CHAPTER 9: IN WHICH WE ONCE AGAIN RETURN TO THE PAST TO INVESTIGATE ONGOING MATTERS CONCERNING SECRET SOCIETIES AND THE RECKLESS APPLICATION OF MATHEMATICS

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"My apologies, Nigel. Abigail couldn’t make it; there’s a bit of trouble back at the Steamwork—"

"You don’t need to apologize on her behalf," Nigel told him. "I am well aware that she would prefer not to venture into our little ‘clubhouse’."

"It’s just a little disorienting for her, is all," Jeremiah said.

"I mean, you’ve plunged so deep into it, and only in two years—"

"Do not worry. I more than understand her discomfort."

The pair ventured past the Society chapter-house's thriving garden grounds where cicadas thrummed among the birches and pines, making their way to the brightly lit conservatory. Its framework was built of light oak with bronzed roof panels that flashed in the light offered from a hanging lamp of glass and tin.

Jeremiah made himself comfortable on a padded wicker cot; Nigel sat in an inlaid armchair with a rich foliage motif and lush cushions dyed an imperial shade of blue. They remained in silence until Jeremiah caught sight of someone stirring among the shadows in a corridor behind Nigel.

He sighed. "Nigel, Abigail and I—we're worried. About you."

"Whatever for?"

"We think you're getting too involved in this whole affair,"

Jeremiah said. "The secrets, the ritualistic trappings, the deceptions

—you've cloaked yourself in a cloud of mystery. We're worried you are taking it far too seriously."

"Trust me," Nigel said. "I find it just as absurd as Abigail no doubt does. It is merely a tool to reach our ends."

"Still, one cannot maintain lies of this sort for so long without letting them seep into their life," Jeremiah said. "We just want you to be careful, Nigel. Don't let your means become your ends."

"Wise counsel, yes, yes," Nigel said. "But we can talk of this later."

"If you wish."

"Did you bring the new numbers?"

"Of course." Jeremiah drew the folded papers out from his coat, handing them over to Nigel. The dark-haired naturalist unfolded them, removing a pair of spectacles from his front coat pocket and perusing the mathematical formulas scrawled over its surface.

"I must admit," Nigel said, perusing over the equations,

"Your recent work has been magnificent. Some of the predictions your last set of equations made exceeded even my initiates'

superstitious expectations."

"Only a few of the equations are actually mine," Jeremiah said. "Abigail is responsible for the bulk of them."

"She has proven to be a far greater asset than I had originally thought," Nigel said.

"She's brilliant," Jeremiah said, and left it at that. "Shall we input the numbers...?"

"Yes, yes," Nigel said. "Let's." He rose from his chair, gesturing for Jeremiah to follow as he moved deeper into his home.

Jeremiah stepped inside the dimly lit interior of the chapter-house.

The chapter-house's drawing room was decorated with resplendent textiles; crimson curtains trimmed with gold lining smothered what little light entered through its windows, casting a filtered glow upon the furniture within. The shadows here had grown so thick that they seemed to possess a substance all of their own; Jeremiah could easily imagine that, given the right prompting, they would leap to the defense of the chapter-house's master.

"Your new home is rather disconcerting," Jeremiah confessed.

Nigel laughed, as if enjoying some delightful joke. "Do you know why we are afraid of the dark?"

"Because our imagination fills it with dreadful, wicked things," Jeremiah said.

"Yes," Nigel replied, "that is correct. But do you know why?"

"No, but I am sure you will tell me, eh?"

"Of course. Because the alternative is far more terrifying, Jeremiah. Because the alternative is this: that there is nothing there.

That, in fact, we are merely alone. Alone, in the dark."

"Funny," Jeremiah replied. "Maybe it's just me, but I've never been too frightened of getting my face eaten by an empty shadow."

Nigel laughed again. He lead Jeremiah down a set of spiraling stairs, down into the very belly of the chapter-house, beyond the realm of the uninitiated.

The basement where they had stored the latest probability engine was large in size, but nearly all the space was taken up by the engine itself. It dwarfed Jeremiah's previous designs; iron and steel had replaced the cheaper brass fittings, with Jeremiah's latest improvements—vacuum bulbs and batteries—providing a source of cleaner, quieter power.

It had been Abigail's idea to build the controls out of a church organ. Each key was labeled with a number or function, and after a bit of practice, inputting data became child's play. Nigel sat the documents on the nearby music stand, cracked his knuckles, and began typing in the values in a blur of finger strokes. "There is something else I wanted your opinion on, Jeremiah," he said as he worked. "Seize the electric torch to your left; use it to inspect the chalkboard over the corner there. I have scribbled down a few equations."

Jeremiah did as he was told, approaching the chalkboard with some consternation. As he lifted the torch up to inspect the numbers, his eyebrows knitted with confusion. The writing went far beyond the meager boundaries of the chalkboard—Nigel's dense, neat script extended over the chalkboard's frame and coated every inch of the wall. "Nigel, what is this?"

"A thought experiment."

"A thought experiment? This is an equation for the engine, Nigel. I recognize the functions—but I cannot make out what it is you are trying at, here."

"We have used the engine to avert small calamities with the foreknowledge it grants us," Nigel said, still inputting the numbers with focus and intent. "But what if we attempted to make something happen?"

Jeremiah raised a brow, looking back at Nigel. "We've done that. The rain—"

"A paltry parlor trick," Nigel said. "A clever act of chicanery, nothing more. No, what I was thinking was something far more grand."

"Were you not the one who warned us of frivolously using the engine?"

"Yes, yes, of course," Nigel replied. "But this idea is far from that."

"What is it you are proposing?"

"What if we made a person?"

Silence lingered. Jeremiah frowned.

"A person, Nigel?"

"Yes. Imagine it—a person created through the probability engine. If we could distill the birth of a person to mere mathematics, could we not cause it to happen? Furthermore, what would occur? You and Abigail have theorized that events caused by the probability engine lead to all manner of strange coincidences and conflagrations of chance; would a person created in this way lead such a life as well? Could we, in fact, manufacture a living entity's very destiny?"

"It is... an interesting notion," Jeremiah admitted, "yet one best constrained to matters of theory."

"Of course, of course," Nigel said. He brought the cover down over the keys with a loud snap. "I would never think of actually putting the idea into action. Not, at least, without your and Abigail's permission."

"Of course," Jeremiah said, although he sounded unconvinced.

"I apologize, Jeremiah. Pardon my rudeness for keeping you so late; it sometimes grows lonely in this house. I have only fawning fools and ignorant believers to keep me company."

"Of course, of course," Jeremiah agreed. "No pardon is necessary. Think nothing of it."

"We will speak next week, then? After I have sent the latest results to you?" Nigel said, staring up at the monolith of a machine.

"Yes, of course," Jeremiah replied. "And, perhaps I will speak to Abigail of this theory of yours—we would never put it in practice, of course, but it might intrigue her—"

"I would rather you not, Jeremiah. She all ready thinks me a schemer; I would rather her opinion of me not grow darker."

"If... if you insist, Nigel."

"I do. Good night, Jeremiah. One of my men will show you out."

"Thank you. And, good night, Nigel."

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