Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology

by Jay Barnson

  James looked up just as an enemy soldier pointed his gun at them. “No!” he covered the nurse just as the shots rang out. An inferno of pain enveloped his chest before everything faded to darkness.

  My love . . . son . . . I'm sorry.

  The nurse mopped the soldier's bloodied brow. There wasn't anything she could do for him; she knew it. But she couldn't just let him lay there. She turned to the sergeant. “Can we cover him with his uniform?”

  Having dealt with the enemy soldier, the sergeant wiped his freshly bloodied blade and grimly shook his head. “I'm sorry, miss, but we’ve got to go.”

  “What will the final cost of this war be?” she whispered, tears on her face. “How many good people will we lose?” She noticed the watch chain dangling from the man’s pocket and reached down to remove it. “I swear I'll get this to your boy. I don't know how, but I promise I will get it to him.” Then she stood up, put the watch in her pocket, wiped her bloodied hands on her hem, and followed the sergeant.

  The unlikely pair did their best to avoid the enemies crawling around the makeshift hospital. Twice more, the nurse was forced to witness the taking of another life when the sergeant had cause to use his blade. They escaped the grounds under the cover of nightfall, but realized they had to cross the desert. Without transportation of any kind, the journey would be dangerous and they only had two small waterskins that needed to last a week.

  The sun bore down onto her skin, making her feel light-headed and confused. Even the battle-hardened sergeant seemed to have difficulty, and she feared that his wound would soon fester and bring a fever. If that happened, she knew she didn’t have what she needed to care for him. They walked for two days, trying to measure out and save as much water and food as they could. They had a week's worth of walking to do and fate was harsh and unforgiving. They paused to gather their strength at an outcropping of Acacia trees.

  “How are you holding up, miss?” the sergeant gasped.

  She did her best to smile for his sake. “I’m fine, but you need water, sergeant.” She held up the water skin trying to encourage him to drink. He shook his head.

  “Thank you, miss, but we need to make it last.”

  She held the water skin up higher. “It’s of no use to save it if we die first.”

  He hesitated a moment longer then nodded. He took a small sip and passed it to her. Like the sergeant, she hesitated, but she knew she needed it. Her skin had started to blister from the sun. Even the small head coverings that she had made for them from the last of her vest did little to protect them from the heat.

  She thought she saw movement in the distance. The nurse raised her eyes and thought for a brief moment that she saw a cloud of dust on the horizon. She squinted in the noon sun and felt a brief hysterical giggle rise in her throat. Surely she wasn’t imagining it. “Miss?” the sergeant said, clearly worried that the sun had proven too much for the young woman.

  “There!” she said. “Do you see it, sergeant?”

  He shielded his older eyes from the bright glare. He saw the cloud of dust but where the nurse had felt elation, a fear knotted his gut. They were still too far out to have encountered a British patrol. That meant whoever was drawing closer . . .

  “Oh mercy, no. Heathens! Run girl, run!”

  She looked over at him startled, unsure now that he looked so frightened. She glanced back at the nearing dust cloud just as the horses and their riders came into view. Desert garb with the dark colors of blood and night loomed closer. Heathens. Brigands. Death.

  They knew they couldn’t outrun horses. They quickly hid behind the Acacia trees, hoping they hadn’t been seen but knowing there was little hope. If they had seen the brigands, the men on their steeds had seen them. Curved blades paired with rifles, taken from English and enemy alike, were soon drawn and pointed at the nurse and sergeant as they circled them, seven in all. One brigand on a black charger with a braided cloth lead pranced closer as he rested his blade across his forearms.

  “An Englishman and his woman traveling alone in the desert? I think the sun has finally driven the English mad!” His men laughed. Only fools would be found in the desert on foot.

  “Beggin’ your pardon,” the sergeant said, grabbing the nurse’s hand to steady her. She could feel his hand shaking, but she watched as he held his head high with pride despite their situation. She did her best to copy his demeanor.

  The brigand smiled slightly. “Speak, English dog.”

  She felt the sergeant's hand tighten. He was no dog. He was a proud Englishman who had worked hard for his rank. “We just came from hospital, yonder,” he said, pointing back the way they came. “Our enemies slaughtered all but me and the young miss here. We barely got away with our lives.”

  Several of the brigands hissed. To take the life of a wounded man was without honor. The leader glanced from the sergeant to the nurse. “You are all enemies to us.”

  “I don’t see how a nurse and a wounded soldier could be your enemies,” the nurse said, trying to feign a bravado she did not feel.

  As one, the brigands raised their rifles. That a woman dared address their leader could be met with only one punishment. “Quiet, miss!” the sergeant whispered.

  To the astonishment of all those present the leader stared at her before laughing harshly. The brigands lowered their weapons, but only slightly.

  “You English think you can walk so proudly on this earth. But you are in the desert. This is our land. You came here thinking you could take it from us. You failed. Your enemies failed. We remain and will be here long after all of you have had your bones bleached by the sun.” He raised his blade and pointed it at the ragged pair. “So now, I think, you die.”

