Episode 1: Experiment 31E

THE SCIENTIST: Experiment 31E, attempt number seven.

Date: September 12, 1843.

The specimen showed no reaction to the formula, or any additional procedures. Another failure. The specimen, as per usual, will be of no use for a second attempt.

The Boy is disposing of the specimen now. But…before he carted it off to the boiler…I heard him grumble something. I believe he muttered to himself about how this was the “worst part of his job.” A relatively minor complaint, perhaps—I suppose it is an unpleasant task—but I need complete loyalty from my servants. That is something hard to come by, which is why I have so few—and only one is allowed within the laboratory. The Boy has never been adept at concealing his distaste for my work—his guileless face reveals his every thought like the pages of a book—but he has always performed his duties admirably and without comment. This may be nothing more than a temporary break in composure, but I must watch him for any further signs of insubordination.

The Boy, of course, is not my main concern.

This formula is clearly ineffective. I have tried many variations of it over these past seven attempts, and not once has it come close to producing satisfactory results. Attempt six—nothing. Attempt five—[sigh] I thought I saw a twitch, but I discovered later it was merely a natural reaction, not influenced by my own ministrations. Of course, attempt four was a disaster but not because of the formula. That specimen was thoroughly inadequate for my needs. But I believe that after our—conversation—my supplier understands now I need a specimen that is fresh and untampered with.

I can’t fault today’s specimen, however. It was fresh and whole, hale and hearty—all things considered. No, I’m afraid it’s the formula.

I thought I had perfected it during Experiment 31D. It had shown promise among the single-celled organisms I tried it on, but unfortunately its effects do not seem to transfer to more complex beings. I have been working on this theory for decades now, ever since I was a child of eight and my mother’s stories inspired the idea that it could be possible.

Of course, I didn’t start actual experimentation as a child…no, it wasn’t until several years later, after my first score and ten attempts at other theories. But with such successes behind me, I thought I could solve it easily. I’d already done so much—why, I’m using one of the fruits of my labor as I speak—the first and, as far as I am aware, only device capable of recording sound.

I remember, after first inventing the Vox, I showed my mother what this device could do, and she was so proud—but also wary. She did not want some uncouth swindler to exploit my talents, so she told me to keep the Vox hidden. She warned me that many men will take the hard-earned success of a woman and try to pass it off as his own. I have seen it happen—my father would tell our neighbors that the bounty of our garden was due to his own diligence when in fact it was due to my mother’s innovations in irrigation and pest control. So keeping my innovations secret until I have the power to claim them as my own—and to be believed when I make that claim—is a must. After all these years, after all these creations, no one knows of what I’ve invented. But I’ve never been bothered by a lack of notoriety. I don’t build these things for others.

Although…perhaps that’s not entirely true…

However, this experiment has proven far more difficult than the Vox or even the steam velocipede. It has gone through far more iterations—A, B, and so on. I’ve completed additional experiments since my first attempts—I believe I’m up to Experiment 162—yet this one—Experiment 31—has been my obsession, my bane…my joy…for all too many years. I’ve never had another experiment reach E level before—94 reached C, as I recall, and 66 very nearly achieved D, but never E.

This formula… I…I—I thought I had it. I thought I had it.

[sighs]

But alas, all this effort, all these attempts, have been for naught. Seven…seven attempts, all failures. I’ve even tried adjusting the ingredient amounts in case more of a particular component is needed when dealing with larger specimens. But…nothing. I must start over. A new formula. A new procedure.

Which means I have to visit Solomon.

It has been—oof—many months since I’ve gone into Manchester. No…maybe longer… Let’s see, I’ve been in England since…has it been two years already? And the last time I went into town was…oh, my…a year, perhaps? The Boy brings me what I ask for so I don’t have to leave the manor and can focus on my work. But I can’t trust anyone else with finding the components for a new formula. Solomon’s shop has what I need—or rather, his secret shop behind the official storefront he offers to those unfamiliar with the true purpose of his business has what I need. I can trust him and his partner Rahul. But I loathe going into town.

