The Steam Tycoon

by Golden Czermak

  Weaving through the increasing throng of people, the road widened into an irregular quadrangle where Jesse came upon a selection of booths that filled the open space with frayed white canopies. Banners flapped above while below, metalsmiths, chefs, and traders from settlements out in the Barrens mingled with borough natives. There were many things for sale; from foods like bread, salted fish, beef, pies, and cakes, to decorated tools, armor, and weaponry, to hand me down clothes and clockwork accessories, second-hand pocket watches and books, candles, and cutlery. Most in the edge boroughs depended on these vendors, everyone trying to scrape a living off the top of the anniversary’s festivities. With good fortune, the earnings made that day could stretch to nearly a week, maybe more, though hefty percentages were often consumed on overdue accounts or failure to follow the law.

  “Permits!” a Crier called, loudly clanging his bell to draw attention to his words, some ducking behind their stalls in poor attempts to hide. “Be sure your permits are displayed or there will be fines to pay! You there! Yes, you! Where is your permit for today?”

  People churned between the stalls; those that could afford to buy tawdry charms or food did so as they went. Most were content with consuming juicy gossip and spicy scandals, regularly paired with critical glares toward their fair-weather friends and stRangers alike.

  Only the youngest amongst the seething crowd, those that had not yet learned the art of being negative in all aspects of their lives, could just stand and enjoy the simplicity of a toymaker collecting his clockwork birds as they returned, landing gently on his top hat. He would then take each one in his palm and wait, looking at them through a pair of eccentric, latticed goggles while the brass buttons on sleeves gleamed in the morning light. Their little fluttering wings would slow, then stop, and he would grasp them by the tail to wind them back up. Tossing them away, they caught the wind and soared over the children’s precious, smiling faces.

  It was a little magic, in an all-too-real world.

  Jesse was clapping across the street from the toymaker’s stall, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. One of the clockwork birds flew directly overhead, landing on a rectangular sign that had been tied to a jutting pole. The painted letters read The Junction.

  “Ah! Here we are,” he said excitedly, having arrived at the saloon.

  Taking one last look at the mechanical bird before it took off again, Jesse climbed the few crackling stairs in front. He landed on a short railed porch, ahead of him a pair of swinging double doors that were hung in the middle of the frame. Placing a hand on each side, Jesse pushed as noise and smoke wafted from the top to welcome him.

  While coughing, Jesse’s eyes adjusted to the dimly lit interior. Even though the boroughs were supplied with power, many people couldn’t afford the cheapest rates due to overwhelming administration fees or if they could, had the lights off most of the day to save money.

  The room itself was very thin and long. On Jesse’s left, a bar stretched from the front of the place nearly to the back. Its top was polished while foot rails of made of brass ran along the bottom, dirtied from excessive use. At the bar’s far end, a surly fellow stood in front of a large box organ, cranking its wheel while long scrolls of perforated paper slid through the machine, filling the place with cantankerous music.

  Through the stinging haze of smoke Jesse could see all kinds of patrons in all sorts of moods. He began to walk through the place to get better looks at them, bumping into shoulders, elbowing backs, and hearing disapproving grunts along the way.

  In one of the corners was an elderly gent in a dark pinstriped suit and maroon cravat. His tall top hat was resting on the table next to an empty glass. At first glance, Jesse thought that he was Drake, but upon looking closer he found the man crusty – his attire too – and the droopy expression he wore indicated that he was probably a drop of liquor away from collapsing to the floor.

  Scanning the crowd, a streak of crimson caught Jesse’s eye. It was a colored wisp in an attractive young man’s otherwise light brown hair. His boyish face was brushed with stubble and his smile was bright as he carried on a cheery conversation with some of the hardest looking folks in the place. His outfit was no less eye-opening and probably the topic of the lively current discussion. He wore pair of hole-strewn black denims with leather armor strapped across his chest and upper arm. There was no shirt underneath while on top, a front mounted scabbard held a rare flint lock pistol.

  “I should have asked Drake for a lumograph,” Jesse moaned, regretting his excited forgetfulness to even ask for a description.

  Continuing his search with a shrug, Jesse wound up at the edge of the bar. Everyone he considered ended up being too smarmy or young for such a high ranking official position.

  Perhaps I could convince Barro to adopt holotubes1 while I’m at it? he thought, resting his elbows on the top of the mahogany bar. Knowing their affinity for living underground, that proposition would likely be a dead end, the broadcast towers being unsightly and tall.

  “What can I get for you, Mr. Winthrope?” asked the barkeep as he wiped away some loose debris. His mustache twitched from side to side with each sweep of the cloth.

  “Oh,” Jesse said with a hint of surprise. “You… you recognize me?”

  “Even in that getup, sir, who wouldn’t recognize the famous Steam Tycoon?” he replied and then with a wink said, “or infamous, depending on which stories one’s heard.”

  Jesse glanced over his outfit. He didn’t know whether to be proud of that last statement or bothered by it, but ultimately his chest swelled.

  “I… why… thank you.”

  “Of course, Mr. Winthrope. Name’s Marcus Branston and welcome to the Junction; my humble establishment.”

  Jesse took another look around as Marcus gestured around, feeling more welcomed than he had been with the elites for a long time.

  “It’s my pleasure. So, as far as drinks go is it too early for a brandy, or do you have another recommendation?”

  Marcus was already reaching for a glass, pouring a generous helping of amber liquid.

  “It’s not too early in Angelus, is it?” he smirked, handing over the drink. “On the house.”

  Jesse dug into his pocket and tossed a couple of Cogs on the bar.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said as they clattered noisily. “One good turn deserves another.”

  Marcus wasted no time using one of his beefy hands to scoop up the money.

