The Constantine Affliction by T. Aaron Payton Page A

attempting to stop a crime that has already occurred is a poor substitute for attempting to stop one that will happen in the future. We should place watchmen where the killer will strike next .”
    Value snorted. “And how do we know that? Are you an occultist, too, sir? A gypsy fortune teller?”
    “Hardly. But the killer has been proceeding east along the river through Alsatia, traveling approximately half a mile with each murder. I suspect he’s moving along just far enough to avoid your ever-expanding sphere of watchmen, sir.”
    Value leaned forward, frowning. “But how would he know where we’re watching?”
    “He’s obviously familiar with your business,” Pimm said. “How else can you explain the fact that, in the course of five murders, he has always managed to kill your whores? Not every girl or ponce in that area is in your employ, but only your interests have been impacted. He also knew where to find your houses of clockwork pleasure, though their locations are hardly advertised. Most men who know of such establishments know the location of one, or perhaps two, but this fellow knows of five —frankly I’m astonished there are so many—which implies a certain degree of intimate knowledge.”
    “Betrayal,” Value murmured.
    “Is there anyone in your organization you have reason to distrust?”
    “Those who give me reason to distrust them do not remain long in my employ.” Value sucked at his cigar, brows beetling in a scowl. “My people are at your disposal, Halliday. Tell Ben where you want guards placed, and he’ll see that it’s done.”
    “Perhaps you should tell your girls not to work this evening,” Pimm said. “For their own safety.”
    Value shook his head. “If they do not earn me money, Halliday, I do not care about their safety.”
    “You place your own wealth above the lives of these women?”
    “Everyone puts personal gain above the interests of such common scum, Halliday.” Another puff of smoke. “I just don’t bother lying about it.”
    Pimm tried to restrain his fury. Just talking to this man made him feel filthy. “I have reason to hope such callous views will become the exception, rather than the norm, soon. We are in a new world, Value, a world of progress and scientific advancement that promises a better life for all people—”
    Value burst out laughing. “Ben,” he said. “Tell the lord about your cousin that worked in one of Sir Bertram Oswald’s factories.”
    “Timothy, sir,” Ben said, voice impassive. “Ten years old, he was. Worked making alchemical lamps, you know the ones with the glass globes and the lovely yellow light inside? Timothy was really just helping out, sweeping up broken glass, fetching tools, and the like. Perhaps you don’t know, sir, but the substance that lights up those lamps is made of all manner of different chemicals, mixed together in a particular way. The chemical you get at the end isn’t so dangerous—you shouldn’t drink it, and it stinks a bit, but it can be sopped up with rags and thrown out if you happen to break one of the lamps. But one of the chemicals they use earlier in the process is an acid, terribly strong, and it so happened that one day Timothy was racing through the factory on an errand. It’s a dreadful loud place, and even though the man shouted ‘Watch out,’ Timothy didn’t hear him. Crashed right into the legs of a man about to pour a beaker of that acid into a vat, and the acid spilled on Timothy instead. Burned a hole right through his skull, it did. I hate to even think about it. He was a good boy.” Ben lapsed into silence.
    “Progress is fine for those who get to enjoy its fruits, Halliday,” Value said. “Not so fine for those who tend the roots. Those often get their hands mangled by the machines, and their faces burned by the steam, and end up with more holes in their heads than they were born with. But you and I are blessed by God, aren’t we? My, but it’s good to be rich.”
    Pimm