The Gadgeteer (Arabeth Barnes Book 1)

  Dedicated to my friends and family ;-)

  and

  everyone willing to take a risk on an unfamiliar author. You're amazing.

  I'd love to tell you when you can expect my next story, or when I give stuff away. Add your email address here—http://eepurl.com/biB8zb—if that sounds like something you'd like.

  All rights reserved. Except where permitted by law, this book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author.

  © 2018 Gin Hollan

  Introduction

  Dear Reader,

  As is common in Steampunk, certain liberties have been taken, both with timelines and inventions. This world is Earth-like but I have moved the development of radio waves, radar, and related technology (such as transistors) up by fifty to a hundred years, depending on the item in question. Under that premise, established radio communication is a solid technology by the mid-1850s and supports the use of commercial radio stations, and ham radio operation.

  I also hope you'll forgive that instead of TV following within twenty years of the first commercial radio station starting up, it will be quite some time before that happens.

  This is only a starting point. It’s not long before my imagination kicks in and this whole thing goes completely off the rails. In subsequent stories, the technologies that we still dream about are alive and well, and in some cases, they’re old news.

  Thank you for choosing this story! I hope you have fun.

  // Chapter 1 //

  Tracking down escaped criminals was no profession for a lady, her father always said. Arabeth had to agree as she crouched down on the sidewalk, hand- and leg-cuffing a large, nearly unconscious man. People stared a little, but she wasn't worried. Some of them recognized her from the newspaper—by reputation, not appearance. Truth was, it was usually a shock to see a woman bringing down a full-grown man, remotely or otherwise.

  She may be a lady according to the society of Blastborn, but she was a gadgeteer first, and gadgets required testing.

  Today, she was dressed in a hip-length tailored brown leather coat, dark brown cotton pants, and a white blouse, but she should have been in black, and wearing a long skirt. Mourning clothes. But she wasn’t, and that got her more backhanded comments from passersby than her new job. She missed wearing trousers, but she’d be back in her workshop soon enough.

  Working as a bail enforcement specialist, sub-specialty tracker, Arabeth filled a necessary gap in the police system; the way she saw it, her position left officers free to do the hard work of investigating crime and proving intent. Yes, she’d only been doing the job for three months, but it was oddly satisfying to track these people down and put them back in for re-training. He was her last job before her four-person troupe of enforcers disbanded for the season, and he was a good catch. Her father couldn’t argue with the results.

  The man twitched, face-down on the wet cobblestones. The early morning rain still dripped a little. That was likely why he'd slipped so easily when her bola grabbed one ankle instead of two. Still, she'd take it as a win. She'd removed her scarf and draped it over him to hide his face, humming a moment as she waited. He'd knocked himself silly when he fell, but she wasn't taking a chance.

  This new tranquilizer worked quickly and lasted long enough for her to safely get him restrained. At least, that's what Arnold had told her. This target, Desmond Mullock, was as big as any cow on two legs, and about as bright as a dust mop. Had she given him a high enough dose? No matter. He was restrained now and the rest of the team should arrive any second.

  Her pet fox, Marble, sat nearby looking bored. The tiny grey-tipped black and white fox was eight pounds soaking wet, but could track like it was nobody's business.

  The man grunted as he struggled to free himself. The tranquilizer haze meant he was barely aware of the restraints, alternately giggling and mumbling as he tried to regain control of his limbs.

  "Relax. Tracking you down was like getting a free seat at amateur hour. Every friend you have pointed you out. You should rethink your life during this humbling, painful time," said Arabeth.

  The man wouldn't listen. He had no investment in her guidance. No motivation. Anyway, they occasionally reformed, but the odds weren't good. That was how the criminal class had come into being, despite all efforts to help them move on to respectable work and lives. She sighed and patted the man's shoulder.

  "You could be the best in your neighbourhood, with the best clothes of all those you know, but until you finish your reformation training, no one will believe you can be better. This is one of those times where only pain can bring peace."

  She hated the words, even as they came out of her mouth. She stood with one foot still on the man’s back, leaning to look around. A constable should have been here by now. One passed this spot every half hour, normally, and it was Dawson's turn.

  "And frankly, you're bad at this. It's embarrassing. Find what you are good at. Crime's not it," she continued.

  She pulled a thin chain from around her neck, up and out of her long coat. The long silver whistle at the end of it clanked against a button. Two more minutes. If help didn't arrive by then, she'd use it. No sense waiting to see if Mullock's friends would come to help the deadbeat. Yes, they'd turned on him, but that's what coins did to people.

  A scream from down the street made her look. She turned away from it. No distractions. Not this time. This would be her fourth bounty this week, and the last she needed to meet her personal goal. She signalled for Marble to go check it out. The fox was already standing. Ready to throw all eight pounds of herself into the new mystery, she dashed off.

  A moment later a young boy, about ten years old, sprinted from that direction. It was Matty, one of the runners the police station used to pass information between units. Reliable and fast. That was his reputation. Spotting Arabeth, he ran her way, knowing her from their short interactions waiting for jobs at the police station.

