“There sure are some insane deals happening today,” Duncan observed, dodging three men racing across the street. They were moving so swiftly the seams of their trousers were about to split.
“The anniversary of the Great Burning is the day after tomorrow,” Jesse told him. “It’s the four-hundredth.”
The annual ceremonies had started as sober affairs but along the way had entangled with extravagance. Now, the rich tried to outshine each other instead of remembering the wrongs of history while the poor, remembering but powerless, continued struggling. Being a centennial year made the posturing a hundred-fold worse.
“How far we’ve come since that time,” Jesse said gravely, scrutinizing those in line with upset eyes.
The special day hearkened back to 1397 when the world was ravaged by a terrible war that spanned the entire supercontinent of Eaugen. Humanity had grown in numbers and, to their credit, an environment bloomed that fostered easy living and convenience for all. A crowning achievement, over time complacency and its perils crept in, nurturing entitlement, selfishness, and greed. At the pinnacle of a technological boom, people became ravenous for fossil fuels, consuming them like water to quench their desires. Resources were devoured quickly, everything tipping once most had been consumed. Friend became foe; allies turned into enemies and one after another, territories were invaded for what few flecks of coal or drops of oil remained. All was chaos and death.
With the widespread carnage came pestilence, a virulent plague swiftly carried throughout the festering, war-torn population. People fell faster than the trees used to burn their remains and by the end, nearly a billion lives were reduced to a mere fifteen-million scattered across the wastelands left behind.
Time, ever diligent, managed to heal those wounds. The better of society organized and formed loose settlements across the world while the less than savory remained elusive in the wastes. Left to their own devices and struggling against powerful creatures in the wild, those groups banded together and eventually became the raiders. They learned to take what they needed and along with it great pleasure in the torment and death of those they took it from.
Despite all the turmoil and darkness that threatened to sink society again, four major cities arose from the ashes. Diablo, Lagos, Barro, and Angelus became beacons of light to guide the rebuilding of society from the four corners of the world.
“Wait… what?” Duncan asked with a tone of panic. “The anniversary is this week?”
Jesse nodded. He continued down the street, avoiding a messy fall where several paving stones were missing.
“Watch your step,” he warned. “If this is the result of those new income taxes I’ll have to revisit the topic with the mayor.”
Duncan wasn’t paying attention; he was in a slight daze after hearing the date confirmation.
“Problem?” Jesse asked, only to watch Duncan trip. “I told you to watch your step!”
“I’m okay,” he said, righting himself before he fell all the way over. “I was just thinking that I need to take a close look at my planner after our meeting with the mayor; that is still today, right?”
Jesse nodded again.
“I swear everything is running together. The last thing I need is to get off-schedule when I return home in the morning. Things could get quite… chaotic for me if so.”
“How so? Major rulings to deliver once you get back?” Jesse prodded.
Duncan shook his head.
“Not quite the appointments I’m concerned about keeping…” he said, eyes shifting uneasily between Jesse’s and the cobblestone.
“Oh, I see!” Jesse exclaimed. “Go on then: what’s her name?”
Duncan’s handsome face became flushed.
“There are a few names,” he clarified.
Jesse’s eyes widened like the road ahead of them. He would have pressed the playboy further but lucky for him they had arrived at Grayson Market. If they thought the street they’d just navigated was busy, it paled in comparison to the plaza.
The two entered a sprawling circular area from Chester Avenue, one of fourteen streets that converged on the area. Stepping over a large numeral four made of lighter stones, they passed by men dressed in long black coats with gleaming white buttons, the Frost Enterprises emblem embroidered on the left breast. Their boots were heavy and tall, the shiny helmets on their heads white. Each wore reflective goggles that hid their eyes and their white-gloved hands brandished long rifles.
“Frost has certainly been… innovative,” Jesse commented, noting the guns were wrapped with corrugated tubing that ran to bloated pressure vessels while metal grills along the top vented a mist of steam. He tried his hardest not to criticize the design as he walked, but thought they would be much more efficient and elegant if they used his steam capsules. Had he trusted Frost, that might be an option. As it stood: no.
Frost’s security forces were posted on each side of the street to keep out the poor riffraff, a stark contrast to the inviting banners that rippled in the sunlight beside them.
“Seems like he’s compensating for something to me,” Duncan added.
There were no vehicles in the plaza, only swarms of people equally mechanical in their predictable flow around at the stalls that filled the center. The first circular row of canopies were mongers selling fresh ingredients by the kilogram or liter. Duncan liked to compare prices on his travels, so driven by the scent in the air, looked at the prices for bacon. The rashers were thick, fatty, and nearly half the price in Diablo at two Spurs and a Cog.
The next row and beyond were food vendors, crafting sumptuous dishes of bread, eggs, and meats that caused mouths to water without so much as a glance. The smells surely reached the anonymous masses elsewhere in the city; they could feast for at least a week from just one of these stalls, yet were often only afforded less than a pint of tea and a few slices of hard bread, scraped thinly with butter. On the other more privileged hand, the educated working man and elites that mingled in Grayson had their choice of nearly a hundred stalls that would fill the space until noon. This was to allow those that had not yet risen out of their plush beds time to partake, or have such ingredients and cuisine delivered to their homes.
