Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle:
That Certain Gentleman
John Theesfeld
Copyright John Theesfeld 2011
Published at Smashwords
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle:
That Certain Gentleman
by John Theesfeld
© 2011 Copyright by John Theesfeld. All rights reserved.
Published by Dr. Monocle Books
ISBN: 978-0-615-51298-3
[BW Office U92]
Post Date: *. **nd, **** (redacted and censored per Lord Lawrence Richards, on authority of The Ministry of Communications)
Published under PrintWorks by order BW17a.175468, subset 14. Monarch-approved. University-accredited. CouncilWorks, uninformed. TrustWorks, alerted. CopyWorks file: 97912180-functionality removal, attenuated by inactivity. Signed papers: See file.
Editing Clerks: Thomas Rundleby, Victoria Crutchens, PrintMaton 2578 (Automaton Type-Set and Checked).
Proofer: Frodderick Wormfodder; Facts and Reference Auditor: Geraldine Wilbur.
Beholden Jester Forth. Account xx-inside formula theoretical upside, follow through. Fall in, cover thoroughly, hinder accountability, responsibility, discussion. Forms Y18 and V27, applied and accounted for, pending actions withdrawn.
Notes: Seemingly preposterous (Lord Bennington); Interesting, but highly unlikely... (Dr. Paulina Pettelshon); Shyte. Pure and utter shyte (Prof. Willis); further notes can be found in the archives along with critical reviews.
1
I thought it to be a fine lecture. Although, I may be biased in my assessment of matters. It was the first of my summer lecture series. While it may have lacked tales of adventure and thrills and excitement, it made up for in providing a new realm of scientifical and theoretical thought. It was what would become an entirely new branch of philosophical exploration (one that no one would care about for another few decades, as it turned out). We were upon the precipice of something new and great, an unknown world of exploration. There they sat; students, peers, and colleagues, either nodding off or checking their pocket watches.
That day, I wore a brand new three-piece suit, a brown tweed; a fresh new band around my top hat; fresh mustache wax to curl my gray whiskers. I put a fresh, new shine to my shoes. And I even polished a new monocle to perch upon my left eye (a recent gift from the Monarch presented to me by my friend, Royal Advisor James Travis). I looked a proper gentleman for my audience. There before them, I twirled my umbrella casually and paced thoughtfully and kept myself animated throughout the entire lecture. I knew little about showmanship, but just enough to keep my audience awake. I had hoped.
Although, I must admit, I did give myself a good smack to the side of my own face as the twirling of my umbrella became a little too theatrical for my own good. While I was glad that no one seemed to notice, I was just as saddened as to the notion that no one was paying attention. Alas, a sound I can only describe as “thwack” followed by that of an abrupt groan of disdain on my part brought the attention of the audience back to me.
Dean Wormfodder had allowed me, or rather, insisted that I present my lecture in old SteamWorks Hall, a gorgeously grand old hall; a gently curved, concave, nearly spherical room with stadium seating nearly reaching to the ceiling. It was a room daunting to the untrained speaker and just big enough for the ego-maniacal one.
Everything was finished in a deep, dark wood tone. Copper furnishings. Recessed gaslights. Stained-glass windows. Greats had given their best in that very hall. Originally it was used to give presentations on cadaver dissection and anatomy lectures, but I think I was the first to have actually died on that stage - right there during my first lecture for the season.
Unfortunately, most of the audience expected something rather different than what I presented to them. They came in expecting stories of the high seas, of freeing slaves, of battling monsters, beasts, and vicious creatures that truly only exist within the confines of the imagination. Instead, I presented an idea which I had been toiling with: a many-worlds theory beyond that which we see. Of course, this lecture was interesting to very few, uninteresting to many, and fell on the deaf ears of those lost within their own meandering thoughts of the impending summer season.
Indeed.
I checked my timepiece, not once, but twice. I feared I was dragging the audience down into a mire of boredom. They were pulling me down with them as I grew voiceless with the lack of reception. Many care not about the philosophical and theoretical. Such is the world I live.
With the advent of the more powerful outer-orbis telescopes, we’ve discovered other planets and moons. Beyond that, stars like our own sun. Masses of these stars creating cosmic neighborhoods. On the other hand, with microscopical inspection, we find matter is made of smaller and smaller particles.
What if there were other worlds or realms we couldn’t see, but existed?
It can get the best of you, wondering, “Why bother?” It’s an impossible theory to prove, the idea of infinite worlds in which no two are exactly alike. Imagine, other realities like our own, but two can be eerily similar by chance. Just like an elsewhere snowflake, we just are in this world. Another elsewhere snowflake almost identical in structure, but perhaps for one minor detail. Perhaps so minor and trivial it seems unnoticeable.
I expanded further that contrarily there is a reality that exists apart from our own in which nothing is the same, not even here, this, now. It could be so different, that we wouldn’t even be able to experience it, let alone recognize it as something familiar.
I suppose another way to expound would be with the very text in my journals and correspondence. Two worlds exactly the same, the only difference being that this text was written from my home instead of my university office, as I am doing so now. Two realities (infinite really, but I kept it small for the audience), this and another, in which everything is the same except in one I decided to write from The University, but in the other I go home to do my writing instead. Everything up to that point in both worlds was exactly the same. And from this very difference, a world of difference would emerge. I don’t believe any journal entry or piece of correspondence after that point would be the same as the other in the other world. Imagine this the world over, making choices, all of the possibilities. Pure randomosity in it all.
Interesting? Confusing? Big deal of dire haberdashery, you say. Yes, I suppose, but I imagine this would lead into a divergent reality where whatever happens to me here within the walls of this University affects my future differently than if I were to be typing this from the typewriter in my home study. Everything was the same in those two worlds up until that point. Then they diverge, going on and becoming two very different worlds. Then again, maybe not by very distinct alterings (or perhaps alterations is the word) or maybe barely any at all. Perhaps the two once-exactly same worlds become so completely and vastly different they after comparing the two after eons, they look nothing alike.
