Steampunk World

by Sarah Hans (ed)

  “Now that’s more like it,” says the bellowing Brit. Just then, the image becomes crowded with Turkish soldiers slicing kilijs into Cretan women and children; the church is engulfed in flames. The chiaroscuro haze is so realistic that the tourists panic, and some seek the doors. In response, the image leaves the Cretan massacre and enters the door of the church. The entire room darkens for a moment, and the complaining tourists quiet.

  Slowly, a stonewall laboratory fades into their vision. Once the image is fully developed, they see von Froeschner standing in-between two operating tables. On his right they can make out the Şehrazat, her head unbolted, brain exposed and blue-sparking. It takes several moments for the exposure to reveal the other slab, but eventually the tourists make out the chiaroscuro depth of an open and empty human skull.

  The tourists become frantic. The atramentous curtains are ripped from the rods, making the horrid image fade.

  Those who haven’t fainted or sought escape stare at von Froeschner and the orb-shining Şehrazat. The joke made fifteen minutes ago now hangs in the air like a noose.

  Ignoring the tourists, who are demanding to be let out of the locked room, von Froeschner grins and saunters over to shut the Şehrazat down. She returns to her default position, her arm gesturing at the triumphant scientist musing over the mob scene unfolding before him.

  * * *

  The Constantinople street is drenched in pure sunlight, saturating almost all color from the scene. The tall, alabaster stone building that zigzags and narrows the passage casts a Payne’s grey shadow onto the ocher cobblestones. Despite its disparity in hue, the street is made interesting by the people who populate it. Several dozen panting and pale Western tourists, sweating in their grey and pastel wools and cottons, faint and gesture wildly at shrouded women who ignore them, dazed by the seen and unseen of their dreams, bewildered by the scenes of Bora Fahir Çalğar and the truths of Nikos Antonakis.

  The Emperor Everlasting

  Nayad A. Monroe

  September, 1914

  With one day left until the Sapa Inca’s meeting with emissaries from the Unified States of Ameriga, Ilyapa had no idea how to salvage the situation. The Emperor was still broken, and to the minds of anyone whose opinions mattered, it was her fault.

  The Sapa Inca Ninan Cuyochi, Son of Sun, Emperor of Viracocha’s Land, rested in a musty bundle in the corner of Ilyapa’s temporary workshop, his four-hundred-year-old mummified body wrapped in a gold-embroidered cloak trimmed with hummingbird feathers and turquoise, and his glorious face hidden from the gazes of ordinary people by a translucent cloth.

  “How will you demonstrate your superiority to the Amerigans now that you are broken, Powerful Lord? Was it worth the trouble to acquire one thousand wives?” Ilyapa asked him, staring at the metal mechanisms that usually made the Sapa Inca function. Even she, the First Deviser of his court, was now a wife of the Emperor, despite not being noble by birth. Newly and unwillingly wed as an old woman, aged forty-three. She might now have the right to see his face, but she felt no urge to do so.

  For the dozenth time that morning, she lifted her gaze from the stone work surface to look out at the distracting view: the modern city of Cuyochitampu, with its driven professionals scurrying along the river-side streets in this wealthy section near the ocean, more colorfully dressed than the workers one might see on the other side of the city, closer to the overpowering Wall of Inti which separated Viracocha’s Land from the strange little country called Panama. Cuyochitampu’s hard edges were so different from the rustic, weathered stone of Ilyapa’s normal surroundings in the University District of ancient Machu Picchu. She wondered if she would be allowed to return to her own small house, or be forced to move into some sort of wives' dormitory in one of the palaces. The oligarchy would at least permit her to continue running the royal workshops; they had promised.