  "The constable's hurt," he gasped, face white from shock.

  "What? Who is?"

  "Constable Dawson. He's a real mess, too. He might die, I think."

  "You’re headed to the station?”

  Matty nodded.

  “You'd better keep on. I'll look over him until help arrives."

  The boy looked pale as a ghost as he reached his hand out, fingers clenched around a paper and a key. "Dawson … he wanted me to give you this. Said it's top secret and to tell no one."

  At the realization that this twelve-year-old boy had been there when a cop—a good cop—nearly died, Arabeth's heart nearly broke for him.

  "You’ll be all right, Matty. I know it's a shock and it's hard, but you will be okay." Standing, she took the items from him and stuffed them in her satchel.

  This had to be traumatic for the boy. Even as a police runner, he didn't often attend a crime scene. His job was to run new assignments or updates out to the constables or between detachments.

  "Whoever did this will get caught and suffer for their crime. Count on that. You'd best get to the station so they can get on this," she said.

  He nodded and darted off, looking a little less shocked and more determined.

  Arabeth looked at her captive. He'd be fine here for a few minutes. She wanted to see the scene of the crime before anyone disturbed anything.

  She turned and hurried to where Dawson lay. As she neared, a crowd was forming. Who would be stupid enough to try to kill a beat cop? Police had a special vengeance for those who tried. And, as a society, it was understood that constables were a necessary part of the cat-and-mouse method of modern justice.

  She wedged her way in and saw Dawson laying
awkwardly in a too-large pool of red, with a long, deep gash running down one side of his torso. Moving him like this would be a bad idea.

  Except for him, nothing in the alley seemed out of the ordinary. She inhaled deeply, hoping people took it as a suppressed gasp. Truthfully, she was testing the air as she moved to kneel beside him, looking for a clue.

  There were no secondary smells. She'd hoped for diesel, or sulphur, or coal—anything would be helpful. The only non-human smell was from a tannery three doors down, outside this alley. Maybe the smell of the blood was too strong.

  "Dawson, its Arabeth." She spoke softly, wishing he were alive. There was no way he was, but it felt odd to walk up and treat him like… like a corpse. She had no idea what else to say. "Matty's gone for help."

  Marble paced behind Arabeth a moment then gave a whimper as she lay down, legs forward, head down between her legs, looking at Dawson.

  A man pushed forward, through the crowd.

  "Make way, I'm a doctor."

  Arabeth looked at him. He looked anything but a doctor.

  "What's your name?" she asked, blocking his path.

  "Do we really have time for that?" He pushed past and knelt beside Dawson, dropping a medical bag, then checking the gaping wound. "Help me. Hold this." He pulled a fistful of cotton gauze out and held it toward her without looking.

  "What could have caused a one-foot incision, deep enough to show ribs? This cut was straight in and straight down. No sword did this," he continued, talking more to himself than anyone.

  Arabeth knelt and took the gauze, not sure what help she could be. With nothing to do but sit and wait for instructions, she observed, checking the wounds according to her skill set.

  The doctor was right to ask—what could cause two vertical slashes, one shallower but matching the deeper cut on the other side? The edges of the skin were pressed in. It was as though two blades had sunk in at the same time in some form of pinch.

  The wounds looked like something she’d seen in the newspaper. A farmer had been killed by his own thresher, while he was repairing it. That was an odd accident, no matter how she thought it out. She was a gadgeteer, not a medic, and machines ought to make sense.

  Arabeth shuddered at the image it created—the motion of a machine grabbing him. Why was he close enough to get pinched? When Dawson woke again, he'd have answers, she hoped.

  The question she hated to consider was always second or third on her list: was he in the wrong place at the wrong time, or was this attack premeditated? She'd have to ask Melanie to check his active case list and slip her some names. This one hurt too much. She'd been almost friends with him. They were 'good acquaintances,' as it were.

  The doctor moved with speed and accuracy, removing any doubt she had that he wasn’t who he said he was.

  "His blood loss is substantial. We need to move him to a hospital immediately," he said, standing and wiping a small amount of blood off his hands and clothes with a discoloured rag he’d pulled from a pocket. He pointed to two larger men. "You two, help me get him to a hospital." He paused. “Where is the nearest hospital?”

  As they moved off, she couldn't feel hopeful for Dawson's survival. Wiping a lone tear away, she turned to the others around her.

  "Did any of you see anything? Did you see someone running away, other than the boy? Do you know what the weapon was?" She looked around at the faces, hoping someone had seen something.

  Most of them averted their eyes, not wanting to talk to her. She had no authority in this. Another patrolman arrived and Arabeth told him what she’d learned, but now the best thing she could do was go to where she could quietly read the note Matty had passed her and see what the key was for.

  She pushed her way back out, through the crowd, wanting to write down her impressions of the crime scene before any of it escaped her mind. As she replayed everything back in her mind, she realized there was bruising on his neck as well.

  Odd that she hadn't heard anyone yell, or scream, or observed any other signs of a struggle. She'd been close enough to hear that much, she was sure. Maybe her notes would be useful to the detective assigned to the case. But right now she had to get back to work.