Though the over-indulgences wore heavy on his heart, Jesse could not deny that it was satisfying to see at least some intermingling between two classes, a thing that was incredibly rare in the inner part of the city. It was a small step, but one in the right direction.
Around the outside loop were sturdy buildings garnished with baroque detail. Inside were dining halls and coffee shops, fine tables set outside beneath awnings. Jesse scanned what he could see, spotting a small establishment across the way.
“Perfect,” he murmured, making his way toward it.
“Jesse, not to point something out that I’m sure you’re already aware of, but that place looks rather quiet,” Duncan observed, seeing no customers. “Are you sure they’re open and not out of business?”
“Yes,” Jesse answered shortly, worming through the crowd. “Quite sure.”
They passed a stand selling croquettes. Many were waiting for another batch of the bite-sized treats and Duncan slowed down, looking longingly. A nearby gentleman bit into one and the cheesy beef filling oozed out from the crispy crust.
“That looked amazing…” he said. “Are you sure the food is any good where we are going?”
“At this point, I’m not sure if I mind,” Jesse replied. There was irritation in his voice; the headache mounting. “But I figure little activity inside should equate to faster service for us and some peace.”
In the middle of the plaza was a triangular spire made of iron. Jutting out to the side, it towered over everything else in the area. The sun shined on it, sending a hard shadow down one of the numbered streets across from them, revealing the entire market was an immense sundial; one of many quirky features the city had incorporated into its layout.
“Everything boils down to time,” Jesse said, glancing at the
spire. He slowed so Duncan could catch up. “So, this question may be out of the blue, but do you ever see us getting into another situation like the Burning?”
Duncan thought about it, trying to hide his limp.
“Heavy questions this morning,” he said.
“Not that I think about it all the time,” Jesse explained, “it’s just given the dominance of steam here and with technology improving in the world, I worry that we may backslide if things progress too far. It happened with oil, who’s to say it won’t happen with some other fuel? Seeing how the rest of my ‘fellows’ are, especially those over in Angelus, I don’t have much hope in that regard.”
“Angelus,” Duncan scoffed, a passerby’s eyes widening at the mention of the Eastern city before he scurried off. “Those people live with their heads so high in the clouds it’s remarkable they don’t suffocate. I’d pay them no mind as they spend their days gladly looking down upon the rest of us.”
“I try not to,” Jesse said. “Yet it’s difficult when their president speaks of a new frontier for society, echoing what Father said, but it’s unclear what exactly he means. They are less than willing to trade technologies; all my attempts at contracts are met with silence. I hope their next election will place someone in charge with more common sense.”
The two reached the eatery, pausing next to a sign propped up on the ground. It indicated the special of the day was sausage and mashed potatoes. An elderly woman was inside, her friendly wrinkles beckoning them to come in. On either side, the other places were more crowded and the food more elegant, but the long faces of those attempting to enjoy their morning repast indicated the service was subpar.
Jesse signaled to the old woman that they would be one moment.
“Common sense has long been absent, Jesse. The president – too good to be called a lowly mayor – has been there forever, so good luck with that,” Duncan continued, his face becoming uncharacteristically serious. “Regarding what you said just before that: society may collapse in the future over another fuel source. Who knows for sure? But, I hate to tell you this : it isn’t your place to decide how people use what is given to them, nor your responsibility. War could just as easily break out in a decade over the silver in the forks over there.”
Jesse wore a smirking frown.
“So stop worrying! You are bettering society through your work, as I told you back at the tower,” Duncan said to reassure him. “There’s no doubt about that. There’s also no doubt that you can’t control everyone’s free will. There will always be someone seeking ways to exploit and destroy what others have.”
Jesse let out a deep breath.
“Thank you,” he said softly, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. “I get what you are saying.”
“Anytime,” Duncan replied. “Besides, I don’t think as a species we’re ready for that sort of thing again. The wounds of the past are still too fresh. Between us, our scientists believe there may be countless measures of oil locked deep in the seas, but we do not have the capabilities to reach those depths. Frankly, we also don’t have the desire to try for fear of rekindling those old flames. So, for now the waterfalls and rivers of the north shall provide for us – along with your inventions now, of course.”
Duncan had always had a way of bringing Jesse back from the brink of depression or an anxiety-ridden slump. If there was one thing Jesse did to a fault that would be overthinking.
“So are you ready?” Jesse asked.
“For some sausage? You bet. I can’t wait to get some in me,” Duncan said jokingly.
Jesse cut him a condemning look; the glare didn’t last long before hints of a laugh leached out. A group of staunch bankers were sitting at the patisserie to their right, their faces dour. Apparently, they had overheard.
Duncan wasn’t bothered, staring at them while Jesse made his way to the door.
“Don’t worry, I’m not courting him,” he mentioned to the closest man, a burly gent with a bushy mustache. His face reddened beneath its peppered hair as he muttered several incoherent words.
“A shame you aren’t,” Jesse said, reaching the door. “That would put me out of my misery on this search for Lady Winthrope.”