  All promises would be forgotten if she failed to restore the Sapa Inca. She couldn’t see why the upgrade had ruined his answering system, his Voice. The old system had worked for centuries: on the rare occasions when the Sapa Inca was consulted in public, for the good of all, the designated supplicant would ask him a question. His machinery would randomly knot a cord into the numerical code for one of a series of programmed answers: yes, not at this time, I will consider it further, I forbid it, I appreciate your good citizenship, you will become an honored sacrifice to the gods, and so on, expressing the will of the gods through the Emperor. The wide range of these answers was not permittable for the mass wedding. Answers other than “yes" would have contradicted the Powerful Lord’s previously-stated wish to have one thousand wives. It would have wasted a great deal of time, and would likely have aroused the suspicions of anyone who heard the same phrases repeated nonsensically. So, following the oligarchy’s instructions, Ilyapa had finally upgraded the Sapa Inca’s system to the new answering method of punching patterns into thin metal plates instead of tying knots into cords, which she had wanted to do long before. With the new system, certain preset response patterns—such as “always yes"—could be set with a dial on the mechanism. The conservatives in the secret ruling group wouldn’t hear of the upgrade until it was too late to test the system properly, at which point they demanded it.

  At least the upgrade held out until after all the brides were accepted, but that was her only consolation. Ilyapa had to fix the malfunctioning device immediately, or become known as the person responsible for destroying an entire continent’s leadership. The Amerigan contingent, waiting on the other side of the Wall of Inti in nearby Panamatampu, would see their advantage and glide over the Wall with their strange, rounded flying devices, not afraid of either the gods or the technology of Viracocha’s Land.

  She turned from the window to glare at the disassembled gears and parts another time, and one of them glinted strangely at its edge, highlighted by the afternoon light’s angle. Picking it up, Ilyapa examined a subtle crimp in the metal, just enough to intermittently throw the device’s works out of alignment if it were jarred at all. “How could this happen, Sapa Inca?” she wondered aloud. “Your new gears were molded perfectly—I checked them. I checked all of them before I put them together. And they were only used a few times….”

  The Emperor declined to comment.

  The obvious first choice would be to replace the gear, but it was a non-standard size—a bothersome choice that Ilyapa would not have made herself. It had been chosen by her predecessor before his death. She checked her case of spare gears, but the space where she would keep that size was empty.

  Luckily, Ilyapa had the perfect tool to fix the existing gear. Her anxiety lifted. The damage was certainly a concern, and she would have to analyze the new system’s workings later to discern the cause, but for the short term, a small repair would solve everything.

  The chest containing her own private tool set, a gift from her university mentor at graduation, sat in its place of honor in a protected corner. She rarely used the finely-made tools, preferring to protect their stone-inlaid handles, but she brought them out for special jobs. The tray of miniature tools held a set of pliers that would do exactly what she wanted without the risk of damaging the gear further.

  She knelt and opened the llama-skin upholstered trunk, lifted the top tray of full-size tools from its support ledges, and started to reach into the small compartment beneath, but then pulled her hand back and stared. The lower tray was missing.

  It had been there at the start of her journey to Cuyochitampu. She had checked and re-checked, unable to bear the thought of making a careless mistake with this set.

  She stood and rushed from her workroom to the larger staff workshop. “Supay! Where is Supay?” she called out. Several devisers turned sharply, startled. Ilyapa rarely raised her voice. “Anahuarque, where is Supay? This is urgent.”

  The young woman pointed. “I think I saw him go toward the diplomacy gift stations," she said. “What is it? Can I help?”

  “I’m missing important equipment," Ily
apa replied. “I need you to attend the Sapa Inca while I find it.”

  “But First Deviser, I can’t, I’m not…”

  “I authorize it. I’m his wife, after all.”

  Ilyapa strode away, ignoring the shocked looks her employees exchanged. “I'll be back soon," she called over her shoulder, trying to shake off her guilt at making Anahuarque go near the Sapa Inca. Most people were terrified of him and what he represented: the power of the gods and the dead. Ilyapa thought of him as a sad bundle of remains, and only feared the oligarchy. The living people who controlled her world were fearsome enough on their own. She had to find her assistant and her tools.

  In the next devising room, teams worked in stations along the walls, each set of people completing gifts meant to impress and awe the visiting Amerigans without giving them anything particularly useful. The oligarchy wanted to impart the grandeur of Viracocha’s Land, but not compromise its power. A difficult balance.

