Chapter 29: The Hollow Eyes and the Steam-Pump
A murder scene. In my old life, that would have been a thing of shocking, morbid fascination, something seen only in flickering images on a screen. Now, after just a few days in this city, it felt… routine. A grimly accepted part of the landscape. Since this investigation wasn't about the factory owner, there was no reason for us to linger. Neither Jared nor I had any desire for a closer acquaintance with the peelers. Still, I got a better look at them this time. Up close, their dark green uniforms were just as crisp and immaculate as they had appeared from the rooftop. I could now see the details on the crests on their shoulders: a square, knightly shield, divided into four quadrants by a cross. The symbolism was lost on me, another piece of this world's puzzle I couldn't solve.
My attention, however, was drawn to the pistols at their waists. This was my main object of interest. I wanted to determine the level of their weapons technology. From a flintlock to a revolver to a modern semi-automatic, the design of a firearm could tell you a great deal about its era. It may not seem like it now, in this frail, useless body, but in my past life, I was something of an amateur gun enthusiast. I knew my models, my mechanisms. I leaned in, trying to get a better look at what this world's sidearms looked like… and then I saw it. What in the world was that?
I was baffled. The peelers did indeed carry pistols, but they were unlike any type I recognized. The weapon was huge, with a large, cylindrical structure attached to the back, behind the grip. If I had to describe it, it looked something like a toy water gun from my old world, only the "water tank" was made of a dark, burnished metal. Was that the magazine? I wracked my brain. There were some firearms with cylindrical magazines. The Calico M960A submachine gun, for instance, used a helical-feed magazine mounted on top. This was somewhat similar in concept, if not in placement. But that was the problem. The Calico was a submachine gun, a piece of advanced modern engineering famous for its high rate of fire and large capacity. This world’s technology seemed to be stuck somewhere in the early industrial revolution, a world of steam and coal smoke. Were they really arming their constables with submachine guns? The technological paradox was staggering. Unfortunately, we couldn't linger. I didn't dare stare at the peelers for too long, lest I draw their unwanted attention. The pistol was still in its holster, and I only got a fleeting glimpse before Jared pulled me away. I couldn’t gather any more intelligence. Just as we were turning to leave, I caught a snippet of conversation from the onlookers, a man's low grumble to his companion: "...pity the poor lass. Took her eyes, they did. Both of 'em."
We left the morbid scene behind and made our way directly to the well. But when we arrived, I was met with another surprise, another piece of this world's jarring incongruity. This was no simple, stone-lined hole in the ground. It was a machine well. A tall, tower-like structure had been built over the wellhead, a skeleton of iron girders and brass fittings. At its center was a large, irregularly shaped cylindrical device from which I could hear the powerful, rhythmic rush of water being drawn up from the depths. The top of the tower must have been a reservoir, as several large pipes branched out from it, disappearing over the rooftops in all directions. It was a water tower, complete with a mechanical pump. This was clearly the main water source for this entire tenement district. I was stunned to see something so advanced in this world. Considering the plumbing in the latrine, I suppose it made sense. It wasn’t that the technology itself was so incredibly advanced, but it represented a certain level of civilization, an understanding of the importance of a stable, centralized water supply for sanitation and health. After two days mired in filth that wouldn't have been out of place in the Dark Ages, I had almost given up hope for this world’s hygiene. This water tower was a genuinely heartening sight, a sign that life here might not be entirely without its comforts, its small pockets of order amidst the chaos.
But the pump itself… it was strange. It was huge, far larger than any electric pump would need to be, and it was constantly venting clouds of white steam, hissing and sighing like a living creature. And then, a new piece of knowledge, unbidden, surfaced in my mind, not as a memory, but as a clean, concise label downloaded directly into my consciousness: Steam-Pressurized Water Pump. What the hell was that? And how did I know it?
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