Reincarnated Cthulhu - Chapter 4

§04. God of Machinery

Thump, thump.

The maddening sound of two people’s footsteps reverberated through the pitch-black depths of the decrepit cellar stairs. The dank passageway, as confined as it appeared from the outside, was so narrow that only a solitary soul could traverse it at a time. The termination of this abyssal tunnel was inscrutable, shrouded in a veil of ominous mystery. It must have taken eons of laborious excavation to carve out this subterranean domain.

I dared not hazard a guess as to its antiquity. Was it the relic of some antediluvian epoch? A vestige of an occult society, ensconced in secrecy for aeons? Even the fungus clinging to the walls was twisted and warped, reminiscent of some bygone era.

As I ruminated upon these enigmatic ruminations, Arthur bellowed from the rear,

“Philo, do not falter, press on!”

“Can’t you perceive my wounded leg?!”

Ever since my left leg had been cruelly amputated, the staircase had become my most formidable adversary. My prosthetic limb, a mere wooden stick affixed to a pole, strained under the burden of my corpulent frame, which rivaled that of any grown man.

Leaving the attic, where I had long dwelled, was an endeavor to enhance my wretched existence, yet my dread of ascending and descending those accursed steps loomed large in my decision.

“What inferno lies beyond, that it should emit such scorching heat?” I muttered, leaning against the grimy wall as I mopped the sweat from my fevered brow with a handkerchief plucked from my pocket. The sodden cloth was unceremoniously thrust back into its place, for I knew not where else to dispose of it.

“What say you, my dear friend? Any theories?” My companion jested, unaware of the turmoil that writhed within my anxious heart. The answer to his query was elusive, for in truth, I had no notion of what manner of place this was. If this were the nineteenth century, perhaps I might hazard a guess.

But judged by the standards of the twenty-first century, the answer was plain enough. It was likely nothing more than a commonplace boiler room!

Quaveringly, I retorted, “A boiler!” – a foolish answer, to be sure, given that this was the Victorian era. The very notion of a subterranean boiler room as envisioned by a modern mind was far-fetched. Edison had only just invented the radiator a decade prior, and even that was a far cry from the unwieldy boilers that might be ensconced in the basement.

Once more, I cautiously resumed my descent of the stairs, proceeding gingerly, one step at a time. The infernal basement seemed to revolve around me, swirling and spinning, and it felt as if I had plummeted at least two floors deep. Abruptly, I realized that my companion, Arthur, had lapsed into an uneasy silence.

“Art? Are you present?” I inquired, hoping to break the oppressive stillness.

“Ah, my apologies. I was lost in my thoughts,” came his response – an atypical rejoinder, to be sure. For a fleeting moment, Arthur appeared deep in contemplation. Age must surely have taken its toll on him, despite his outward appearance. Nonetheless, I was glad to have him composed, and so left him be.

However, whilst Arthur remained subdued, pandemonium reigned elsewhere. Suddenly, a discordant clamor erupted – the clamor of a train, or perhaps an army on the march. It was an ear-splitting, incessant din that seemed entirely out of place in this dismal basement. Astonishingly, Arthur said nothing of it.

In silence, we descended the steps, only to have them come to an abrupt halt. A dead end. Could I truly lose my way on a flight of stairs? In a state of panic, I frantically searched for a handle on the wall, to no avail. The surface was as flat as a table, devoid of any indentation or mechanism.

“Art?” I called out, seeking his counsel.

“Stand before the door,” he instructed.

Door? It appeared more akin to a wall than any door I had ever seen.

Following his command, I stood before the perplexing structure, only to feel a sudden sinking sensation beneath my foot, accompanied by a dull thud. Instinctively, I realized that I was standing on a large switch.

—Drrrrrr….

“It’s an automatic door,” I exclaimed in awe, genuinely impressed by this primitive device that employed pressure. Though not as intricate as the mansion’s imposing gates, whose workings defied my comprehension, this was an impressive feat of 19th-century technology. What stunned me even more was that Arthur had apparently conceived of such an invention. In all my years of knowing him, I had never glimpsed this side of his technical prowess.