Perhaps even more mundane... A trivial matter much like the color of the ink ribbon in this typewriter. As I am here, it is black as the gravend’s feather. Perhaps in another reality it is red. I don’t believe I would be affected in any such way by a red ribbon. I suppose in a third reality there is a version of myself who utterly hates red ink and goes so far as to kill his secretary over the matter. The spectrum is wide, I suppose, even in the oddest of fashions.
I often tend to dip into a daydream of other worlds, other realities that could be like our own, but very, very different. It is merely a philosophical exercise of which I enjoy immensely.
Damn be to those who awake the day dreamer.
I do say. But I also do wonder, just a little itch of thought, “Could we possibly access another reality?” I asked this question to my audience to a reply of muffled cough and pure silence.
I couldn’t say how, not with our current steam tech, but I’ve seen various mathematics from other schools of thought on the matter. To be honest, I could have been looking at an ancient hieroglyphics lost to time for all I knew. I believe in his book, The Aether That Binds, Dr. Morgan Oliver Kew states the amount of energy it would require to tear apart the aether is more than any of our steam tech could handle. The actual scientifical understandings of the matter are riddled with holes.
Even if we had the means, though, there’s no telling what would happen if we could tear open the aether of space and time and reality and chaos. I sure wouldn’t mind witnessing such a fantastical occurrence, though. I think it would be absolutely splendid, in fact. It’s just that there is no guarantee that tearing a hole or punching a doorway through the aether would create a link between two different realities. Maybe the realities exist in a vast space, an aether within the aether, if I may. Like bubbles in a fresh pint of ale. Maybe vasts worlds within a vast space, some bouncing off each other, some crashing and tearing each other apart, some compacted together. Maybe by such vast distance, there’s no way to access another world. Unless all those worlds were part of a bigger reality. It can boggle the mind.
I used the large globe to the side of the staging area. The large orb spun smoothly. It was a much older rendition of an older atlas. I explained to my audience the idea of geological shiftings and slippages. At one time, it is thought, Orbis Minor was not together as one, but spread out all around Orbis. Large masses of land separated by vast oceans. Yes, oceans, as in plural. More than the one Orbis Sea that covers our globe.
Some men of science call this fantasy. Others support the notion of a geologically alive orb of rock, one that changes over ages of eons. Imagine our world, made up of vast watery borders. Northward Territories down to Southland, from Western Ocean to Eastern Bay, split and fractured into multiple land masses.
We can only imagine how life on the planet would have evolved and changed over time. Assume we crawled up from the muck. Politics, cultures, societies, governments all changed and different from all that we know. It would truly be an alien world to our eyes. Perhaps that world does exist elsewhere within the aether?
I began again with another example. Sometimes there are moments in which you get lost. I became lost somewhere in a meandering tangent of wondrous thought as I talked to my audience of peers and fellow gentlemen of higher learning. I gave a good spin to the globe catching my fingers between it and the ornamental hinge allowing it to spin. I retracted my hand as it stung and burned an awful feeling up to my elbow.
“Now, imagine our planet, Orbis,” I carefully ran my hand over the large globe. “But, it is not Orbis. But it is Orbis! But not...”
The audience was that of a hard one to reach, but I explained thusly. Orbis is called something else, something odd we do not understand. And Orbis Minor, the entire land mass broken apart as it was several million years ago. Splotches of land scattered across the sea... People scattered about. But they are just like us. They live just like us. They talk just like us. Everything is similar. Perhaps things are off just a smidgen. Who knows how wildly different things could have possibly been? That exists elsewhere, in a different world, a different realm. It is a reality for someone else. The implications could very well rattle an unsettled mind.
I didn’t continue my lecture for much longer. I do believe courtesy is a wondrous virtue, so I cut my lecture short for those slipping into deep wake-less sleep. though I did take questions from a few in my audience:
“Could you perhaps enlighten us as to the outcome of the debacle with the Gentleman Pirate?” A woman’s voice called out.
“What ancient relics do you believe are still to be discovered?” A young man, presumably an armchair explorer and textbook adventure asked next.
“How do we know you’re the Dr. Monocle from this reality?” The voice of an unfortunately uneducated, oafish doofus called out from the back.
Question after question after question after question that had nothing to do with the lecture I had just presented for the past hour. There was talk of gravity and mass and time and space and the inter-workings of it all. These people lived in the past and were unable to see the future was ahead of them. This was a new realm of thought, but no one seemed to understand. Unenthusiastically I gave short, often one-word answers. Eventually, I just waited out my time.
A student somewhere from the middle of the auditorium spoke up, "Professor, what is your take on encroaching underdwellar communities into the more populated metros? And that of maldeviant communities, as well?"
I didn't very well have a take on the subject, none which I could easily explain there. To the mainstream, maldeviants were freaks; mutants creeping into the metros, and that was never a good thing for those who needed to keep up appearances. The over-riding belief among the masses was that all maldeviants were of a distasteful nature, which of course, has never been the case. I answered, "Well, encroaching is... Maldeviants... I don't really have an opinion on the matter."
Another student popped up, "Dr. Monocle, would you mind going into detail on Gorillian dining practices, specifically dining practices in relation to ritual?"
"Well, I had not prepared any material on the subject matter of Gorillians..." I offered my apologies.
Did I not just spend my morning lecturing on a many-worlds theory? Did no one hear a thing I said? Frustration had already set in by this point.
"Excuse me, Professor," a young lady stood up in the front, "on the subject of Gorillians, do you have any future plans to go back to study the Gorillian Fever Sect? Will you be working with the Gorillians closely?"
I glanced upon my pocket watch during her question, wanting nothing more than to be out of that lecture hall. "No, no plans at this time to work alongside the Gorillians..." I remained polite, but I caught the tone of frustration sound from my mouth. My patience wore thin and began to crack, just ever so slightly.
