MACHINES

ONE

Murder.

The word screamed at me from my hand machine. I read the accompanying communication many times on my journey from the capital, yet that word drew my eyes like a siren’s call. The electronic communication I had received from Professor Pyke the day before was so curious in nature it had regarded my immediate attention.

Special Detective Finch,

I need your help, and there’s no time to waste. Someone is trying to murder me, and I have nowhere left to turn. In just a week’s time, I will be holding a demonstration to showcase my latest invention. Since making the announcement, I have been plagued with ominous threats, culminating in outright attempts on my life. The local constabulary is either incompetent or unwilling to assist, leaving me with no choice but to seek your expertise.

I remember your brilliance from last year’s conference, and I know that only someone with your insight and skill can uncover the identity of the one who seeks to destroy me. There is no one else I trust.

I realise this request is unconventional and outside the bounds of the Catcher’s Office, but I beg for your understanding. Please, meet with me at my address so we can discuss this further in person.

I implore you, come at once—my life depends on it.

Sincerely

Professor Pyke

I recalled the conference Pyke mentioned in his communication. I had delivered my revolutionary presentation in a lecture theatre full of those that were connected to, or interested in, understanding the idiosyncrasies of the criminal mind, titled ‘Criminal Profiling & The Future of Police Work’. In attendance included members of regional constabulary, the wardens who master the prison barges, right up to the militaristic powers that take ownership of the prisoners undertaking their prescribed conscription. And, of course, who could forget the standing ovation I received when I ended the presentation with my catch cry?

I seemed to have gathered quite a following after publications reported my efforts in disabling a supply chain of root beer and dynamite to our foreign enemies by members of local parliament, no less. The culprits in question had done their mightiest to throw other Catchers off the scent, directing them towards a series of criminals who had been dismissed from their sentences. However, one piece of evidence led me to the masterminds—a single rose petal.

Consequently, the Catcher’s Office had undertaken several propositions to move into administrative or training roles in an effort to better disperse my skills to others. The Chief Magistrate himself had sequestered my attention to his private office. However, I politely refused all invitations, informing that I shall desert my current standing when the last breath has departed my body. The response to which he nodded solemnly, both in admiration and disappointment.

Without warning, the carriage jerked to a sudden halt, nearly throwing me from my seat. I braced myself as the horses outside whinnied and stomped, their hooves splashing in the mud with a fury that rattled the entire carriage. For a moment, I could only hear their restless snorts and the driver’s low murmurs as he attempted to calm them.

“Stay inside, sir!” Jace’s voice, firm and unyielding, cut through the chaos.

I clenched my jaw in frustration. Every second spent idling here was a second wasted. My thoughts flickered back to the Professor—if his suspicions were correct, time was not on our side. Murder, as I had learned all too well, waits for no one. And whatever danger loomed over the Professor, it demanded my immediate attention.

Yet here I sat, stranded in the middle of this godforsaken road, while outside the horses continued their fit, and the night stretched on, indifferent to my urgency. I clicked off my hand machine, transforming the interior into obscurity, my face once ablaze now confiscated by the shadows.

“Who goes there?” Jace’s voice rang out, sharp and alert. A moment later, I heard the squelch of his boots digging into mud as he eased from his driver’s position. He had clearly stepped down to investigate something—or someone—that had caught his eye.

A shiver of apprehension crept through me. I had half-expected an encounter. Furlow Forest was notorious for bandits and thieves, a scourge that had plagued the region for years despite countless efforts to root them out. Still, I had insisted Jace take this route, believing it would cut valuable time off our journey from the capital.

But now, as I listened to the uneasy silence beyond the carriage, I couldn’t help but wonder if the gamble had been worth the risk. A knock came at the carriage door, beckoning me to step outside and breathe in the damp, earthy smells of the forest. Reluctantly, I cracked the door open, only to feel the cold press of a blade against my throat.

“Out,” came the gruff command.