I have never been fond of the hustle and bustle of the crowd. Back in America, the estate where I grew up was miles from the closest town, and even farther from large cities. Here in England everything feels so…close together. This manor is far enough from Manchester and the surrounding towns that the smoke from the factories only reaches here on a windy day, but I could easily walk there if I wanted to—it might take a few hours, admittedly, but it could be done—whereas back home I could walk and walk and walk through the countryside all day before encountering a single soul…

Despite being smaller, this land seems easier to get lost in. I’m not sure I could even tell someone where my estate is located. Could I pick it out on a map? What’s the closest town? I don’t think its Manchester itself, but honestly, I can’t remember… Luckily, the Boy is from Manchester, so he helps me find my way around, cutting through the crowds and that ever-present thick, black dust. I don’t know how he ever worked in one of those mills. I imagine he makes no comment on my work because I pay him higher wages than any he could ever have earned at one of those filthy places, and he only has to tend the boiler when I perform experiments, which is maybe only a couple days a week, if that. I’ve certainly gone a couple months before, locked away in my library, researching new ingredients or methods, without needing to use the boiler once.

But I know the Boy doesn’t care for Solomon’s shop. Solomon himself he doesn’t mind—they seem to get along quite well—but the shop… The Boy has never struck me as particularly devout and yet the first time I brought him there I saw him cross himself at the threshold to the inner store. Solomon barely hid the roll of his eyes at that, but he smiled indulgently at the Boy, nonetheless.

I understand his hesitance. Solomon and Rahul deal in things most good Christians would never let taint themselves—of course, neither one of them is Christian. Rahul thinks it’s funny that I use a magic shop to supply my scientific endeavors, but I find there are many things people attribute to magic or miracles that are actually misunderstood science. Before Copernicus, we thought the sun revolved around the Earth. Before Hooke, we didn’t realize plants were made up of tiny cells. Before Galvani, we had no idea there was electricity running within our veins…or that we could activate it with a spark… Think of all the other things we have yet to discover…

In fact, I read the other day that James Clark Ross recently returned from his four-year expedition to the southern continent. Unfortunately, he failed to reach the south magnetic pole, which was his original mission. He was the first to find the northern magnetic pole during another expedition, so I imagine he had hoped to be the first to reach both, but alas, he was thwarted by something he had never seen in all his years of polar exploration—a massive shelf of ice. A frozen cliff, a hundred and fifty feet high or more, extending as far as the eye can see in both directions. Perfectly flat and level at the top. This Great Ice Barrier prevented him from exploring further into the continent, completely obstructing his path.

But what an amazing discovery!

Prior to Ross’s expedition, we had no idea such a thing was there. Nor did we know about Mt. Erebus—an active volcano covered in snow and ice. Nor were we aware of the Ross seal or the Anne penguin or any of the thousands of new types of flora they discovered! But that doesn’t mean they didn’t exist until we perceived them. That’s what science is about—discovering and understanding what is already here, just waiting for us to find it…

My mother once told me a story…

She loved telling me fantastical stories, and this one was no different. There was a man, a scientist, who wanted to create a new form of human, something in his own image. Blasphemous, perhaps, but my mother never minded a little sacrilege. This scientist carved this new man, like Pygmalion carved Galatea, but it was his own powers that granted it life, not a god’s. This scientist’s first attempts were primitive, but he continued to advance his methods. However, when one of his creations turned wicked—unable to understand the basic morals and ethics of humanity—he dismantled this monster he had brought to life, ashamed. And yet, he kept working. He did not see what he did as a failure—he merely saw it as an education, something to learn from, to guide him in his subsequent attempts. His next creation proved to be his greatest. This modern Prometheus breathed life into a new form of man, and it was pure and good, performing impressive and merciful feats across the cosmos. This amazing invention would never have come to being if its creator had given up when things did not go as planned.

