The Gadgeteer

Chapter 1

'GADGETEERING IS NO profession for a lady, but since you find it irresistible, succeed in private before you share your success, or your mother will have your head.'

The words of Arabeth's grandfather, Salister Franklin Barnes, echoed through her memory, causing a smile. If her mother felt that strongly about an occupation she excelled at, she must be livid over this one. Bail Enforcement Specialist.

Arabeth sighed. At 26 years old, her parent's opinions should mean less to her. They certainly held little sway these past two years, if you judged by her actions. She understood - in principle. Mother was a proud woman, and this job did not suit a lady, if one went by society's label and not it's intent. Still, this was a means to an end. She'd be leaving the team soon enough.

As she crouched over an immense, semi-sedated escaped convict, her hands worked with haste to hand- and leg-cuff him for retrieval by the others in the enforcement crew. Her smile faded, and she heaved a sigh. They were late, again, if they were even coming. Just because she didn't need their help catching people didn't mean she wanted to do the entire job herself.

"Marble, watch for Peggs and the others. Give me a yip if you see them," she said to a little black and grey fox sitting nearby.

She ignored passersby, knowing she drew attention for the take-down, but also the fox and her mode of dress. Her hip-length tailored brown leather coat, dark brown cotton pants, and white blouse ought to have all been as black as a crystal-witch's heart. And pet foxes were out of fashion these days.

A widow for nearly two years now, she liked to think some rules no longer applied. She'd gladly abandoned the full black mourning dress a year ago, because of the 'get it right the first time' part of what her grandfather said. Thankfully, today's test executed flawlessly.

And the fox would be with her for the rest of their lives. She'd kill for that fox. Marble had earned that.

Thanks to Arabeth being from one of Blastborn's wealthier families and her work with gadgets, the general population of Blastborn recognized her. They also remembered the embarrassing details of her husband's death at the bottom of a salt refining mill. They expected a long black skirt. Mourning clothes. Civilized people mourned at least two years, after all.

More likely, it was startling to witness an average height woman bring down a tall, meaty man like a water buffalo, whether by dart or device.

A passing woman muttered to her female companion that Mistress Dane undoubtedly needed to find a new husband to discourage her from this strange behaviour. Her companion replied equally a-little-louder-than-was-decent, "Who would have her, after the way her husband died?" They strutted by as though Arabeth ought to both hear and be deaf to their comments - as though the mystery around his death reflected on her, somehow. Too many believed she needed reminding and held no recourse over their lack of fair play. Thank God she'd be done this job soon. Back out of the public eye.

Why did people only remember her husband's death when they saw her, anyway? He had died as he had lived—strangely, but that had nothing to do with her. They'd been married in name only. She was Miss Barnes again, thank you.

Her captive twitched a bit here and there as he lay face-down on the wet cobblestones. The early morning rain still dripped a little, so Arabeth removed a light scarf and put it under her target's face. This target, Desmond Mullock, was as big as any cow if it had stood on two legs, and about as bright as a dust mop, and he'd gone down in less than three minutes.

This new tranquilizer worked quickly and lasted long enough for her to safely restrain him. She'd have to thank Arnold for his precision in measuring and mixing it.