Professor Flintlock’s Marvelous Machine - 14
A Serialized Sreampunk Fantasy Novel
Admiral Whiting drummed her fingers on the edge of her desk.
It wasn’t just any desk—it was the desk of her forebears. Admirals who had once ruled the seas with polished boots and unyielding charts. And now? The seas weren’t quite what they used to be. Nor were the threats.
Her map was a blotchy mess of red and black ink. Too many incidents, too many coordinates to track. Too many reports to keep straight.
Flintlock.
He had a fleet—had managed one for the last twelve years. Some of the ships had been stolen, others built in distant, unnamed countries. To the layperson, several looked identical, easily mistaken for the Intrepid, his flagship. But the real one? That ship had never appeared where they expected it to.
No, Flintlock was already elsewhere—on his way to abduct a girl. And a banker.
The girl, at first glance, seemed of little consequence. But now she was tied up in matters too complex for any mere child. She was seated—at least, last known—in the company of the most obvious buffoon Admiral Whiting had ever laid eyes on: a man named Highwhistle.
With a name like that, she’d half expected steam to whistle out of his ears whenever he got flustered. What she got instead was pure malarkey, of the highest order.
The report had landed on her desk five days prior. The newest Hope & Chalmers luxury liner had been boarded by pirates.
But this wasn’t a typical act of pillage.
No gold, no jewels, no machine parts stolen. Unlike Flintlock’s other heists, this one was oddly restrained. They’d scuttled the ship, yes, but gently, almost respectfully. The vessel now lay at the bottom of the ocean—intact, as if waiting for salvage—and every crew member had survived.
All but one.
An American, shot dead by the pirate himself. Jack Spade.
Whiting had stared at that name in the report. Jack Spade. It sounded like something torn from a dime novel out of the Americas, a yarn told in cigar smoke and bravado.
But eyewitness accounts aligned—naval officers, no less. And though they’d been trained, they’d been subdued swiftly by Flintlock’s pirates. The question wasn’t how, but why. Was it a lack of weapons? Of men? Or had the enemy simply outclassed them in planning?
One thing was certain: in speaking to Highwhistle, she’d found a man who wouldn’t know forthrightness if it bit him on the cravat.
“There’s the matter of the insurance policy, Mr. Highwhistle,” she said, voice clipped. “Is it true you’d taken out a rather large policy? One you couldn’t possibly afford?”
He blanched. “It was my reputation at stake,” Highwhistle stammered. He was sweating profusely, as if the very concept of female authority triggered some primal panic.
Whiting doubted he’d ever been in a room with a woman who questioned him the way she did.
Twice during their interview, he’d seized up entirely—eyes glazed, mouth ajar—like some clockwork device with a missing cog, struggling to formulate a morally upright answer.
It was pitiful. And revealing.
“It’s possible,” she mused aloud, “that a man such as yourself is merely playing a part. A ruse. A gentleman’s mask stretched thin over a coward’s heart.”
He blinked.
“Perhaps you pretend to be a man of character,” she continued, “and in doing so, throw chum into the water, hoping to draw sympathy from the working classes.”
That had not occurred to him.
But he seized on it with mad intensity. “Yes, of course! That must be it! By besmirching my own good name—ah!—as a knight of the realm, I cultivate an image. I... I... attract the sympathies of the common man!”
“You’ve not asked about your niece.”
“She’s not truly my niece,” he said quickly. “A cousin, by marriage, perhaps.”
“You’ve said before,” she reminded him, “that she was your dear niece. That you would care for her. That you would guide her in all matters of the estate bequeathed to her by her father, Guilford Gray—the inventor. Am I wrong?”
“No. No, you’re correct,” Highwhistle admitted. “The poor girl. She must be terrified—or worse. Dead. Likely dead. Washed up on some foreign shore, surrounded by savages!”
“We’ve no indication she’s dead.”
“Well, I have,” he sniffed. “Just received word.”
“A solicitor, was it?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right.”
Whiting turned to another document, flipping it open with deliberate calm.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that someone who stood to inherit those patents and that estate might benefit from spiriting the girl away. Declaring her dead. Do you think that’s possible?”
Again, Highwhistle froze.
He processed slowly, like a jammed gear grinding itself down. “I... believe I’ve earned the right to silence. I am, after all, a knight of the realm. I should speak only to a magistrate. Or a solicitor. This is my... niece. My responsibility. I mustn’t humiliate myself further by... by...”
Whiting let him trail off. Then leaned forward.
“You see, Mr. Highwhistle, I have a job. A difficult one. I’ve been at it for just over a year, after serving ten under my predecessor. I won’t let this pirate be the one who forces my retirement.”
She closed the folder with a snap.
“He wants Felicity Gray. And that has something to do with Guilford Gray’s legacy. I want full access to all records connected to both.”
Highwhistle shifted uncomfortably.
“And I want your assistance,” Whiting added. “You, a knight of the realm, will come aboard as an honored guest.”
“You want me to... sail with you? Against a pirate?”
“You won’t be manning the cannons just yet. But you’ll help sort through the information. And perhaps we’ll get to the truth.”
The Admiral’s right hand motioned to the guards, who gently but firmly removed Highwhistle from the room.
“He’ll let you know where to retrieve the documents,” Whiting said crisply.
When the door shut behind him, she turned once more to the map—her cursed, intricate map. It bristled with marks. There were hardly any places left she hadn’t searched.
She imagined—wherever they were now—it would be the last place she’d think to look.