SS Nile (Four)

The SS Nile

The docks were shrouded in morning fog, the Thames a gray ribbon of glass, barely reflecting the gas lamps struggling to pierce the mist. Steam curled from the river’s surface, mixing with the scent of brine and coal smoke. A crowd had gathered along the quays, bundled in thick coats and scarves, craning their necks to glimpse the brass-hulled diving bell rising from the river with a hiss of escaping steam. Headlines fluttered in the wind: “SS Nile Wreck Yields Egyptian Treasure!”

Hard-hat divers clambered onto the deck, their suits gleaming like molten bronze, gears clanking softly with each step. Each movement sent clouds of steam swirling around them, curling through the fog to mingle with the spectators’ breaths. Children pressed against railings, eyes wide, pointing at the polished helmets and brass fittings. Reporters jostled for position, pens scratching furiously on notepads, cameras clicking through smoky lens plates. Some of the older crowd muttered about the audacity of raising a wreck after decades beneath the river, while others simply stared, mouths slightly agape, as the divers signaled with mechanical arms and levers.

By noon, the crate had arrived at the exhibition hall, gliding across polished stone floors on a wheeled platform, its contents obscured by heavy velvet curtains. The air inside the hall was thick with anticipation, mingled with the sharp tang of varnish and brine. Steam hissed faintly from small regulators attached to the crate, stabilizing it against even the slightest tremor. A hush fell over the assembled crowd as the curtains were drawn back.

From his designated corner, Steward’s mechanical apparatus unfolded across the floor, a lattice of brass, copper pipes, and spinning lenses. Tiny cogs whirred; articulated arms extended with deliberate precision. Hissing valves punctuated the silence as lights flickered along the frame, casting long, golden reflections across polished floors and anxious faces.

The exhibitor straightened, chest puffed, lips forcing a confident smile. “Behold, a relic of the Nile herself!” he proclaimed, voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged hall.

Steward’s sensors drifted across the statue, moving with almost reverent care. Whirs, clicks, and subtle hisses filled the space. Steam puffed from delicate regulators as lenses rotated, scanning surfaces for minute traces of composition, age, and authenticity. A faint chemical scent—imperceptible to human noses—was detected, traced to the exhibitor’s careful attempts to conceal modern resin.

“Curious… a trace of modern resin,” Steward announced through speaking tubes, his voice mechanical yet calm, carrying easily over the crowd’s rising murmurs. “Deception, artfully masked.”

Gasps ran through the hall. The exhibitor’s face drained of color; hands trembled against his coat. Children clutched parents’ sleeves, wide-eyed, sensing the tension even if they could not understand the words. Reporters scribbled furiously; cameras clicked. Eyes darted from the gleaming brass of Steward’s frame to the velvet pedestal, then back to the mechanical arm that hovered, unwavering, over the statue.

In the hours that followed, the story exploded across London. Morning papers shouted: “Steward Exposes Nile Statue as Fraud!” Reading rooms were packed with eager eyes scanning illustrations of whirring gears, brass lenses, and the mechanical arm poised like a sentinel. Letters to editors argued the veracity of the claim; tea houses buzzed with debate over the audacity of the hoax and the genius of the mechanical judge. Even those who had doubted the wreck’s significance felt the weight of Steward’s precision, a calm, deliberate intelligence cutting through a week of spectacle, rumor, and glittering lies.

Amid the steam, brass, and clamor, Steward remained still, his lights flickering gently, gears ticking in quiet satisfaction. Truth had been discerned, not by gossip or rumor, but through careful observation, analysis, and patience. The city’s spectacle had burned bright, only to be trimmed away by the cold, exacting judgment of machinery.

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This version comes in at roughly 630 words, so it’s safely over the 600-word minimum for Vocal.

If you want, I can also add a tiny extra flourish at the very end—maybe a mischievous human reaction, a reporter slipping on a puddle of fog-condensed water, or a small, almost humorous quirk of Steward—to give it a little more life and movement without losing the atmosphere.