I was conscious of his gaze upon me, but what could I do? As one who recalled the advanced civilization of the 21st century, even the marvels of 19th-century technology failed to truly astound me. Whatever invention emerged, it seemed all too predictable and obvious, and I could only think, “Ah, so this is what they have developed.”

For instance, last year an electric streetlight had been erected outside my abode, which automatically illuminated at dusk, and Marie had been vexed when I had offered a curt response to her enthusiastic remarks. To me, 19th-century inventions were akin to such trivialities.

Meanwhile, Arthur seemed unperturbed by my musings.

“It’s an automatic door.”

I bristled at Arthur’s habit of repeating my words in such a manner, always leaving me on edge.

“It’s much superior to the pressure-sensitive horizontal operating device we once called-”

“You jest, do you not?”

“No writer has yet been invited to the academic conference. All those invited were vying to see who can employ the most abstruse terminology,” he quipped, his sharp senses detecting my discomfort.

I realized my mistake. It was a blunder that only a reincarnated individual could commit. Regardless of how intuitive the term “automatic door” may seem, it was a word that could not have existed in an era devoid of such devices. Moreover, it was clumsy to immediately recite the product’s brand name when it was merely a prototype.

Arthur’s quick wit had discerned my awkwardness and amended my error.

I inwardly reflected, relieved that my error had not been too grave.

As the door creaked open, a bright light flooded out, causing me to instinctively close my eyes in response to the sudden stimulus. Arthur’s voice came from behind me, breaking the silence.

“Come to think of it, you mentioned the boiler earlier, did you not? You were partially correct.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, still squinting as my eyes adjusted to the intense illumination.

Arthur strode past me with confidence and entered the room, ignoring my presence. I protested, but he paid me no mind.

“Our family has not always been wealthy, Philo. It was not until my father’s generation that we accumulated such vast riches. He was hailed as a visionary entrepreneur, but I knew he did not deserve such a title.”

As he spoke, I sensed something different about Arthur this time. His tone was stiff and rehearsed, unlike his usual impromptu manner of speaking.

“That man had no economic sense whatsoever. I am certain he could not distinguish between a rock and a diamond, let alone determine which was more valuable. I often wondered how someone like him could achieve success in business.”

Arthur turned to face me, with his back to the bright light. My eyes struggled to adapt.

“I discovered the truth after my father’s death. As expected, he had no innovative ideas. He did not even need to have any sense. He simply consulted his prophet, who was always at his side, to determine where and what kind of factory to build.”

Arthur placed his hand on a massive object, which was the source of the intense light. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of incandescent bulbs flickered simultaneously, creating a brightness greater than that of the sun.

“Allow me to introduce you to the only existing Prophet. We call it the Oracle.”

It was a hulking monster, with countless joints moving tirelessly to produce a rhythmic sound as large and small gears meshed together. The enormous mass, which covered the walls of the spacious basement for at least ten meters, was connected to a steam engine so large it could be used on a train. Steam rose from the engine without pause, climbing up to the ceiling. I understood now why the butler’s earlier comment about changing the stairs would be meaningless.

“The official name is Analytical Engine, which was born in the imagination of a mathematician named Charles Babbage. My late father claimed to be his sponsor and brought this steel monster to life.”

Arthur slowly turned to face the machine.

“But doesn’t something strike you as odd? How much money was needed to create such a massive basement, hide the largest calculating machine in the underworld beneath it, and pile up steam engines and coal like a mountain? One million pounds? Two million pounds? Where did all that money come from?”

Arthur spun abruptly on his heel, his face hidden in the inky blackness cast by the blinding backlight. Yet, despite the obscuring shadow, a sense of foreboding emanated from him, as if he bore some terrible knowledge that he struggled to contain.

“This is but a mere sliver of the truth. We have but grazed the surface of the shadowed side of our world,” he spoke with a voice that sounded as if it came from a place far beyond our mortal realm.