There were still hands raised throughout the audience, like ship masts swaying in the bay, a fog of inquisitive minds below. The corners of my mouth turned upwards slightly, a polite half-smile forming, "I'm sorry, but I believe our time is up. I would like to thank you all for coming today. Thank you."
There were a few respectful applause that were drowned out by the sound of shuffling and people trying to leave the hall.
Eventually everyone exited the auditorium. All but one. The University Dean, Frodderick Wormfodder, waited for me to get my papers together.
“Very good. Very good, indeed, Dr. Monocle.” Scraggly, old Dean Wormfodder came forward. The man was a walking testament to the tech of our time: his replacement arm was made of the finest steel, shined and polished beautifully. The articulating fingers, a majestically intricate series of hinges, pulleys, and gears. The amazingly complex gear system of each joint was astounding.
Aside from his arm, old Wormfodder was augmented all abut his person. His left ear was carved of the finest oak. I suppose one could call them glasses or spectacles, but they were truly independent monocles over each eye, built into his face and head. Without them, Wormfodder was nearly blind due to being sprayed in the face by a venomous plant some years ago. The contraption allowed him the use of different types of monocles on each eye, giving him sight. Wormfodder was losing pieces of himself regularly and replacing them with some of the finest our steam tech and clockwork services had to offer.
“Ah, were you the one applauding at the end?” I smiled. I gathered up my notes, putting them back in order, filing them into my worn and beaten leather briefcase.
Wormfodder held up his hands to show the contrast between his real hand, withered by time, and his clockwork appendage, “Me clapping doesn’t really have that effect, Arthur. Anyway, I don’t suppose your next lecture will be any more exciting? Perhaps something along the lines of good ol’ fashioned exploring and adventuring?” Dean Wormfodder hinted with a smile.
“My adventuring is behind me, so are those old stories. I’m afraid you’ll be getting only more of the same from me, weird thoughts from my strange decrepit old mind. And, no, senility hasn’t taken me away. Not yet, at least.”
“It really is a shame, Arthur.” Wormfodder said, “They want to hear your tales. You’re a hero to all.”
“Hero?!” I blurted out, chuckling, shocked he would even use the word, “Certainly not, my dear Wormfodder, just an educator who happens to get caught up in things not sanctioned by The University. Or The Monarch. Or The Clockwork foundation in full, really.”
“Consider yourself what you will. And please don’t be late for the send off, Arthur.” Dean Wormfodder walked to a faculty door off to the side of the stage, “Quite a famously eclectic group of expiditionaries, don’t you think, Arthur? It’s quite a to-do for The University. Be well.” He limped away as the ambient whirring, clicking, spinning of his steam tech replacement parts filled the silence.
With that, I fastened my attache closed as Wormfodder exited. It was silent once again and the air hung heavily. I broke the emptiness with a deep, unintended sigh. I walked to the stairs and trekked upwards, slowly and steadily. I thought about my time, the time I had left and how I did not want to spend it in this hall, regardless of how lovely it was. I didn’t want this room to be my last years. The woodwork that decorated the walls were too eerily reminiscent of an intrinsically styled coffin. At 76 years of age, any confined space starts feeling a little too confined and eternal.
I walked to a window and looked outwards onto the world. Before me, sprawling as far as my eye could see: The University, University City, Haverton Falls in the far distance, the skylines and cityscapes of each metro balancing and blending into each other. Their buildings each distinct, yet uniform, all reaching skyward. Steam, smoke, and fog obscured parts and pieces of the display before me, but I had seen it all before. I had seen it all before many times. Outside of this window from which I stared was once my playground. Now, I was relegated to speechify my more interesting days on this planet. I felt pathetic at times. Pathetic and old. And I had an entire summer lecture series to remind me of how pathetic and old I really was.
I used to sit in these very seats. For a long time, hours a day, at least 3 days per week, several weeks per year, I sat in these seats and listened. Sometimes I took notes. Sometimes I doodled. Then I moved on, out of the seat, out of the classroom, into the world. I lived my life, I explored, I experienced, I excelled. For years, over half of my time thus far, I spent out in the wild, collecting facts, proving hypothesis, cataloging species, adventuring in between all of the studious activities. I was only doing what I knew how to do best. And where did it get me? Back into the very classroom I started, just on the other side of where I once sat.
It was all very dour to me in this very instant of gazing beyond the window and it was then, within this sullen state of mood, I realized this was the final chapter of my life.
- The old man’s lost his marbles...
- Come on, now. He lost his marbles ages ago...
- A brief exchange whispered
between two students
during Dr. Arthur Monocle’s lecture
on a many-worlds theory
As my mind flittered and thoughts fluttered, I began to think of BureauWorks and how they had soured adventuring and exploring. Everything was marked with a price, several auditors made certain all of everything was accounted for. TrustWorks attorneys would infest your itineraries combing through them with fine, shekking tooth combs looking for faults, creating non-existent problems from imaginations dulled by reading far too many law books written by men whom held but not even an ounce of wisdom in their feeble and ever-so litigious brains. Then there was CoinWorks; they would look at where costs could be cut, even if that meant setting up an expedition for certain failure. Paperwork and permits and fines and fees and headaches and stomach ulcers.
I’m certain my audience that morning would have preferred a lecture more befitting of my reputation as an adventurer and explorer. Though, the problems that plagued a University man such as myself, constrained by the bureaucratic process, made not for a good lecture.
I didn’t want to stand up there like a bitter old man making a mockery of his glory days like a clown. Fluttering forth...
Even from a young age, I had a keen interest in the jungles. The grand jungles of Orbis were always just a great wonder of mine. With any free time at hand I would set off with an expedition into the Southern Midland Jungles, always discovering something new (or old, for that matter). Forgotten stone temples and shrines, perhaps; or, even a new strain of fungus or a new type of flower or plant. It was a world within a world, like stepping into a place that time had forgotten so very long ago. It was a dangerous place and one not to be ventured haphazardly. Sadly, though, it was rare that my expedition crew returned with me, often only a lucky few. This was, though, the dark reality of exploration. People often want to be regaled with tales of fantastical wonders, but they come few and far between the instances of unfortunate tidings.
