The fog clung to the cobblestones like a desperate lover, unwilling to release its hold upon the ancient streets of New Albion. I pulled my leather collar higher against the chill and adjusted the brass-fitted goggles that rested upon my brow. The mechanical timepiece strapped to my wrist—a magnificent contraption of gears and springs—indicated that midnight approached. A most opportune hour for one such as myself.
There is a particular solitude one finds when traversing the labyrinthine passages of this grand metropolis after darkness falls. The hissing of steam vents, the distant clanking of automated constables on their patrols, the occasional flutter of an airship’s engines overhead—these are my companions on nights such as these. Many find this atmosphere forbidding; I find it liberating.
My name is Sebastian Holloway, though in certain circles I am known simply as “The Clockhand.” A peculiar moniker, perhaps, but one earned through precision and reliability in my chosen profession. I am what polite society terms a “fugitive retrieval specialist.” The less genteel quarters call me a bounty hunter. Both are accurate, though neither fully encompasses the artistry with which I approach my work.
Tonight I sought a most elusive quarry: Bartholomew Fink, a brilliant engineer whose genius was matched only by his moral flexibility. Fink had absconded with the blueprints for Lord Montgomery’s revolutionary steam compression engine—an invention that promised to halve coal consumption while doubling power output. Such technology would shift the balance of industrial might across the Empire, and indeed the globe.
The cobblestones beneath my boots were slick with the perpetual dampness that characterized New Albion’s lower districts. Above, a network of copper pipes and brass conduits crisscrossed between buildings, carrying steam, messages, and occasionally people in pneumatic transport capsules. A marvel of engineering that never ceased to inspire me, even as I kept my eyes trained on the shadows.
I paused at the intersection of Thimble Lane and Cogsworth Avenue, extracting from my waistcoat a curious device of my own design—a portable atmospheric analyzer. The brass instrument, no larger than a pocket watch, sampled the air and tested for specific particles. Fink’s workshop had specialized in a unique lubricating oil with traces of cinnabar. The needle on my device quivered, then pointed decisively eastward down Thimble Lane.
“Ah, Mr. Fink,” I murmured to myself, “your distinctive oils betray you.”
As I followed the subtle trail, my thoughts wandered to the peculiar relationship between hunter and quarry. There exists between us a strange intimacy—I often know more about my targets than their closest confidants. Their habits, their weaknesses, their passions. Fink, for instance, harbored an obsession with mechanical songbirds. He crafted them with remarkable detail, tiny brass creatures capable of reproducing complex melodies. This vulnerability—this need to create beauty amid his mercenary pursuits—told me more about the man than any dossier ever could.
The lane narrowed as I progressed, the buildings leaning in as if conspiring with one another. Gas lamps cast pools of amber light at irregular intervals, their glow refracted through the perpetual mist. I heard the telltale whirring of an automated constable before I saw it—the mechanical lawkeeper rounding the corner ahead, its brass helmet gleaming, steam puffing rhythmically from vents in its shoulders.
“Evening, citizen,” it intoned in that peculiar voice that was neither fully mechanical nor truly human. “State your purpose for traversing this district after curfew.”
I produced my credentials—a brass identification card etched with the seal of the Imperial Retrieval Bureau. “Official business, Constable. Pursuit of a category three fugitive.”
The machine’s glass eyes glowed briefly brighter as it processed this information. “Proceed, Agent Holloway. Be advised that elevated pressure levels in the district steam conduits have been reported. Exercise appropriate caution.”
I tipped my hat in acknowledgment as the constable continued its patrol. Elevated pressure in the steam conduits could mean many things, most of them unpleasant. The most concerning possibility was that Fink had already established a workshop and was tapping into the municipal steam lines—a telltale sign he was preparing to sell his stolen designs.
The streets became increasingly unfamiliar as I delved deeper into what locals called “The Cog”—a dense warren of workshops and factories where the boundaries between legal innovation and criminal enterprise blurred to near invisibility. Here, the architecture itself seemed to reject the ordered sensibilities of the upper districts. Buildings sprouted asymmetrical additions, walkways connected across alleys at random heights, and makeshift steam pipes wound around structures like mechanical ivy.
I cherished these walks through the city’s forgotten corners. Each step revealed New Albion’s true character—not the polished facades presented to visiting dignitaries, but the gritty, ingenious adaptability that had made the Empire the world’s preeminent power. The city breathed around me, its mechanical lungs hissing and its copper arteries pulsing with pressurized purpose.
My atmospheric analyzer grew warmer in my palm as the concentration of Fink’s distinctive oil increased. I was close now. The device led me to a nondescript building wedged between a conventional foundry and what appeared to be an abandoned textile mill. No signage adorned its weathered door, but the subtle vibration in the cobblestones beneath my feet told of heavy machinery operating within.