  She returned to her waiting captive, smiling when she saw Samuel Hicks standing by the man. He did not return her smile, instead giving her a scowl.

  "You left a nearly-sedated prisoner alone? Where are your bail enforcement friends?"

  "Marble and I ran eight blocks to catch him. They'll catch up, eventually." She shrugged. "I am the tracker, after all." Her lithe athletic abilities teamed with Marble's tracking made the pair virtually inescapable. Even in a skirt, she added silently.

  "That's not comforting. What if you need backup?" he snapped.

  His anger didn't bother her. Not much. She had no interest in living up to his expectations or explaining her team’s methods. She had to get him off her and onto something important.

  "Did you see Matty on the way here? You need to go east up one block then south down to the second alley." She pointed her directions, working to keep fear out of her voice. "Dawson needed to be hospitalized after an attack, and the scene is compromised, but you may be able to get a lead." The image of the blood and wounds wouldn't leave her mind for quite a long time, she knew. “A doctor moved him to the hospital, but it’s quite a mess down there. Frank Masters is guarding the scene.”

  "When? How?" Habitually, he raised a hand to adjust his narrow, silver-framed glasses.

  "I don't know, but it's gruesome. Be ready."

  A look of concern flashed across his face as he watched Arabeth.

  "I'm fine. You'd better go," she said. She handed him the notes she'd made. "And get Matty some help—he was on the scene as Dawson bled."

  He waited, watching her until she scowled at him.

  "Right." He hastened away.

  Arabeth almost regretted sending him off. She'd have to drag Mullock into custody by herself, and fast. Once news of this strange killing got out, the city would be in chaos.

  She had just the thing. Opening her satchel, she unlatched the back section and pulled out a metal series of tubes, each as thick as a finger. Unfolding it and snapping each piece into place, it quickly became something that worked as a lightweight foldout dolly. She pulled out a strap and wrapped it around his chest, under the dolly, and back up to tie before starting toward the nearest detachment. Her mind was drawn back to the strangeness of Dawson's attack. Hicks would have a heart attack if he knew she was thinking about helping the investigation, so she wouldn't tell him. That meant she had to pretend life went on as per normal. She'd find a way to help. She had to. Dawson was a friend.

  // Chapter 2 //

  Back at home, Arabeth stood in her workshop as Marble sat on a workbench off to one side. There had been a note on her door—one more convict to re-catch, because they’d done this last one so fast. They refused, but it was protocol to share the job with every team member. She suspected it was a ploy to keep her from her new project. It worked.

  She wouldn’t wear a skirt this time, instead working in soft cotton trousers and a loose but tucked-in long-sleeved blouse. As she considered which tactics and devices to use for their next target, it seemed Marble was waiting to see her choices, getting more or less excited based on the tool Arabeth chose.

  There was an electricity in the moment, like Christmas morning before you were old enough to guess what was in the wrapper. It was Christmas at your crazy great-aunt's house—when you were never quite sure if she'd wrapped you a bag of peanuts, a shotgun, a cat, or something more dangerous.

  "Get your mind back on the job," she chided herself. "Heathcliff Sanders is six feet tall and about two hundred pounds. None of the others want in, so we're on our own."

  The fox gave a little yip, as if to confirm.

  Running her hand along the edge of one large set of storage shelves, Arabeth pondered what to bring. Her target's build was his advantage. It usually was, she sighed. She'd need a size 1
2 hand brace and a 17 leg trap. And it wouldn't hurt to load a sedation dart. Nodding, she put each dart into a secure spot inside a stiff leather pouch and clipped it to the light-weight rigging worn under her jacket.

  If her information was accurate, he would be eating at a sloppy little restaurant called Donny's Diner on the south side, and be well-inebriated by the time he left. She'd see to that second part.

  Someone coughed, startling her. Turning, she frowned. It was Hicks.

  "Remind me why you have a key to my home and workshop," she said to the tall, dark-haired, well-suited man if his expensive hat, dress trousers, and shoes were anything to judge by, who stood smiling with his hands in his overcoat pockets.

  Hicks laughed and shrugged. "Something to do with having someone make sure you're still alive now and then."

  "So, what brings you here?" she asked.

  He looked away, clearing his throat. "I was in the area."

  "No…. No distractions." She shook a finger at him. They'd been friends since childhood, but she'd been changed by her short marriage to someone else. Now that he was dead, she was figuring out the rest of her life. This was part of the process. Either way, she wasn't taking Hick's bait. "Whatever it is can wait."

  "I figured." He looked like he wanted to say more, but made himself stop.

  Arabeth walked over to the fox and gently rubbed the creature’s head. "You should have warned me he was here," she pretended to whisper.

  "It seems I've got her approval." He shrugged.

  "Or you're here too often." She pointed to the door. "Don't you have somewhere else to be? Aren't there some nasty people to arrest and the like?" Her plan wouldn't work with Hicks in tow.

  "I am completely at your disposal," he said as he chuckled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist one last capture before midnight.”