I once had a man plucked from line during a hike by an insatiable carnivorous plant. If memory serves me correctly, it was a Reticulated Pinneated Snatchel Grunter that made lunch of the poor sod. Another crewman veered far off from the group during a rest stop and was swallowed into a seemingly endless pit. Seemingly, I write, because we began throwing various items down into the pit, but we never heard them hit bottom. For all we knew we were just piling junk on top of an injured man.
Ah, and then there was the entire group of graduate students I had introduce themselves to the Ma'ambi tribe forgetting that the Ma'ambi were cannibals. Somewhat confusingly, there is also a nearby tribe called the Mi'ambi, the two tribes were one in the same long ago before written language. At some point they split in two. Why they named themselves with such similar words, no one knows. Honest mistake on my part, really, and what's done is done. If they had studied the course material, they would have known the difference. An unfortunate way of flunking my course and dropping out of graduate school altogether. Such an awful waste. Students were often apt to err. You couldn’t expect a lad who made it a hobby of downing ale after ale interspersed with fits of whiskey for amusement to remember or take note of a lecture concerning a cannibalistic tribe. Who ever runs into cannibals? The uneducated sod with a filthy hangover growing from a fading inebriation who acts asinine and embarrasses himself before being stewed, that’s who. Now, I must make it a point to tell my students that you should never, in any way, meddle with a cultural body modification of a person we are working with or studying. This is not something I should have to tell anyone. (One does keep their hands to oneself, a very good rule all should follow.)
Stiffs in suits who keep track of numbers have turned my work into statistical analysis. According to BureauWorks Department of Financial Loss (title shortened here as their official name goes on for at least 18 more departments/groups/sub-sects/offices), that for every successful expedition I have, from a crew of 10, 1.3 men die. That is on average. For every unsuccessful expedition I have, an average of 8.7 men die (those .3 and .7 fellows are usually augmented with the very finest, hand-crafted, clockwork limbs and parts).
What determines a successful or unsuccessful expedition, though? According to the BureauWorks Study (of Dr. Arthur Monocle's Expedition Success/Loss Analysis Report Sponsored by BureauWorks Department of Financial Loss and BureauWorks Statistical Analysis Group), there are variables and references and notations and a full archive of Numbers Runners reports and a lot of other interesting information that’s taken into account, but it was all tantamount to the flip of a coin.
There was that awful volcano. According to the initial research, if my Mt. Upton expedition with a crew of ten was successful I would lose one of my crew and another would possibly lose an eye or hand. Now, if the Mt. Upton expedition was unsuccessful, 8.7 men would die. Petey Birch died, and Hefton Scheffield had his leg lopped off BELOW the knee, thank you very much. Barely 1.25 men lost; I believe their report has been filed under “Further Research” for now.
The Mt. Upton volcano I found to be a most troublesome expedition. Troubling after the matter, but troubling nonetheless. The University had taken advantage of me to find a gem mine on behalf of MineWorks. I was young, only 27, but really old enough to know better. The two men assigned to me were geoscientificals. I was told they were visiting professors and needed me to transcribe and decode an ancient map that, if read correctly, would lead to a tribal cavern, a potential cultural treasure.
I call it an unsuccessful expedition, at best. A confounded debacle, in short. As it turned out, the tribal cavern that would supposedly include ancient relics was the location of a gem mine. The map was a forgery. They knew I’d have no part in assisting them in tearing apart tribal grounds for a bit of coin, so they had the map copied and the transcriptions altered. Not enough men died according to their statistical predictions, though, to call it unsuccessful. Certainly, MineWorks considers the expedition successful. They gave me a medal as an award for my services.
And MineWorks drilled deeper; a gigantic, overwrought piece of hell with a drill bit the size of a modest house bore deep into the mine. The GearWorks Steam-Powered Rotary Bore Model Eight was a hulking mass of power that tore rock to shreds. I wasn't there for the mining operation, but I've talked to survivors. I’ve been told that the giant drill boring into the mine punctured the volcano releasing molten lava, creating fissures throughout the entire area. The ground cracked and splintered for as far as the eye could see.
Some 800 men and their families lived in the metro built atop of where the mountain swallowed them up. “Carrchester, a metro built on riches” was how it was referred. Now it was “Carrchester, a metro no more.” There were, I believe, 78 survivors. This, BureauWorks doesn't factor in as unsuccessful since a profit was made in gem stones and other minerals.
Frustrating, but that's how things worked, it seemed. In my time since, things have not bettered. It came down to the expendibility of lives: if a life was worth X, how many could an expedition and following profit-incurring project afford to lose. It always worked out in favor of whichever Works organization was acting as sponsor. Often times, assessments were skewed for profit.
Years of bureaucratic tomfoolery. It was all this that made me retreat into lecturing, I realized. The utter tomfoolery that was “sign here in triplicate; and thumb print here, here, and here” which turned into an expedition team that involved a team of auditors and several daft-minded bureaucrats had effectively pushed me out of what I loved doing. What I looked at as bringing culture and histories together for the betterment of mankind, the coin chasers looked at as an opportunity to swindle and exploit.
And now my damn knees were bothering me.
A Gazette journalographer once asked me what the trick to my longevity was, seeing as most of my colleagues and others in similar lines of work didn’t prosper so well beyond senior-hood. I did agree that while rare, one could find the pirate, explorer, outlaw, gunman, adventurer, plunderer, pillager, axeman, swordsman, blade juggler, expeditionary, tinkerer, exploder, gaster, maker, scuttler, fighter, bruiser, brawler, racer, flyer, pilot, or gentleman swindler well into their years. My longevity, though, has been pock-marked with loss and tragedy just as it was punctuated with spectacular moments of wonder. For every give, there is take, I do suppose. I tried explaining that life wasn’t an endurance race. My longevity was nothing without experience. I also had to attribute the company in my keep to my longevity. One does not prosper under the languish of dunces and fools.