Rather than approach directly, I circled to the rear of the building. Years of solitary hunts had taught me the value of patience and indirect approaches. The back of the structure revealed what the front concealed—a recently installed ventilation system of superior craftsmanship. Fink’s signature was evident in the efficient design and the nearly silent operation of the exhaust fans.
I extracted from my coat a slender brass tube, telescoping it to reveal a periscope-like device with multiple lenses. Pressing it against a gap in the wooden shutters afforded me a limited view of the interior. The workshop within hummed with activity, though not of human origin. Automated assembly arms—a technology still in its experimental stages in most factories—moved with fluid precision, constructing what appeared to be miniature steam engines.
And there, at a central workbench bathed in the glow of electrical lamps, stood Bartholomew Fink himself. He was younger than his dossier had indicated, perhaps in his late thirties, with a wild mane of copper-colored hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His waistcoat was open, his shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows as he hunched over a set of blueprints that could only be Lord Montgomery’s stolen designs.
What caught my attention, however, was not Fink or his contraband plans, but the figure who stood beside him. Tall and elegant in a crimson dress with brass clockwork accents, her dark hair piled atop her head in an elaborate arrangement of curls and gears. I recognized her immediately: Lady Wilhelmina Montgomery—the inventor’s daughter.
This complicated matters considerably. Was she a victim of kidnapping, or a willing accomplice? The dossier had mentioned nothing of any connection between Fink and the Montgomery family. I observed them carefully through my scope. Their body language suggested collaboration rather than coercion. They leaned over the plans together, gesturing and nodding in apparent agreement.
A most intriguing development. The reward notice had clearly stated that Fink had stolen the plans—yet here was evidence suggesting that perhaps he had help from within the Montgomery household itself. Such revelations were not uncommon in my line of work. The official narrative often obscured more complex truths.
I withdrew my viewing device and considered my options. My commission was specific: retrieve the stolen plans and return Fink to face Imperial justice. Nothing had been said about Lady Montgomery. Yet I could hardly ignore her involvement.
The complexity of the situation appealed to my sensibilities. Those who avoid the company of others often develop a heightened appreciation for the intricacies of human motivation. Walking the streets alone night after night, observing without participating, one begins to see patterns in behavior that remain invisible to those immersed in social entanglements.
I decided on a direct approach. Sometimes the unexpected is the most effective strategy. I returned to the front of the building, adjusted my attire to present a more respectable appearance, and knocked firmly upon the door.
The sound echoed within, followed by a sudden cessation of mechanical activity. Footsteps approached—hesitant, then determined. The door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of Fink’s suspicious face.
“Mr. Bartholomew Fink,” I said pleasantly, “and presumably Lady Wilhelmina Montgomery. I believe we have matters of mutual interest to discuss.”
His eyes widened in alarm. “Who the devil are you?”
“Sebastian Holloway, at your service. I have been commissioned to retrieve certain property belonging to Lord Montgomery. However, the presence of his daughter suggests there may be nuances to this situation that were not disclosed to me.”
Before Fink could respond, Lady Montgomery appeared behind him, her expression more curious than concerned. “Let him in, Bartholomew. If he meant immediate harm, he would hardly announce himself.”
Reluctantly, Fink stepped aside. The interior of the workshop was even more impressive than my brief glimpse had suggested. Automated mechanisms of extraordinary complexity filled the space, yet operated with remarkable quietude. The stolen plans were prominently displayed on a central drafting table, weighted down with brass instruments.
“You are a bounty hunter,” Lady Montgomery stated rather than asked. Her voice carried the refined accents of upper society, yet lacked the typical condescension.
“I prefer ‘retrieval specialist,'” I replied, “but the distinction is largely semantic.”
“And my father has commissioned you to return both his plans and Mr. Fink?”
“Precisely so, my lady. Yet I find myself in an unexpected situation. Perhaps you might illuminate matters?”
She exchanged a glance with Fink, some unspoken communication passing between them. Then she straightened her posture, every inch the aristocrat despite her unlikely surroundings.
“Mr. Holloway, what do you know of the compression engine these plans describe?”
“Only that it represents a significant advancement in steam efficiency. A technology that would be highly valuable to the Empire’s industrial and military interests.”
“And therein lies the problem,” she said, gesturing toward the plans. “The design is fundamentally flawed. My father refuses to acknowledge this, but implementation at scale would result in catastrophic failures. Possibly hundreds dead.”