  Supay was at the far end of the large room, conferring with the group responsible for a tricky decorative entertainment device, a jeweled column that could quietly beautify a corner when at rest, but open outward into spinning displays that, when lit properly, would reflect throughout a room to create a festive environment. The Amerigans were known for liking parties and dances. Frivolous, but easy to indulge.

  She broke into the conversation without acknowledging anyone but her assistant. “Supay, my miniature tools are missing, and I need them immediately. Do you know where they are?”

  The tan of his face turned reddish. “I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry. Second Deviser’s assistant came for them. The Coya has a special project, and Second Deviser needed the tools quickly.”

  So quickly that he couldn’t ask permission to borrow my personal set? Ilyapa thought. And now I can choose to offend the Emperor’s first wife, or cause an international incident. She wasn’t sure which would be worse.

  “You must tell me when things like this happen, Supay. I’m offended.”

  “I am so very sorry," Supay replied. “I meant to tell you immediately, but then people kept asking me for help, and….”

  She relented. “I understand. And you couldn’t deny Khuno’s request, of course. I will have to go and get the pliers I need, assuming they aren’t in use.”

  It really didn’t matter if they were in use or not, since she had to have them. Ilyapa started the walk to Khuno’s workshop. Their division of labor had been established for years: he worked on transportation, where less subtlety was required to make devices work, and Ilyapa, while actually in charge of all devising, focused her attention on the more difficult, intricate work. This allowed the two of them to hate each other quietly, at a distance. She wondered why, given their usual division of assignments, he hadn’t asked her to use her own tools on whatever was so dainty about the Coya’s project.

  When she entered Khuno’s realm, a young apprentice sitting on a stool near the entrance hopped down and dashed away. She held back a smile at his nervousness about being caught sitting. Khuno, of course, was nowhere in sight. She would have to cross yet another oversized space to get to his private workroom; the relentlessly new buildings here were not of the intimate scale she was used to. The smells of metal and oil, stone dust and sweat still managed to fill the room’s large volume. Khuno strangely preferred working with men, saving women for romance, so his area boomed with too many low voices and made her edgy.

  Ilyapa had passed only half of a long row of new riding carts when Khuno’s assistant approached. She could never remember the man’s name.

  “Welcome, First Deviser," he said.

  “Hello. I am looking for Khuno," she said. “Or, at least, the tools he had you take from my workshop without my permission.”

  “He regrets that," the assistant said smoothly, not seeming flustered at all. “The Coya was impatient.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience the Coya," Ilyapa said, “but I will need to take back my pliers, for emergency repairs on the Sapa Inca’s Voice. You understand the urgency.”

  “Of course, First Deviser.”

  “Then I'll go and see Khuno now.”

  “Unfortunately I am not allowed to let anyone visit his workshop, on the Coya’s orders. He is not to be interrupted.”

  “Do you comprehend that I am repairing the Coya’s husband, my husband, the Son of Sun? Whose ability to communicate with the Amerigans is surely more important than the uninterrupted workflow of the Second Deviser?”

  “First Deviser, please, I do understand. But the Coya Pachama assigned guards, and runners to report on any unauthorized activity….”

  The boy beside the door. “Thank you for your help," Ilyapa said stiffly. “Please have the tools returned as soon as Khuno is finished.”

  Fuming, she left, turning toward the building’s side exit. It was impossible. She needed those pliers. Anything else would be too big and clumsy, and they were her own pliers, given to her long ago, not even paid for by the court! Having met the Coya through her role as First Deviser, however, Ilyapa knew what the woman was like. An elderly former beauty long married to the Sapa Inca, celibate for life and making up for the sacrifice with her brittle and temperamental demands, she would not be denied. No matter how frivolous her wishes.