To be fanciful is to lallygag. I plead of you, don’t waste my time.
- Dr. Arthur Monocle,
upon being appointed as
field guide to The Monarch
The halls of The University were hushed; nearly all of the classes had been excused for finals, though a random few were populated with students taking their exams. I found that a good reminder for when finals were still in session was the occasional outburst of a pupil, their mind snapping due to the pressure and tension built up within their own headbrain, and a scream would echo throughout the hallways. My colleague, Harold Smalls, and I would often match each other, he who guessed most accurately the number of screams during finals was owed the equal amount of coin by the other.
By the end of finals one became accustomed to the random shriek of a student perilously hanging to the edge of sanity as their gray matter churned and bubbled, either giving way to the intelligence within, or the madness.
Walking to my office, though, the silence was blatant; I became nervously aware of the sound of my tweed rubbing against itself, the clickity-clacking of the soles of my shoes against the marble floor, the crinkling of my papers in my briefcase.
And then something else.
Somewhere behind me in the distance grew the sound of misguided purpose. Footsteps that struck the marble with such efficacy and anal retentiveness. Their echoes reverberated with deep meaning. There was only one man I knew who could walk down a hallway so seriously and with such drive. Therefore, I knew my time was about to be lost to the wind.
I heard the bark of my name, "Monocle!" from down the hall. It sounded like the muffled bark of a large, toothy dog. The pace of the footsteps increased, the sound of the voice gained clarity as he neared.
"Ah, Monocle!" He would say in a full blustery bark.
Admiral Elliott Emerald, a highly decorated war veteran who proudly lived by some sort of social and cultural rulebook written by the upper echelons of the Royal Huntsmen, albeit, Huntsmen of the old guard. He fashioned himself to these guidelines to the point that he took it upon himself to rewrite and edit said rulebook to be more practical and logical. Needless to say, no one else followed by that rulebook, nor does anyone really seem to be aware of it either. It is a rulebook understood only by the Admiral. We just live in what he deems to be the lawless, impractical, stupid world. The strictest of the strict find even him to a bit of a downer. Even Wormfodder, a man almost old enough to be the old guard’s father, finds him to be a hot-aired buffoon.
I've been in the position of having to explain something to Admiral Emerald in the past and I have learned to never start an explanation with "Imagine," because the man possesses an imagine-less brain. He doesn't daydream, he audits.
For instance, you might need to explain to him why a tactical manoeuvre will not work on the battlefield as war explodes all around, men dying in your very lap. And you'd like to say, "Imagine our brigade is..." But you're cut off mid-thought and lectured as to why the battlefield is no place for a man drawn to flights of fancy. And eventually everyone is captured by opposing forces, put into hard-labor slavery, and now the "book learn-ed one" must emancipate everyone from this troublesome predicament.1
Indeed, I do say. A little imagination can go a long way, or at least save your arse from Hendwhali aboriginal tribalists. The cannibalistic kind, no less. While trapped in eastern Northward, deep within Red territory. Less than favorable memories.
The poor Admiral really doesn't understand a single thing any of us normal people do. Going to see the world? For what purpose? What's the point? That area and those people were documented years ago! What a waste of time that can be used for much better purposes. He would go on and on like this to no end. Unless it needs to be conquered or put under lock down by Royal Huntsmen Brigades, he didn’t understand it thusly and it can not be explained to him. Stubborn, joyless man, free of wonder and astonishment.
"Monocle," he once declared, "Monocle, I'm not sure I understand you. I'm not sure I even like you. I don't know anything about you, nor do I care, to be honest. In the future, if I do not acknowledge you, please do understand." And that was it. Just passing each other within the halls of our esteemed University. I believe at the time of that encounter I was dressed in the tribal garments of the Lokschmee: bright feathers that created an ornamental headdress, some face painting, feather leggings, a loin cloth. While odd-looking I may have been, there was no reason for him to be downright nasty.
Now he caught me just as I was upon my office door.
He held his pipe in his hand, gesturing with it, "Ah, Monocle! Yes. I would like to be briefed on your next four expeditions, as soon as time allows. You are required to do so, to me, your Clockwork Foundation representative and Royal Huntsmen Admiral, Sir Admiral Elliott Emerald. Please do have my office commander assign you a block of time."
He always had to give his full title. Always. Like the chimes of our glorious University clock tower, Haverthorne Tower Sponsored by SteamWorks, Admiral Emerald would dutifully announce his presence. (Though, it was of wonderful use when you were within earshot, but out of sight, and you could slip away without being noticed - a talent, a skill, and an art.)
"Ah, Admiral Emerald!" I would always respond, the most subtle of mocking he could not pick up. "Indeed, Admiral Emerald! So good to see you in such fine form after the last battle." I condescendingly brushed the dust off his big, wide, almost comically-large admiral uniform shoulder pads. I polished the big, goofy medals on his chest. Both of them.
I leaned in and whispered, "You know, between you and me, I really think you were looked over in the medal department, if you understand from where I am coming." Knowing full well what a cowardly and yellow bastard he was. In theory, he was a hardened soldier. In practice, he was a bumbling, incompetent arse.
The Admiral leaned back and away, he grumbled, "Ah, Monocle, yes, yes. I believe, well, it doesn't matter what I believe, but you are most undoubtedly correct. By clockwork, you are an educator, after all, I need not tell you..." He turned, his mind wandered and his feet followed.
I started to slip away. He certainly did not need tell me. I certainly didn’t want to listen.
He mumbled on, "Or rather a professor, I should say. Walk with me, Monocle!" He immediately began his stride thinking I was to follow him. He continued to drone on in his big grumbly, self-centered, Royal voice as he tapped the ash out of his pipe. "You know, Monocle, education is a great thing. And for one to be educated, and I think you would agree, Monocle, is...." His voice echoed and trailed off into the expanse of the hall as he moved farther away. And I don't really think he noticed me slip into my office.