I have come all this way, defied so many expectations…defied so many people…I can’t give up now. I believe there is an answer to my problems, there is a way to fix this formula. I believe it is possible to solve this…

This version of the formula is not a misstep. This is not a mistake, or a setback. It is merely a natural step in the process. False paths must be eliminated—removed like dead limbs from a tree—before the truth can be found. That’s all this is, the next step. 31D gave me a base to work with, something I could build on. There must be something more that is needed to work with complex specimens, a special ingredient—like the spices Lydia always added to soup to elevate the taste to more than just broth, meat, and vegetables. I must elevate this formula to something else, to something better…

Solomon sent me a letter a fortnight ago. He recently received a new panacea, one that he thought showed promise. He wanted me to come in to take a look—he should know better by now that I do not accept requests for visitation, but I understand why he would think I would be interested enough to break my routine. The man who sold it to him claimed it had come from Johann Dippel’s own stores. I dismissed this as ludicrous for various reasons—for one, if Dippel had actually discovered an elixir of life then he probably wouldn’t have died. And it’s been a hundred years or so now since he did pass away, so where has this secret elixir been all this time? Honestly, I assumed this supposed panacea was really just some embellished mummia—and even if it was something Dippel invented, well, Dippel was a fool. He never created an elixir of life—he probably poisoned himself to death in his attempts.

And I know Solomon agrees with me on this subject, so I was shocked to see him considering this to be a valid formula. In his letter he assured me he would never have believed this panacea to be real except that it exhibited unusual properties. He wanted me to investigate—to experiment with it, to see if the claims were true.

I don’t usually perform experiments for Solomon, but…he knows what I’m working on. He knows what I can do. I met him within my first week here in England—I had been asking around for merchants who could obtain unusual ingredients and I was pointed his way. We have come to know each other. He respects me, which…I must say that is not something I see a great deal. I appreciate how he has no qualms about a woman without a chaperone, a woman interested in science…a woman who prefers to wear men’s fashion…but then again, Solomon’s not exactly one to adhere to society’s formalities, now is he? I know he and Rahul are more than simply partners in business—and he knows I know, and probably appreciates my lack of qualms in concern to that.

I’ve never understood why society considers such relationships a scandalous thing—I know how close my mother and Lydia grew after my father’s death. It was good for them both. And Rahul is good for Solomon in the same way—and vice versa. They keep each other grounded. Together they’re brilliant, apart…well, Solomon would probably forget to feed himself and Rahul would probably try to launch himself to the moon in a hot air balloon.

I respect them both as much as they respect me. They’re some of the few I’ve shown my inventions to—and I can count those people on one hand. I trust them. I might even dare call them friends.

If Solomon thinks this panacea has potential…perhaps I should take a look. Perhaps it’s the missing ingredient, Lydia’s special spice. Perhaps it’s the key to breathing life into my own invention.

I haven’t had a chance to respond to Solomon’s letter yet—I haven’t been out of the laboratory in days—but I think I shall send a reply posthaste. Tell him I will visit soon. The Boy can deliver it personally in the morning—I don’t trust the post with such messages. If the letter were to fall into the wrong hands…I don’t need all of England to know what I’ve been up to here in the countryside. I can spare the Boy for such a task since I won’t be needing him to stoke the boiler tomorrow—I won’t be doing more experiments until I have a new formula to try.

Oh, yes, and then I’ll need a new specimen to test it on. I’ll have to contact my supplier. Herman likes to know ahead of time if I will be needing his—talents—even though he can’t collect a new specimen until I am ready to use it. It must be obtained, delivered, and used within a twenty-four-hour span or I fear it will no longer be viable. Especially if there has already been a lapse of time from when it first became…viable…to when it arrived at the manor. I will inform Herman I will need him soon, then; and once I have created my new formula, I will send the Boy to initiate a drop.

The Boy…does not care for Herman. I don’t blame him. I despise the man myself. He is as welcome in my life as rat droppings smeared on the bottom of my boot. But he is an unfortunate necessity for my experiments. I imagine the Boy would care even less if I asked him to find the next specimen for the lab.

Herman certainly does not endear himself to others. But he doesn’t mind being hated. He knows what he is. There aren’t many of his kind left these days, not since the laws changed. Those who need what he can provide usually can get it more easily now. But I’m afraid that I fall outside of the law just as much as I fall outside of the rules of proper society. Herman is an evil that must be tolerated until I no longer need his services.

And, therefore, I shall pay him the courtesies he requests. I shall give him plenty of warning before I require his assistance, and I shall pay him what we have mutually agreed upon in our contract. I’m not sure where else I would find someone to perform his duties, and certainly not one who I would be able to trust more than him. After all, grave robbing is a nasty business.