  In the courtyard outside, Ilyapa paced, irritated further by the humid, briny air, which was worse in the sunlight than inside the building’s cool stone. The frantic activity level of preparation was not reduced outdoors. People rushed past talking rapidly, gesturing and bickering. Two women stopped in a corner full of lush plants and hot pink flowers to whisper fiercely at each other. A llama trainer came through with an immense, freshly-groomed auburn creature wearing superlative ornamental armor of silver, gold, and copper worked intricately together. The battle llamas were scheduled for a parade, she had heard; if this was the standard, it would be glorious.

  She stopped pacing.

  The llama outfitters had tools. Good ones. Possibly better than hers. She hurried toward the nearest runner stand and hailed a cart.

  * * *

  Fading light accompanied Ilyapa back from her failed errand. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and her stomach snarled as ferociously as she would if she ever got her hands on Khuno. He had beaten her to the llama outfitters, too, and claimed every piece of equipment she could hope to use for her project, as well as the ones she might turn to in desperation. She snapped her fingers at the lightbringer as she passed the fire pit, and the girl followed with a torch to light the ones set in mountings on the walls in her workshop. Ilyapa hated working after sunset, as her eyes didn’t focus well in low, flickering light at her age, but she had no choice.

  In the near-darkness of the unlit room, Anahuarque sat in the farthest corner from the Emperor, with her arms wrapped around her knees, wide-eyed and tear-streaked.

  “Oh, gods," Ilyapa said. “I forgot that I left you here. Are you all right?”

  Anahuarque shook her head.

  Ilyapa forced her crankiness down. “I am sorry. I’m sure that the Sapa Inca must appreciate your loyalty, though. Please, go home. Rest and eat.”

  Anahuarque fled.

  When she was alone again, Ilyapa reexamined the damaged gear. It was amazing: the bend amounted to the minimum damage that could possibly break the device. Exactly the minimum. The crimp didn’t look like damage from use and wear; with her suspicions sharpening her thoughts, the bend’s even line suggested the edge of a tool. At minimum, Khuno was working against her, and she wondered if others were involved. Had the Coya really ordered any of it, or was that a ruse of Khuno's, who knew how hard it would be to ask the Coya for verification? Khuno had always been jealous of her position, but what would motivate the Coya to destroy the power of Viracocha’s Land?

  “Khuno thinks I won’t ask the Coya, Sapa Inca, but I will.”

  She was glad she had chosen to live in the workshop instead of being assigned to a household elsewhere in the city. The tiny adjacent r
oom intended for storage suited her for its convenience and privacy. She wouldn’t have to go somewhere else to change clothes before the visit. To show respect she would discard her usual simple attire and wear her most colorful ascu, long and made of alpaca wool, with her best bracelets and sandals. She would still look relatively shabby compared to the Coya, but that would be appreciated.

  Preparing to leave, Ilyapa gave a final look around the workshop and nearly choked when she saw the Emperor in the corner. Despite her odd habit of talking to him, she hadn’t really thought about the fact that he was still there. She couldn’t leave him unguarded and she had already dismissed Anahuarque, so she had to find someone else. Who can I trust? she thought. Just outside her door, she surveyed the people at work. Someone solid and calm, unlikely to argue… “Supay!” she called.

  He was at a nearby work station, kneeling as he made adjustments to a project that couldn’t possibly be as important as hers. She waved him over, explained, and rushed out. “I'll be back soon," she said for the second time that day. “I promise!”

  Outside, smoke from the walkway’s torches kept the mosquitoes back, mostly, but Ilyapa could sense thousands of them just above in a buzzing, whining chorus, and she hoped the bats were feasting. Cockroaches skittered away from her feet with every step she took along the path. At least she wasn’t the only one out by night, as frenzied work continued, but walking in the dark made her nervous. As she approached the main street, someone called her name and she twitched, startled.

  It was a man she didn’t recognize. “You are Ilyapa, the First Deviser?” he said.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “I’m directing the procession. I’m so glad I didn’t miss you out here. I was on my way to find you," he said, gesturing toward the building she had just left.

  “Oh. Well, I’m sure my assistant can help you. He’s still inside," Ilyapa said, turning to leave.