I guess he hadn't received word that I was now semi-retired. I had no further expeditions to brief him on. Absolutely nothing. I would have our department secretary schedule a time with The Admiral’s office commander for me to come in to schedule a meeting with The Admiral only to reschedule at the last minute. Just for fun and just to be difficult.
I entered our office, as it was designated outside on the door: Dr. Arthur Monocle, and below my name, Dr. Harold Smalls. (Our names, I would like to add for posterity and the record, were in order of alphabetical reasoning and nothing more. Harold jokingly complained about this to our Ministry of Communications Complaint Department Representative, which in turn lead to a rather embarrassing series of court appointments. Harold jokingly demanded that if his name not be above mine, that it at least be twice the size. They took this complaint seriously and the matter is still pending.)
“Good morning, professor,” a voice squeaked from behind stacks of books on Harold’s side of the office.
“Geraldine?” It sounded like Dr. Smalls’ assistant Geraldine. I peered over the stack to find Geraldine elbow-deep in notes. “A little light reading to perk up the brain, perhaps?”
She remained unamused and glared at me.
“Professor Smalls has me going over these books and it’s turning my brain to absolute gruel,” Geraldine whined, and rightly so. The books were heady and numerous. The subject matter covered vast subjects and various topics.
I began examining the reading material, muttering through the collection, “Anatomy... physiology... gears? that’s different... surgery? what on orbis do you plan to do with this?... steam mechanics... implications of consciousness... and projection? Paraphenomena? What is this? The Eternal Blackness by Dr. Leonard Ramses Hobbleton? Oh, my, what are you reading, dear girl?” I stifled my abrupt laughter.
“I don’t know, Dr. Monocle,” she sounded exhausted, “Smalls assigns me the books, I read them. Or pieces from them. Sometimes I just study schematics and diagrams. Other times, I read entire books and then I’m assigned to re-read specific chapters from the same book. Then I make flow charts and bar charts and charts about charts. I take notes regarding his notes for reference and cross-referencing. Smalls is quite the peculiar sort, in that way, though, isn’t he?”
I made my way over to my side of the office. I placed my umbrella and hat off to the side and took off my coat, “Hobbleton, though? Hobbleton? That man is a pestiferous quack. And what of that opticular scientifical methodologies text? Smalls is damn-near blind in one eye and he wants to get into advanced optics at his age? My word.” I laughed as I rolled up the sleeves of my white shirt to my elbows. I caught Geraldine glancing at the black markings covering my skin. It hadn’t been the first time that I had caught her peering, sometimes staring, at the tribalist tattoos that covered my arms which, hidden beneath my clothes, continued over my shoulders and covered most of my back.
Throughout my life, I’ve visited and studied nearly all of the tribes on the planet. I’ve been accepted as a member of roughly 88% of all the tribes on orbis (the other 12% would rather me dead or food). As such, I’ve received plenty of tribal tattoos as markings of who I belong to, in a sense. From pirate ships to the grandest ballrooms of Haverton, my tattoos have both kept me both safe and out of trouble. Geraldine never saw me as an adventurer, but rather just as an old professor. I think in her actual words, she said of me, and I'm paraphrasing, "You're a tall, lanky, bookwormy old man." So, the tattoos always caught her off guard, I believe.
I sat at my desk in a slump. I played with a desktop amusement, a little series of gears I had sitting on my desk that I would use as a common distraction from the everyday drudgery. I turned a crank and the gears would all turn.
I admired how the teeth of gears fit together so neatly and moved with each other so precisely. And just by adding additional gears and cogs and axles and what-have-yous, one could create more movement, a ballet of metal bits orchestrated to build a cohesive unit, a machine, an automaton. Each piece has to be free of flaw, though. A single flaw in the design of a gear or an inconsistency in the metal of a cog could make the entire series of gears, the transmission, stop. It can seize up and sputter out and break down. Just one flaw, though, the flaw may be so minor that it could take ages to create a problem, is all it sometimes takes. A little nick in the metal, eroding over time, wearing, grinding and it finally gives way a little more. Another bit chips off. And the growth may be slow, but it becomes exponential.
Or, as I put the tip of a pencil between the teeth, one can ruin the whole process by forcibly introducing something that does not belong in the system. And I gave it just a bit more torque and a crackling sound developed into a splintering sound developed into a final snap as the tip of the pencil broke under the pressure. And some things can right themselves with a little push.
I picked up the piece of mail covered with broken bits of wood and lead and shook it off into the trash. I then glanced at the unopened envelope, addressed to me, stamped with an interesting green wax emblem. The return address was as follows:
Mr. Scheckendale Kilmarten, esq.
TrustWorks: Attorney
417 462nd St, office 292432
Haverton Metro South
I searched my desk for my letter opener, the one granted to me by Alfonse Bruchard, grandson of the great Theodore Bruchard whom brilliantly devised our metro to metro mail system, now known as PostWorks. While I had never met Theodore himself, I knew his grandson, Alfonse, who was somehow a very disorderly fellow considering his grandfather’s business was punctuality and organization.
The lad was shortsighted as well. Infamously cheap. He, wanting to live up to his grandfather’s greatness, decided to take it upon himself to revolutionize mail delivery. Alfonse had devised a plan to ship mail by hot air balloon and by way of ocean vessel. Well, by cutting corners and keeping costs down, the endeavor was bound to fail. He devised a system in which the hot air balloon would go skywards from either Southland or Northward Territories. A system of clockwork and mechanisms and alarms were set to control the balloon. The balloon was sent upwards and it was an all-systems-fail floundering. Not one of the mechanisms set by clock and alarm worked properly and the balloon was sent far off course never to be seen ever again.
Simultaneously, his other bright idea, sending mail by ship worked just as well. Nearly as soon as the ship left shore, it was boarded by pirates and commandeered, never to be seen again, either.