Fink stepped forward. “I was Lord Montgomery’s chief engineer. When I identified the critical flaw, he dismissed my concerns. The military contract was too lucrative, the pressure from the Imperial Ministry too great. He ordered production to begin next month.”
“So you stole the plans,” I observed.
“To prevent a disaster,” Lady Montgomery interjected. “And to correct the design. Bartholomew is brilliant, Mr. Holloway. Together, we’ve identified the solution. A simple modification to the pressure release valves.”
I moved closer to examine the plans. Though I possessed no formal engineering training, years of pursuing inventors and industrial spies had given me a functional understanding of steam mechanics. The modifications they had made were elegant in their simplicity.
“And your father refused to consider these adjustments?”
“He believes I lack the intellectual capacity to understand his work,” she said bitterly. “A common assumption regarding women, even one’s daughters.”
I circled the workshop slowly, observing the prototypes in various stages of assembly. My solitary habits had cultivated in me a certain detachment—a useful quality in my profession. I could analyze a situation without the emotional entanglements that often clouded judgment.
“You understand our dilemma,” Fink said, watching me carefully. “Return us and the plans to Lord Montgomery, and production proceeds with the flawed design. Lives will be lost when those engines fail.”
I stopped before a partially assembled engine incorporating their modified valve system. “You could have brought this to the Imperial Science Ministry. There are procedures for safety concerns.”
Lady Montgomery laughed without humor. “My father sits on the Ministry’s oversight committee. His influence is considerable. We tried official channels, Mr. Holloway.”
The workshop fell silent save for the gentle hissing of steam and the ticking of various clockwork mechanisms. Outside, the distant bells of St. Chronos Cathedral announced the first hour past midnight. The solitary notes resonated with something in my soul—each bell distinct, yet part of a greater pattern.
“I have never failed to complete a commission,” I said finally.
Fink’s shoulders slumped. Lady Montgomery’s expression hardened, her hand moving subtly toward what I suspected was a concealed weapon in the folds of her dress.
“However,” I continued, “the terms of my commission specify the retrieval of stolen plans and the individual who took them. It says nothing about which version of the plans must be returned, nor does it preclude returning additional materials that might be relevant to Lord Montgomery’s interests.”
Understanding dawned in their eyes.
“You would return the original plans,” Lady Montgomery said slowly.
“Along with your improved designs, comprehensive documentation of the flaw, and prototype evidence,” I confirmed. “And of course, Mr. Fink would return to face the consequences of his actions.”
“They’ll never listen,” Fink protested.
“Perhaps not initially,” I acknowledged. “But I have certain connections within the Imperial Verification Bureau who could insist upon independent testing before production begins. The evidence would speak for itself.”
“And what of me?” Lady Montgomery asked. “My father will not take my involvement kindly.”
I considered this. “Your participation need not be explicitly detailed in my initial report. Though I suspect your father’s anger would be tempered by the prevention of a disaster that would have destroyed his reputation and legacy.”
The proposal hung in the air between us. I was deviating from my usual straightforward approach, but then, I had always valued justice above mere rule-following. Perhaps this was why I preferred my solitary walks through the city—they allowed me to see beyond the rigid frameworks that governed most lives.
“We would need three days to complete the documentation and finalize the prototype,” Fink said tentatively.
“You have until tomorrow evening,” I countered. “My absence from regular communication with the Bureau will raise questions after that.”
After further negotiation, we settled on thirty-six hours. I would return then to collect them and the materials. As a guarantee of their cooperation, I took the original plans with me—though I left them the working copies they needed to complete their improvements.
As I stepped back into the fog-shrouded streets, I felt a curious satisfaction. The cobblestones welcomed my solitary footsteps as I began the long walk back to my quarters in the middle districts. Above, an airship drifted between the clouds, its running lights creating momentary constellations in the mist.
New Albion revealed herself differently to those who walked her streets alone at night. Secrets whispered from shadow-draped alleys; truths emerged in the spaces between gas-lit pools of light. This was why I cherished my solitude. Not from misanthropy, but because only in silence could one truly hear the city’s heart.
The case of Bartholomew Fink and Lady Montgomery would certainly rank among my most unusual. Yet I suspected it would not be my last encounter with the complexities that lay beneath the Empire’s ordered surface. The world was changing—steam and gears giving way to new powers and principles. Those who walked alone often saw these changes first, in the shifting patterns of the streets.
I paused at the bridge over the Chronos River, watching the moonlight play upon the churning waters below. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, there was only the night, the city, and the peculiar peace that comes from finding one’s proper place within the greater mechanism.
My timepiece chimed softly. The hunt would resume soon enough. But for now, the cobblestones beckoned, and I followed where they led, alone but never truly lonely in the embrace of New Albion’s mechanical dreams.