I obeyed, stepping down from the carriage, only to find Jace pinned against the side, a knife similarly poised at his neck. The man holding him was a filthy, scrawny figure, his clothes a mismatched assortment of tattered rags and scavenged garments, likely plundered from some poor soul earlier that day. His eyes darted nervously, his weight shifting from one foot to the other as though even standing still was a challenge.

I straightened my coat and stared him down. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Aye,” he spat. “There’s plenty who’d like the chance to slit the throat of a Catcher.”

“I see. Well, I’m on official business,” I replied calmly, sizing him up. “And I’ve no time for distractions. I’m willing to overlook this little transgression if you let us go on our way.”

He sneered, his rotting teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Can’t let that happen. Not when we’ve got you right where we want ya!”

My gaze shifted to Jace, whose face had gone ghostly pale in the moonlight. The man’s blade hovered dangerously close to his throat.

“But there are only two of you,” I noted, casually.

The man’s expression faltered, his mouth twisting in an awkward half-smile, half-frown. Just then, three more figures stepped from the shadows, each clad in the same filthy attire, gripping wooden clubs. They ranged in size and shape, but all shared the same hungry, dangerous glint in their eyes.

“Ah, much better,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. I removed my bowler hat and extended it toward the ringleader. “Would you mind holding this?”

He hesitated, then took it, confused.

“Thank you,” I said, and without warning, I drove my fist into his nose with all the force I could muster. He staggered back, collapsing in a heap as if the blow had knocked time itself from his bones.

The others charged. The first swung wildly, but I sidestepped with ease, using his momentum to send him stumbling past me. The second attacker rushed in, swinging his club high, but I spun, dodging the blow and tripping him with a swift kick. He landed face-first in the mud, cursing as he scrambled to rise.

Dodge left, trip right—it was almost too easy.

The last of them came straight at me. I squared up, drawing my baton and snapping it open with a quick flick of my wrist. His club swung down, but I blocked it with a sharp clang, then delivered a swift kick to his midsection, doubling him over. He groaned and collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach.

Meanwhile, the man who had been holding Jace against the carriage tried to join the fight, but as he moved, Jace stuck out his foot, tripping him. The thug fell face-first into the muck, his knife flying from his hand and disappearing into the grass.

The first man, blood streaming from his nose, snarled as he stumbled toward me. I walked calmly up to him, his fists raised in defiance, and with one sharp movement, drove the heel of my palm up into his chin. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground, utterly defeated.

“Are you alright, Jace?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” he replied. “What do you want to do with them?”

I marched over and plucked my bowler hat from the scrawny man, who was still groaning in the mud. “I have more pressing matters to attend to,” I said, dusting off the brim before placing it firmly back on my head. With a quick adjustment of my coat, I glanced at Jace, who had begun to regain his composure.

“Best we be on our way,” I added, as though the entire skirmish had been nothing more than a slight inconvenience.

The carriage pulled up at the house, the squeaky brake sending screeching waves echoing into the still evening. The horses stamped their hooves impatiently on the wet cobblestone thoroughfare. Miniscule raindrops dotted the panes. The only luminance that infiltrated the carriage originated from the dull streetlamps and the half-moon that slipped between heavy clouds.

With a gloved hand, I withdrew my silver pocket watch, snapped open the lid, and angled it into a narrow beam of light. Thanks to my earlier encounter, I had arrived barely on time.

Jace descended from his seat and opened my door while clipping down the folded step. I snapped the pocket watch shut and slid it back into my waistcoat pocket before leaning out of the portal, inhaling a lungful of crisp night air. The soft scent of burning pine needles filled the air, mixed with the cold of the northerly that had blown for a week.

I had missed places such as this, moments like this. The calm before the storm. When I ventured into the regions for business, I never appreciated my environment. My mind was always on achieving something, my thoughts elsewhere. This trip was an unexpected foray into my past.

I stepped down, my boots landing soundly on the stone.

“Welcome to Grace, sir,” Jace said.

I never forgot a name… or a face… or a place, for that matter. Those things had a way of securing themselves in my mind and cataloguing themselves accordingly. Then, of their own volition, they would connect to form a whole picture, one where everything became clear and made sense. If I had had my way, I would have filed Jace, and all he represents into a section called Superfluous or Unnecessary. However, that was not up to me.