As if failing miserably before the world wasn’t enough, poor Alfonse Bruchard, ever the showman, took half his family’s fortunes and divided it. The one quarter of the family’s money was put onto the ship, the other quarter on the balloon. Three days after the tragic calamity, I read in his obituary, that he wanted to “Wow!” investors like his old grandpappy used to.
That darned letter opener was a fine piece of craftsmanship and I hated to think that it had gone missing.
“Geraldine? Have you seen my letter opener?” I inquired.
She muttered, “No, professor, I’ve been in this stack of books since dawn.”
“It was here.” I exclaimed. I rearranged the clutter on my desk, “It looks knife-ish, but only insofar that it resembles a knife, you certainly would never cut your food with it.”
“I know what a letter opener looks like, professor,” Geraldine groaned from behind the stacks.
“But of course, you do, dear, you’re an intelligent lady. I just like to talk things through, sometimes...” I scattered papers and folders and files in every which direction. “As I do think about it, I did once cut a sandwich in half with it. Though, a proper knife it is not. You know it can be helpful to talk through-”
“You do remember you have lunch with Professor Smalls?” Geraldine was now standing up behind the stacks, looking in my direction, perturbed by my nuisance.
I looked up from my desk, “Lunch?” As if I didn’t understand the meaning of the word. And sometimes the clock strikes twelve at just the right moment, “Ah! Yes! It is that time!” I looked at my pocket watch as I shoved the letter into my jacket pocket. “Oh me, oh my. Where has the time gone?” I put my jacket back on and gathered my things.
I grabbed two hats from the rack and looked them over, but neither struck me. “Geraldine, dear? The top hat or the bowler?” I showed them off.
“Yes, the top hat is very smart, doctor,” she smiled.
I popped the hat on top of my head, grabbed my umbrella, and shuffled out of the office. I thought about her workload and how terribly full it was for the end of the semester. But, still, she was working closely with Harold and getting better than a full education.
He had taken her in as a freshman. Impressed with her father’s work in mechanics and engineering, she too showed the same talents. Geraldine’s father was none other than Hugo T. Wilbur, early pioneer of steamtech. And, of course, as the story goes, Hugo T. Wilbur, was lost to inner orbis on a test run of secret tech he was tinkering with. This all when Geraldine was just about 15 years old. Harold knew Hugo well, they sometimes collaborated on projects together. Harold had seen Geraldine grow up. And when Hugo was lost to an ocean of sand, Harold felt the responsibility to step in. Almost fifteen years later, the two have become close beyond inseparable. Harold accepted her like a daughter, and as a student and colleague.
If there was one thing I could say about retiring, I felt good knowing those who would take over to teach future generations. Geraldine would do just fine.
“Geraldine?” A thought occurred to me, though I wasn’t certain the origin. “Geraldine, I am sorry to bother your studies...”
“Yes, professor?” She said politely, but I knew she wanted to get back to her books.
“Before I go... Just a question, if you wouldn’t mind engaging me for a moment.” I hesitated as I formulated my ideas into a notion.
“Yes, professor?” A slight upturn in tone I noted, one of that signaled annoyance.
“Perhaps you didn’t know me, maybe saw me out upon the metro street, how old would you guess I am?” I finally inquired.
“Like a number, professor?” She looked puzzled.
“Well, not an exact number, exactly...” I fumbled for a better line of questioning, but I think she knew what I was almost getting at. “Would you consider me old and done for?” I finally asked pointedly.
She thought about it for longer than I would have cared for.
“I should remind you, Professor Smalls is waiting and you are late as it is.”
“Old then?”
Geraldine winced just slightly at what she perceived to be an offense to my personal being, “Well, you are quite fit for your age,” she offered as I turned to leave.
I was hoping I was just being melodramatic and pitiful. Worrying about something that was truly nothing, but in fact was something to begin with. It was in that slight hesitation of Geraldine’s. I was old. Simple as that.
I moped through the hallways as the normally scheduled bell rang and a few classrooms let forth students from exams. An old ninny drowning in a sea of youth, I was. I thought about picking out the most strapping, fittest, young lad from the group and striking him in the jaw to show the rest of these snivelling children who was still in top form-
And like that! I realized my state of mind. Dear goodness, what was I thinking? I considered punching an unsuspecting young chap just to make myself feel better about myself. That I still “had it,” so to phrase a term that condenses physical prowess and agility of a prime example from one’s life as being the archetype of being physically healthy and well. In no uncertain terms would I ever hit a man for no good, orbisian reason. Especially a student on University grounds. Another teacher, perhaps. If the teacher was asking for it, I would certainly lay one out. In fact, Thomas Quarterly back in ‘62 asked for it and got it. Quarterly was in that crisis of middle life some men succumb to; a crude desperation to squeeze that last bit of lustful energy from youth. He was brazen, brash, and brutish. He was more of a drone than a thinker, but an altogether talented expeditionary. Not exceptional, but better than average. Although, if not for such an intense interaction, I probably would not remember the man very well at all. He worked mainly for trade businesses, exploring revenues of income. (While not entirely academic, his work was useful, I suppose. At the same time, it was what helped lead to our bureaucratic nightmare.)
At some point, Quarterly became convinced he was top of the heap. He was better than everyone. This perception of his began with the growth of his billfold, as it were. At one point he believed he should have top pick of my graduate students for his next expedition, students who wanted nothing to do with him or his work, mind you. He jingled coin, he talked big. In the end he was laid out on the floor.
Some men refuse to listen to reason. These men are unreasonable. No amount of explanation or fact can sway them to the reality of the matter at hand. Besides fact and reason, there is courtesy and kindness and respect, but these actions of virtue are ignored by the unreasonable. It was in these times that to communicate an idea thoroughly, one had to speak a language only spoken by fisticuffs. While I would fashion myself a ladies’ man before taking on the title of brawler or bruiser, I will admit to knowing a thing or two about a thing or two when it comes to the exchanging of broken knuckles.