  Grinning, his men pulled excitedly on their steeds that reared in furor. The sergeant pulled his own blade and put himself between as many of the brigands and the nurse as he could. This move was met with approval by the brigands, who cheered on his challenge. One brigand in particular began to ride forward, but the leader held up his hand.

  “You have heart, English dog. But I think you won’t last long. Unless you have something you can trade for your lives?” The leader ran his eyes over the ragged pair. His men grinned, especially the one who had ridden forward, knowing their leader's offer was in jest.

  “We have gold!” the sergeant exclaimed, knowing it was their only chance.

  The nurse turned her frightened eyes on him. “Are you mad? We have no gold!”

  “We do, miss. I saw you claim it from that fallen soldier.” The sergeant gave her a pointed look.

  She shook her head vehemently. “That is not mine to give! I took it to send to his boy. He promised he would give it to his son and I intend to see his promise through. He’s the reason I’m alive.”

  He looked at her helplessly. “Miss, I'm sorry, but if you don't give them that watch, they'll kill us and take it anyway.”

  She pleaded with him silently, her eyes filled with the agony of her betrayal. “Please, there must be another way. That man saved me. I've got to get this watch to his son.”

  “The man is saving you again. I doubt he would want you to die on the account of that there watch. And beggin' your pardon, but I don't want to be dying either.”

  She tightened her grip on the watch until her knuckles turned white. She nodded and handed it to the soldier, who immediately tossed it to the leader of the brigands. The man opened the watch’s cover and nodded, pleased at what he saw. “Very good.” He glanced back down at the soldier.

  “Run, Englishman. You live one more day. Run like a dog.” The leader jeered and raised his gun high, laughing as he and his men rode off, back into the searing heat of the desert and the unknown hell they had come from.

  “Please forgive me,” the nurse whispered to the sky, wiping a lone tear from her eye, the only water her body could spare.

  “Come along, miss. We’d best be going before they changed their minds.”

  She nodded, praying for peace to be bro
ught to the fallen soldier and to her heart. For now, the sergeant was right. They had to survive.

  Ahmed Ben Yassan, prince by blood, but now leader of only a few weary survivors trying to endure in a world torn by war, led his men deeper into the desert, their voices rolling across the dunes in praise to their god and the sands that protected them. For one more day, they had avoided the bullets of their enemies and now, was the time to enjoy their spoils and rest.

  They came to rocky hillside that masked the entrance to the caves they called home. Once they had lived with their prince inside a palace that rightfully belonged to them. But no longer. Enemy shells had destroyed their ancestral home, killed women and children and robbed them of everything.

  Now, the dunes were their neighbors, the horses and each other their only family. They rode with their leader to the death, taking back all that they could, knowing it would never be enough to quench their lust for revenge or to still the cries of the dead who even now haunted their dreams.

  Their return was met with cheers from the men and women who greeted them, bowing to both friends and masters who worked alongside them to survive in the harsh desert. They dismounted and led their horses to a paddock down a tunnel where they could find fresh water and safety.

  Their spoils, spartan and few pickings, were unloaded and shared. Food was quickly sorted and sealed away. Their leader checked on all of his men to be sure they were well in hand before turning to his own area, where his slave girl waited for his return with tea and fresh linens. He sat down on his rugs as she set herself about caring for his sword and saddle.

  Ahmed watched her silently, appreciating her grace of movement and the care that she always showed him. If she knew his secret, who he truly was, she never revealed it. She treated him as a man. It made him love her even more, even if by law he was forbidden from telling her, one who was of common birth and belonged only in a harem.

  But in the dark of night, when spirits were free to walk and dreams came alive, he could love her. Their fingers could touch, their lips could meet, and their hearts could be together, even if only in silence.

  “Harana.”

  She bowed to him and then raised her eyes to his. “Master.”

  It meant death for a slave to look into her master's eyes. They both knew this. She tempted the fates and his wrath by raising her gaze, but he allowed her the transgression. He took her wrist and pulled her to him.

  Their voices, quieted by blanket and rug, carried throughout the walls of the side cavern that served as his personal chambers. Here, hidden from the eyes of the stars and judging gods, they could be their true selves.

  They held each other, and in these moments, Harana felt her greatest joy. She could never tell him, but she knew her heart betrayed her. He did her great honor by not reproaching her, and she loved him for his gentle leniencies.

  Harana noticed something sparkling in the firelight and sat up. She took up the gold watch and stared at the hands, ticking slowly away in an attempt to decipher something as mysterious as time. The foolish thoughts of the westerners amused her. She handed it back to him, but he shook his head and pressed it back into her palm.

  “For you.”

  She stared at it. “This much gold is more than I could make in a lifetime. It would even be enough to—”

  “Buy your freedom,” Ahmed finished. “You could use it and go far from here. Far from this war and the blood of our people drying within the sands.”

  “Far from you?” Harana whispered, and shook her head, opening her palm and treating the watch like it was some kind of poisonous creature.

  “I would have you safe.”

  “Anything that would take me from you is not safe. It is death.”

  He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Will you ever obey me?”

  She pressed her face against his chest. “I will never obey any command that takes me from your side, my master.”

