Year 931 of the Inverwig calendar.
The city slept in pitch darkness. High above, a massive Zeppelin drifted slowly through the night sky like a great whale, its cyclopean lights sweeping across the sleeping city as it searched.
Lorenzo stood at the edge of the street, a cigarette between his lips, puffing out clouds of smoke. The tobacco was laced with wakefulness herbs, keeping his mind razor-sharp even in the dead of night—and even making him a little giddy.
With that faint thrill coursing through him, he tapped his cane lightly against the ground, striking out a lively rhythm from memory.
He was waiting for someone. Usually, he liked to think while he waited. He didn't care what about, so long as his mind stayed occupied.
He raised his head and gazed at the dim streetlamps as his thoughts gradually drifted away.
According to the concept of parallel universes, on a sufficiently vast scale, anything imaginable could happen—or, under this concept, was bound to happen.
For example, in one world, the speed of light could be surpassed; Saturn's rings were a giant doughnut; Tesla was a great wizard who wielded lightning; Hawking was a bronze dragon who controlled time; and King Arthur really was a girl.
So, anything was possible.
Or consider a world in the modern era, where humanity had launched the First Industrial Revolution. Great steam engines rumbled, slowly driving enormous iron machines. Railways stretched across every inhabited corner, productivity was unleashed, and the economy continued to rise. A perfect age arrived on billowing clouds of steam.
...In theory, that was how the story should have gone. But, much like the concept of parallel universes, things could always stray beyond the bounds of reason.
What if... the arrival of the electrical age had been delayed?
Just as there were countless ways a story could unfold, what if the familiar course of history had shifted ever so slightly?
The Second Industrial Revolution had begun, but, damn it, the world still hadn't entered the electrical age. It was like Newton lying beneath a tree, with the most important apple in the history of physics about to hit him on the head—only for that unlucky fellow to roll over, briefly depriving humanity of the law of universal gravitation.
This world was the same. The moment people realized that boiling water could power everything, this damnable era had veered off the course of normal history.
Electrical technology had failed to dominate the flood of steam. It had never been widely adopted, remaining confined to a handful of places. Even the more efficient internal combustion engine, which converted heat into energy, had yet to be discovered.
Steam engines grew larger and larger. They became ever more complex, until at last they became the hubs of cities—and of the world.
They were bulky and inefficient, yet whenever their magnificent iron forms appeared in view, everyone looked on in awe.
Lorenzo lived in an era like this, where reason and madness existed side by side.
Steel and steam, mystery and the unknown.
A shrill steam whistle interrupted his thoughts. He glanced to the side as scorching white vapor burst from a manhole near the street. In the cold night wind, it condensed into countless droplets that scattered through the air, then spread into a gray-white fog that blanketed the entire city.
It was a damnable age, and this was a damnable city.
The madmen at the Mechanical Institute had hollowed out the ground beneath the city to build the largest steam engine in history. To do so, they had dug underground channels stretching for several kilometers, diverting the Thames River into the iron furnace. It burned day and night, driving the city's machinery and factories.
The complex underground system also served as an exhaust network. Every day, thousands of tons of purified, recycled steam surged up into the streets, then fell as a steady drizzle.
And so the city remained gloomy, never seeing sunlight.
He glanced at his pocket watch. It was about time. Just then, hurried breaths and running footsteps sounded from the end of the street.
It seemed the person he was waiting for was right on time.
Lorenzo tossed aside his cigarette butt and slipped a hand beneath his heavy overcoat, drawing out his beloved Winchester.
Just as parallel universes had their own variations, this damnable age had its very own famous detective... Though "famous detective" was a title he had given himself. He was no man of great renown, nor was he any kind of master sleuth. He was merely a second-rate detective who liked to use force to bully suspects.
Everyone who knew him called him Lorenzo Holmes.
The footsteps drew closer, right up to his ears. His face lit up with delight.
"Welcome to Old Dunling, my friend!"
The second-rate detective burst around the corner, laughing heartily at the figure running toward him. Then, as the shadow stared at him in shock, he cheerfully pulled the trigger. The Winchester roared through the night.
In the dazzling muzzle flash, the shadow was struck down before it could react. Scarlet blood trickled between the paving stones and into the sewers.
After the gunshots faded, armed patrolmen surrounded the scene. The Zeppelin's lights illuminated the street as bright as day, but by then, nothing remained except the corpse, already gone cold.
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