Perhaps I did still have it. There was a fire still burning in there somewhere, somewhere in there deep. Perhaps just a smoldering ember, but it was there and it was hot.
Though I did fear that light would soon extinguish.
*1: See: Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: The Stolen Coin of Tenpenny, regarding the incident in which the Admiral and I served as slaves for the Red Empire.
Blatant and brilliant, is the comical jester tagging Clockwork Foundation properties.
The artist’s moxie and vigor towards anti-authoritative actions is outstanding.
- Dr. Arthur Monocle,
quoted by The Gazette concerning
the unknown perpetrator
guilty of graffiti defacement
2
We had decided to meet early for lunch that day on account of finals and the celebratory send off. I found him in the observatory/planetarium, The Abraham Auditorium1, as usual. It was rather dim inside except for a little area down at the bottom of the steps, lit from the projection of moon maps on the curved wall. Harold’s illumination magnifier cast highly-detailed, hand-drawn maps of the moon’s surface. Within the glow of light I recognized Harold’s silhouette, rotund-ish, dare I say plump. He was a funny little man with a funny little mustache. Though, he was quite possibly one of the smartest men to have worked within the university halls; innovative, ingenious, and always a step ahead.
I made my walk from the door down through the seating to where Harold had his things laid out across a table: lunch, maps, drawing tools, rulers, a compass, ocularscopal mathematics book of shorthand, and a large eraser. Half of the room seemed to be taken up by the large, discombobulated, rickety, old telescopical contraption pointing skywards through the domed roof. The other half of the auditorium was used as a classroom, lab, and planetarium. Harold had made himself a little sanctuary there.
“Arthur!” Harold greeted me. My eyes adjusting to the dark room, he accidentally flashed his illuminator in my face. “Oh, dear!” He reset the adjuster and focused the light back onto the wall. “I’m so sorry, Arthur! I’ve blinded you, haven’t I?” I followed in the direction of Harold’s voice, and there he was, ready to grab me as I nearly knocked over his orbiter metatlas; once I was able to regain my eyesight we sat down to his work table. There were papers scattered all about, rolls of schematics, and our lunch.
“I’ve brought your favorite!”
Indeed, Harold had brought us bearsteak sandwiches his wife prepared the night before. Bearsteak was a rare treat. Sandra Smalls made the most exquisite bearsteak. The secret was in the marinade, a base of chetsey vinegar from the south of inner bay with a peppercorn and honey infusion. There was also a fine layer of marinated trellis mushroom which gave just the right nutty flavor to it all. We sat beneath the cumbersome telescope, lit dimly by the map projections, eating our sandwiches.
During a lull after a brief conversation about my lecture and in between bites, I asked Harold about Geraldine’s work load, “A bit much for summer semester, wouldn’t you agree?”
“She’s a smart girl, Arthur, don’t you worry,” Harold returned. “Besides, she enjoys the challenge.” Harold took a sip of his tea and he said so very matter-of-factly, “You know this won’t last, Arthur.”
“What? What won’t last?” I asked.
“This so-called retirement of yours.” Harold explained, “I understand the reasoning behind it, but it just won’t do.”
“What ever do you mean?” I blurted out in a poorly-acted baffled manner. He was on to me, indeed.
“Lectures? Fact-finding assignments for The Monarch? Charity events?” He scoffed. “We’ve got a pool on you. Gambling, if you catch my meaning. Bigger than the pool on students snapping under pressure! I have you at retirement for two months.”
“Bloody two months?” I exclaimed, “A ringing endorsement, indeed.”
“Two months was generous. Dr. Pembroke has you at a week from last day of finals,” Harold laughed.
I frowned a bit, but was rather pleased that my colleagues and peers thought of me still as an active member of the University and not just another echoing rumble of hot air through the university halls. Most likely, they were all probably correct. I wouldn’t last. When I broke my leg and was relegated to the university halls, I nearly went mad. Fashioned a propulsion unit to my wheelchair, took flight, crashed, and wound up breaking my other leg. This was only after the second day of down time.
The semester was just about to end and I was already chomping at the bit to go do something. Anything. Instead, I had planned a rather tedious series of lectures over the summer: Steamdriver Efficiency Advancement; Implications of Gorillian Fever Sect Movement Northwards; A Brief History and Rundown of The System for Numerical Guidence Operations and Freundlich Tower; BioDiversification, Chemicalationaries, Physical Randomosity within Maldeviant Communities; and other such drivel. It was all retread and regurgitation.
What was there to do for a 76 year old man? Certainly, I was still form and fit. Perhaps I was a bit worn out around the edges and tattered and torn where a man younger than myself wouldn’t find issue with his knees, his hips, his back, or any other maladies that might strike depending on which way the wind blows. Though, I did have experience and know-how.
“Did you ever think this is where you would wind up?” I inquired.
“Sitting beneath a giant telescopical device and eating lunch with you?” Harold had a quick wit I was quite fond of.
“No, no. We’ll just chalk that one up to luck, consider yourself lucky on that count,” Harold smiled and I in return before continuing, “What I mean is, did you think you’d make it this far?”
“Oh, dear, no.” Harold swallowed down hard on a bit of sandwich. “To be honest, I thought I’d have met my demise by this point. Some unfortunate twirl of randomosity for me to meet while out on assignment. Figured the same for you. I’d like to think we’ve done well as a result of having a right mind on our shoulders, but also, I think we’ve just beaten the odds and have had randomosity on our side.”
“Perhaps.” I took a sip of seavenly.
Harold coughed something terrible and it echoed within the metal walls of the domed room, he regained his breath and pointed to the maps on the wall, “Have I showed you my new maps?”
I shook my head, “Not in a while. I see you’ve changed some things around,” I said as I compared the maps on the wall to what I remembered seeing a few weeks prior. Harold had taken a keen interest in astronomicalaties over the past few years. Then, almost overnight, it seemed, his keen interest turned into a near obsession. He made it a project for himself to map the moon in sketches and drawings as part of a relaxation exercise.