  “Such things you say . . . if my men heard, I would be forced to—”

  She silenced him by kissing him passionately and pulling him back down onto the rugs. He went willingly, yearning for peace to find them both, if only for a little while.

  Harana rose before him in the morning. She could still feel his kiss as she stoked the fire next to their sleeping rugs and made his breakfast for him. They only had dried meat and fruits with a bit of stale bread and tea. She felt shame within her breast that the man she loved, her prince, had been forced into such squalor.

  Even more to her shame when she noticed out of the corner of her eye how he would scrape some of his food into her bowl to make certain she had enough. That was her duty and obligation, not his. Yet her heart swelled at his gesture, despite her wounded pride.

  Seeing they needed more water, she took the waterskin and went out. The men who had risen nodded to her. The life of a slave was hard and unforgiving, but their masters were gentle. She wondered if any of them were fortunate enough to know love, but dismissed the idea. To tempt God and the fates by opening a heart was a dangerous proposition for any women, especially a slave.

  She knelt at the hole in the cavern floor by another woman, Madea, who smiled at her. “Good morning, Harana.”

  “Good morning, Madea. How fare you this morning?”

  “Well enough, Harana. Although . . .”

  “Yes, Madea?” Harana looked at the young girl, who seemed hesitant and flushed.

  “I think I may be with child.”

  Harana blinked in surprise. “Are you so certain?”

  “No, but I have felt the sickness for almost a week now. I am hardly able to eat the dried foods. Those are the signs, yes?”

  “Those are the signs,” Harana murmured. A child in this cave, far from the gardens and doctors of their home? Such an idea filled her with uncertainty and worry for the future.

  Yet the woman within her felt a twinge of jealousy. “May I?” Harana held out her hand, and Madea nodded. Harana touched her hand to the other girl's stomach. She couldn't feel anything, but she shared in Madea's excitement.

  “No one knows but you, Harana,” Madea whispered. “I don't know what our master would do.”

  “Who is the father?”

  Madea looked shyly toward the entrance to the cave, to where a man was looking out across the dunes. “He is even now protecting us.”

  Harana recognized him. He was not attractive and she was surprised at his age, but he was a kind man who never raised his voice to horse or slave. After suffering a leg injury by a bullet, her master had set him to protect their home while he and the others loyal to him went riding.

  “He is a good man, Madea. He will make a good father for your baby.”

  “But he might be angry. What of our master?” Madea looked frightened and placed her hand over Harana's.

  Harana thought for a moment and shook her dark haired head. “Our master has lost much. More than any man should bear. A child would give him pause and remind him that even in this barren existence there is life to be found. I envy you, Madea.”

  “Envy me? Surely one day you could have your own?”

  Harana looked away. Her master could never accept her as more than a slave. Any child she would bear would be only a bastard. She could not do that to him. Before she could answer, she heard a shout from the entrance. “To arms! Soldiers!”

  Both women turned in unison toward the entrance and gasped as shots rang out. The guard fell back into the cave, his rifle echoing as he pulled the trigger. Cold fear lanced through her abdomen, straight into her heart. “Madea, no!” But the young woman paid her no heed and ran toward the entrance, where the father of her child now lay dying.

  She never made it. More shots rang out and the young woman crumpled to the cave floor. “No!” Harana cried. But there was no time; she turned and ran deeper into the cave, calling out for her master's warriors to rise and protect themselves.

  “Warriors! To arms! Protect our master!”

  Men shouted and grabbed their ri
fles, running toward the entrance. Swords were drawn as they called to God to protect them in battle and bring them victory over the enemies who invaded their last bastion of hope. She did not stop running, even as more began to fall around her.

  The calls of a British officer issuing commands came from behind her.

  “Now lads! Let's give them another volley for Her Majesty the Queen!”

  Her foot sliding on a stray stone was all that saved her. She slipped and fell onto her backside as a leaded shot flew right by where she had been standing only a moment before. Heart racing, she scrambled to her knees.

  “Harana!”

  She turned just as her master appeared, his scimitar in hand and his long hair, unbound and disheveled, flowed as he grabbed her and pulled her to safety just as another volley rang out.

  “My master! We are undone. The British—”

  “Hush, Harana.” Ahmed glanced around the outcropping that sheltered them. British soldiers with their rifles were marching into the caves, stepping over the fallen bodies of his men. He tightened the grip on his sword and looked into her eyes.

  “Stay behind me.” His eyes narrowed. “This will be a fight that the children of their children will remember.”

  She tightened her fists against his chest. She knew asking him to lay down his weapons would be pointless. Even if the British didn't hang him, the shame of imprisonment would kill him. All she could do was pray for the end to be swift.

  “In the name of the Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, I demand for you to drop your weapons and surrender.”

  He held out of the blade of his sword and looked into the reflection of the metal, noting how many men he could see. There was no way out. For either of them.

  “I wish you had left last night when I told you, woman.” he said. She knew he did not want the lifeblood of another innocent on his hands. Especially her own.

  “I told you I will never leave your side as long as I live.” She took his face into her hands. “Ever.”