively intact save for where the roof fell on it and where interior furnishings caught fire and burned.”

“Exactly what I was curious about. See these thinned edges on these pieces? This looks to be a casing, and it’s been designed to blow out in a particular way, guiding the blast up and out rather than allowing it freedom in all directions.”

“That would explain much of what I saw at the site. What more can you tell me?”

“I’ll have to spend some more time examining this, I’m afraid. Most of it is quite unlike anything I’ve seen before. These pieces almost look like something you’d find as part of a cooling apparatus, but I can’t imagine why that would be of any value in an explosive device, and these—”

“Actually, that might indeed be the case. Your sister was most helpful earlier. She led us to several people in different areas of the street who recalled having seen an unusual looking man carrying a large case. One of those witnesses told us he was leaving the residence of a Mr. Bowdyn Creekmore. I understand you know him?”

“Bowdyn? What would he have to do with …” He stopped and frowned. Bowdyn Creekmore was an inventor of sorts, untrained in the sciences formally, but very clever. He’d met the man several times and they had something of a friendly rivalry between them. They’d never been friends, however; Bowdyn always seemed to have just a touch of the careless to him, was just a little too eager to rush to the end result of his work. Archerd knew he could be impulsive himself at times, but his father and the Academy in turn had both trained that out of his work habits, if not necessarily always out of his life entirely.

“Oh Bowdyn. What has he gotten himself into?”

“Can’t know for sure just yet, but since you know him and you’re familiar with his field, that’s the other way you can help, Mr. Dolet. I have men talking to him now, and when they’re done, I’d like you to look over what he had to say. If we need to talk to him again, I’d like you there.”

“Do you suspect him of aiding the saboteur?”

“Right now we have no reason to think so, but it’s really too early to say. I’ll know more when I hear the report from my men.”

“Then I should let you get back to them. I’ll go over this and see what I can learn.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear, and thank you. I’ll stop by in the morning to hear your conclusions.” Hew stood then, and extended his hand. Rising in turn, Archerd shook it and led him out, then turned back to the strange apparatus with a curious frown.

“And now, what exactly are you?” And he set to work to find out.

He worked until late in the evening, long past the setting of the sun, when the air finally cooled to survivable temperatures and he had to light candles to see. When he did turn in for the night at last, he thought he had a pretty good idea just what it was the saboteur had built.

The next morning Inspector Hew was as good as his word. He turned up at the door shortly after breakfast, just in time for a cup of coffee. Archerd and his father were still at the table.

“The good news is it doesn’t sound like your friend Mr. Creekmore was up to no good yesterday. He says the man stopped in to buy a part, paid for it and left straight away.”

“Good news, certainly,” Archerd said with a touch of relief. “But it doesn’t seem to help us any either.”

“Not that, no. But this does. The man had been in once before, several weeks ago. That’s when he ordered the piece. ”

“He’d been here this long!”

Across the table, Archerd’s father ran a hand over his thinning white hair and sighed. “Here under our very noses. And unless I’m very mistaken, we’d be fools to assume he was alone.”

“Fools indeed, Father.” Archerd wore a grim expression. “I completed my examination of the device last night, Inspector Hew, and while I can’t say what the explosive itself was composed of, the mechanism I can describe in great detail. Whatever the explosive was, it was a solid composition, not a powder nor liquid, and it required a controlled temperature. What’s more, the mechanism used to set it off was designed to be controlled, and I’d guess carefully controlled.”

“You guess? That doesn’t sound very confident.”

“I know, and I apologize, but we are discussing delicate components of an explosive device that was successfully set off. There simply wasn’t much left of that part of the device, and what there was was in dreadful shape. I have had to base my evaluation on the parts that were intact and present for me to examine, and I assure you it wasn’t easy.

“In any event, the controlled trigger looked like it should have been capable of providing enough control for the man to get out in time.”

Inspector Hew nodded. “I’ve been considering two possibilities, but that does add a third. First, he was careless and blew himself up accidentally. Second, he intentionally blew himself up. Or, in light of your examination, perhaps he was set up by someone else and the device was configured to go off earlier than he knew. A bit of a logical leap, I know, but I’ll have to check into it. Thank you for your help, both of you.”

“Perhaps I can still be of some help, Inspector.” Archerd sat forward. “If we’re looking for yet another man, possibly a smarter man, smart enough to have rigged the explosive to go off early, then maybe he’s had dealings with other people in town. Other orders for parts.”

Hew finished his coffee and nodded. “Yes … Yes indeed, an excellent thought. Very well then Altman, I’ll be borrowing your boy if you don’t mind.”

“Gone and found a replacement for me have you?” Altman said with a chuckle. “It’s about time, I’m too old for all that running around.”

“You’ve got some years in you yet, I’d wager. Don’t you worry. I’ll bring him back in one piece. You ready, young Mr. Dolet?”

“Call me Archerd, Inspector. And if I may beg your pardon for a moment longer, I’ll go retrieve something that may be of some use to us.”

Hew nodded and Archerd disappeared upstairs, reappearing moments later with a small hard case. He set this on the table and fiddled with a combination lock on the front, a series of buttons that elicited the sound of turning gears within at each press. Finally a sharp clack sounded and the lock released with a snap.

Opening the case, he withdrew two small devices. “I’m sure you’ve used something like this before Inspector, you likely have one set up at your headquarters.”

“I couldn’t say, why, what is it?”

In response, Archerd handed one of the devices to the inspector, after carefully checking the volume. “It’s for communication,” he said, his voice transmitted perfectly to the matching device in Hew’s hand. The man’s eyes widened.

“Remarkable. Simply remarkable. Altman, you old dog, you’ve been holding out on us, this young man is a treasure! You built this?”

“Designed and built, indeed. It saved my life once too, though I hope it won’t come to that again.”

“And they have the same capabilities as the larger units?”

“Exactly the same.”

“When this is over I’ll have to have a talk with you about building some more.”

“I think that can be arranged, Inspector. But for now, consider it a loan. What frequency do you use on the unit at headquarters? I’ll set your communicator up to send and receive to it. Won’t take more than a few minutes.”

Several minutes later, Archerd had Hew’s communicator equipped with both frequencies, the one for Archerd’s device and the police headquarters’ device set up on switches for the Inspector’s use. Hew delighted in shocking the living daylights out of his man on duty at the desk by calling in; the communicators were used for inter-city communications, not on the level of individuals.


Continue to NaNoWriMo 2011 Story 4 - Day 22