“As much as I love you – and I mean it – I don’t think I could manage that,” Duncan said. “Don’t you worry; she’s out there somewhere. You’ll probably bump into her when you least expect it.”
“I hope so,” Jesse said, pulling the handle. A tinkering bell chimed inside. “Come on, let’s eat. We have a few hours before we need to catch the skyrail to Grand Hall.”
“You are something else,” Duncan said with an impressed look as he stepped through. “Even rich you manage to be popular yet approachable to the lower classes.”
“If they like me, they’ll work harder for me,” Jesse replied. “I’m sure their wages help strengthen that feeling, too.”
“Well, many greater men have achieved far less,” Duncan stated, “and that certainly has some elite feathers ruffled.”
“Like those bankers back there?”
“Yes, just like that,” Duncan chuckled. “I swear, Jesse, you must have been born in Barro. They’re always so happy despite wallowing in dirt all day. Promise me you’ll stay the humble man I know you are.”
“I plan on it Duncan,” he replied, “for the rest of my days.”
THE SUN WAS high up over the Barrens in a nearly cloudless sky, driving away what little moisture remained in the parched soil. A small farmhouse sat amidst the sprawling fields; dry stalks filled them like tombstones for the crops that would never be harvested. The lonely wooden structure stood less than proud at the end of a long and dusty road. Many blistering summers had grayed its rough-hewn clapboard and tanks, filled via leaky gutters that lined the gabled roof when it rained, were bleached and nearly empty.
The plot was owned by Grant Boone, the eldest member of the family. He had inherited the land after his father passed away from farmer’s lung. They were prosperous by wasteland standards, expanding from selling potatoes and corn to livestock and eggs. But judging by the current state of the home, the broken fencing that held no animals, and the array of antiquated steam equipment kit-bashed with bot parts, things had taken a turn for the worse.
There was a low hiss just before a motor carriage crested a small hill. It was old and rickety, heading for the house. Its thin wheels found every uneven bit of ground along the way and steam belched from pipes at the rear, mixed with wisps of fine black smoke. It was hardly an elegant sight: the female driver bobbing so terribly on the bench seat that her leather head-covering threatened to abandon ship. She had shoved two baskets of meager goods – some salted meat and a few bunches of strange, wilting vegetables – in the foot well to secure them. Seated next to her was an adorable badger-like creature called a lutrine; he was doing well to steady himself while sliding around on tiny paws.
Jenny Boone was the driver. She was in her mid-twenties, without a husband or children, and Grant’s granddaughter. A fair-skinned and pretty girl, she could have fit right in with the elites. Life would have been free of hardships with ample access to food, water that wasn’t fresh out of a creek or rain barrel, and cleanliness. But she happened to be born to the wrong people in the wrong place. Perhaps it was for the best though, her personality might have raised a lot more hackles than gentlemanly parts.
The difficult wasteland life was starting to show in her face, lines taking hold on the corners of her eyes and brow. Her nails were unladylike: chipped and dirtied by hard and repetitive work, but she was used to it. Like clockwork, Jenny would rise each morning before the sun to complete what chores she could before heading into town. It was something she did at least once daily, performing errands like paying bills or picking up supplies. None of those journeys were remotely enjoyable. The name of the place itself, Hondo Gulch, was hardly inviting, less so now that her family was in such a dire position. Yet, her petite traveling companion managed to take the edge off, which
is why he rode there with her every single day. It was hard to look at his button nose or big eyes without a smile.
The house grew closer and the route smoothed out. Jenny drove past several gaps in the shoddy fence, surveying each one through a pair of chipped goggles. She shook her head.
… three, four, five gaps to repair, she thought, sighing loudly. Yet more things to add to the list. I must’ve passed a thousand things that need doing by now.
She looked for a silver lining in the bleak situation; it was a stretch to find one.
Well, she continued thinking, at least you’ll never be bored…
The path unexpectedly became bumpy again, shaking her from those thoughts. Jenny snapped her attention forward. A large sinkhole had formed up ahead, approaching fast.
“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” she snarled. “Bip, hold on, it’s about to get a lot bumpier.”
The little creature looked up in her direction as she quickly pulled on one of the steering handles while pushing on the other. The vehicle sputtered and the wheels took a sharp left, kicking up loose debris. At the very last moment the vehicle dodged the depression but the back tire didn’t clear in time. It slipped off the edge into the hole then quickly out again. Bip was sent bouncing right out of the vehicle into a patch of dried vegetation.
Jenny brought her foot down hard on the brake pedal and the carriage skidded to a stop, sputtering and rattling in protest. It sounded as though the whole thing could fall apart at any moment.
“Bip!” she yelled over the settling noise. “Bip!”
There were a few seconds of unwelcome silence, then the sound of scurrying. Tufts of the dying grass swayed just before a furry face burst through, letting out a disapproving squeak.
Jenny beamed, her smile nearly as bright as the sun.
“So glad you’re okay!” she said apologetically and with relief. “But it wasn’t my fault; sinkholes are popping up all over the area.”
The Steam Tycoon Page 4