Having paid him little mind while boarding the carriage at the capital—and throughout the commotion that followed—I now took the opportunity to give him a proper once-over.

Despite the shadow cast by his driver’s cap, he had the unmistakable look of youth, with soft blond hair falling from under the brim, nearly obscuring his eyes. His clothes and shoes were worn and dirty—hardly surprising given his position as the carriage driver—but a gleam of bright silver caught the light: the backing of a pin visible on his vest.

I drank in the clues as I looked over him. He stared back and puffed out his chest.

“Everything alright, sir?”

“You were a Runner in his Royal’s Command and have recently been medically boarded. You’ve chosen the position of driver in order to reinstate yourself amongst the other officers and re-join the front. Also, you have an affliction for Sugar May’s Extra Coated Jelly Beans.”

He blinked, stepped back in disbelief.

“How on earth did you know that, sir?”

“Simple, really. The first giveaway was your stance; your back is straight, and your shoulders are back. The pin you are wearing, which you are required to wear on your vest, has a particular pressed mounting only deriving from the Command. The fact it is silver denotes you as a junior rank. However, the pin is turned inwards, suggesting you aren’t proud of the fact you have been released. You were boarded because of a leg injury, hence your slight limp. Given your build, I would suggest a muscle strain, rather than shrapnel, was the cause of the issue, making you a Runner. The care you took in descending from the driver’s perch suggests you are looking after your injury, for any other driver would jump the final steps. You could have retired on the pension, however, know that once you do, you could not re-join the line, hence your role of driver, where being able to navigate from one point to another on a map is critical, just like that of a Runner.”

He blinked again in disbelief. “And the jelly beans, sir?”

“From the colourful substance between your teeth when you smiled. Something to keep your mouth busy on the long rides. The grimy markings on your pants told me you had purchased Sugar May’s Extra Coated Jelly Beans for this journey. There are but two shops in the capital that stock this variety, one of them being opposite the Magistrate’s court, where you picked me up.”

Jace applauded. “Well played, sir. A true Catcher, you are.”

I tipped my bowler hat and felt my long hair fall in front of my face in the process. I swept it aside and tucked it behind my ear. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a silver coin. Jace backed away as if the currency were diseased.

“Oh, no, sir. I couldn’t possibly take the private earnings of a Catcher, sir.”

“Nonsense,” I cried, flicking the coin into the air.

He clapped at it energetically and caught the silver between his hands. He drove it into his pocket with a grin. “Thank you, sir.”

He turned, retrieved my bag from the luggage compartment under his seat, and tipped his cap to bid farewell. And with that, Jace clip-clopped off into the evening towards his next engagement.

Alone with the night, I took another breath as I viewed the house. A solid two-story concrete structure, modest by all accounts of who the owner was, or claimed to be. The wooden shutters on the upper story were closed to keep the cold air out and the hot air in. On the ground level, shadows of light danced on and decorated every transparent surface. I was excited to smell food on the cooker, for I had nothing beyond a beef sandwich during my trip.

I stood before a small iron gate, set into a low stone wall that stretched across the frontage. It was hardly the bastion of security I’d expected—especially given the urgent, cryptic message he’d sent me just days ago.

I glanced at my watch. Exactly on time. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I placed a hand on the gate. It groaned in protest as I pushed it open. Then, a smell—sharp and acrid—swirled around me, assaulting my senses. I covered my nose, but it clung to the air, thick and menacing.

And then—light. Blinding. A white-hot ball expanded in the centre of my vision, devouring everything in its path. The sound drained from the world, leaving only the roar of silence as a searing wave slammed into me. It lifted me off my feet, hurling me backward as flames, like ravenous serpents, slithered into the night from where the house had once stood.

Shards of brick, splinters of wood, and debris rocketed through the air in every direction. A heartbeat later, the sound caught up—a deafening roar that shattered my eardrums.

As I sailed back through the air, a single thought occurred to me.

My landing would hurt.