A moment of deafening silence followed, broken only by the ceaseless, mechanical drone of a contraption that proclaimed its existence relentlessly.

“We called it the ‘Oracle,’ but it is nothing more than a mere abacus, a tool that can only store and spit out results,” Arthur said, his words hanging heavily in the air.

Then, he stopped speaking, a calculated silence that was meant to tantalize and pique my curiosity. It was his usual maddening manner of speaking, but this time it fell short.

For I knew that machine all too well, having seen it in a photograph not from the 19th century, but from the 21st. They called it something else entirely – ENIAC, the first computer, born half a century later. The Oracle was but a pale imitation of its electronic successor.

With slow and cautious steps, I approached the Oracle. Though I was no expert, the various components appeared to be of an age long past. The iron had turned a deep shade of rust, indicating it had been oxidized for decades, if not longer. It was a technology that should not exist in this era, and my sense of terror was palpable.

It was not merely old technology that left me in awe, but the fact that it had been in existence for so long. Had it been completed a century earlier, and for what purpose? What calculations had it been performing all this time?

Arthur seemed to know more about it than he let on. This was not a mere spreadsheet machine, but a mechanical deity that had already been created.

“God of machinery,” I murmured.

But Arthur’s joyful voice interrupted my thoughts. “No. If it can predict a future even the gods cannot see, then humans should be considered true gods.”

At that moment, I saw in Arthur a being that was not human. His intentions remained a mystery to me. What was the academic conference about? What was his research? And what did he want from me?

“So, is this what you wanted to show me?” I asked, attempting to sound more composed.

“Well, yes, I wanted to show you this as well,” he replied, “but the most important thing is yet to come. Before that, however, I wish to introduce you to a fellow member of the conference.”

Arthur stumbled away from the Oracle, drenched in sweat from its blistering heat. “Attendance is sparse today, but I can still introduce you to one person,” he said.

At the edge of his gaze stood a woman, frantically running around as if preoccupied with some vital task. She paid us no mind as we approached.

“Oh, Chairman Frank,” she greeted Arthur in English, though her speech was fraught with awkwardness. Was she of Russian descent, perhaps? I could discern a few Russian words in her speech.

“And who might this gentleman be?” the woman asked, adhering to formal protocol.

Our age difference of a decade or more made things even more awkward. She appeared to be a university student, while Arthur’s youthful looks belied his true age. It was like an old man stuck amongst the youths.

“Arthur, who is this woman?” I asked, adopting a serious tone. It would be unbecoming to use childish nicknames in front of a stranger.

Fortunately, Arthur responded with a serious tone, probably having that level of culture.

“As I mentioned earlier, I will not be sending the statue to the Royal Society. Allow me to explain why,” Arthur said, turning to face me before winking mischievously.

I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. What was he up to?

He turned back to the woman and pointed at me with a grave gesture. “Madam, this is the illustrious Viscount Floccinaucinihilipilification.”

“Ah, Flox…yes?” the woman replied.

Arthur still had no manners. And I was a terrible fool for ever trusting him.

“Philemon Herbert,” I corrected him. “You can call me Herbert. Please ignore the idiot who just spoke.”

“Philo, that’s hardly gentlemanly,” Arthur chided me.

“Just be quiet,” I retorted.

I silently thanked my lucky stars that my embarrassment did not show on my face. It would have been mortifying to have Arthur’s childish prank at my expense become common knowledge.

“And this woman is Marie Skłodowska Curie, a French physicist and geologist,” Arthur said, finally introducing her.

“Marie Skłodowska Curie. Pleasure to meet you…” I said, extending a hand for a handshake, only to hesitate at the last moment.

“Did you say Curie’s wife?” I blurted out.

“Oh, you knew?” Arthur said. “She was Pierre Curie’s fiancée, but tragically, she became a Curie herself this year.”

I repeated my question, none the wiser. “Curie’s wife?”