  “No arguments here. So, if it’s not too forward: what brings you out here to the edges?” Marcus enquired, putting the change in his pocket. “Not often do we see your class out of folk out here; most of your fellows stay tucked in on the inside, or fly overhead out of our leprous reach.”

  “Well, most of them don’t know what they’re missing, either,” Jesse replied, taking a little sip. The brandy was surprisingly good.

  “Or care…” Marcus added.

  “Touché,” Jesse continued, “and regarding your question, I’m actually here for a meeting, though my associate seems to have wandered off.” Jesse hoped he was hiding his white lie well enough. “Perhaps you’ve seen him? He’s a man from Barro, named–”

  Before Jesse could finish, a hand came crashing against his shoulder, clamping tight.

  “Winthrope?” asked an excited voice.

  Jesse craned his neck, coming face to face with the oddly dressed man he saw earlier. Up close, his skin was mottled with dirt, especially noticeable around his bright grin.

  “Yes?” Jesse replied hesitantly. “Can I help you?”

  “I certainly hope so!” the man said, smoothing his red-streaked hair before holding a hand out to shake. “You and I have a meeting that should have started, oh, five minutes ago.”

  Jesse’s mouth fell open as their hands shook and it felt like someone had poured cold water over him.

  “You feeling ok?” the man asked, grabbing Jesse’s glass and giving it a great big sniff. He turned to Marcus. “I’ll have wha
t he’s having.”

  “I still swear you don’t look old enough boy…” Marcus grumbled.

  “What can I say? We keep ourselves well in Barro.” He grabbed hold of his flint lock tightly. “Plus, this thing tends to remove any lingering doubt.”

  Marcus chuckled, muttering something about men compensating for their shortcomings while grabbing some brandy. He refilled both of their glasses and spotting a few new patrons, he bid the two farewell and drifted down the bar.

  Perhaps he’s Drake’s assistant? Jesse reasoned with himself. Yes. He must be. Surely he isn’t…

  “Drake Nelson,” the man introduced while taking a sip of his drink. “Though if you don’t mind, I prefer to go by Pyrofly. Long story, but explosives are kind of my thing.”

  Jesse looked at his expressive face, eyes slowly rising up to his red tuft of hair.

  “Fitting…” Jesse said. “My apologies for being late Drake, I… I mean Pyrofly. Admittedly, I didn’t know who I was looking for, expecting someone much older.”

  “Nothing new for me,” he replied. “I get that a lot since taking this job. It must be because the alternative meaning of ‘master’ in the title is ‘one with gray hairs and wrinkles.’”

  “Right, because the other Master Mechanics are twice your age.”

  Pyrofly shook his head, holding up three fingers as he casually took another drink. It was hitting a much-needed spot, warming him slightly.

  “THREE times your age?” Jesse blurted out. “Exactly how old are you? Wait! Actually, never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  Pyrofly laughed.

  “Truth be known Jesse… may I call you Jesse? I was expecting you to be quite stuck up.”

  “Sure and who’s to say I’m not?”

  “Yourself,” Pyrofly said, “by even agreeing to meet me in person in this less than savory part of town. I imagine there aren’t many opportunities to impress when you’re away from your peers.”

  “I hope that you find me a lot different than my peers,” Jesse said. “Places like this make me feel more at ease; like I can be myself. Therefore, I feel the conversations can be more honest.”

  “I agree with that,” Pyrofly replied. “I like the fact this part of the city looks a bit lived in, too. It feels a lot like home. Rich parts of town feel like museums to me and I’m often afraid to touch anything.”

  A sly look on Pyrofly’s face hinted that he probably touched everything as the two relocated to a vacant table set between a pair of narrow windows near the back of the saloon. There they conversed for a while about their business, Jesse discovering Pyrofly was a lot like Duncan, yet with a technological slant that let them both flex their mental muscles.

  “They’re quite ingenious if you think about it.”

  “What was that?” Jesse asked, momentarily distracted by what he thought was the pretty face of a woman rushing by the entrance. She had a frantic expression; Jesse wondered why.

  “The saloon doors,” Pyrofly continued. “Clever design, really., though not nearly as much as those steam capsules of yours.”

  “How’s that?” Jesse asked, never giving it much thought beyond the aesthetic. He took a big swig in anticipation, nearly emptying his glass.

  Pyrofly inhaled deeply before diving into his explanation.

  “Those surprisingly simple shutters keep out a lot of dust, yet allow for ventilation along the bottom and smoke to vent from the top. Drunks have an easy way in or out without worrying about pushing or pulling – so they more time to think about staying upright – and if well-positioned, they can shield any shenanigans from the outside.”

  Jesse smiled as he sipped on the last of his brandy.

  “Well, there’s my fact learned for the day. Do you often think long and hard about things like that?”

  “Not really,” Pyrofly replied indifferently, “just while waiting for business associates to show up.”

  Pyrofly might have had a fresh attitude but also possessed experience beyond his years. Jesse was unsure whether he should be doing business with him or ordering rounds of whiskey shots to party. In the end, the entire session went well.

  Jesse glanced at a worn clock on the wall; a little over an hour had gone by and he needed to head back for Winthrope Limited.

  “So it sounds like you have an interest?” he asked hopefully.

  “Everything you’ve described and offered sounds intriguing,” said Pyrofly. “I certainly am interested, not only in the WHESE, but also those steam capsules you mentioned – fascinating concept. Pride’s gotten in the way of a lot of the Mechanic’s decision making, especially from the prior head of the group. We need to move on.”

  Jesse agreed, especially with the last part.

  “Our machinery may be robust,” Pyrofly continued somberly, “probably some of, if not the, best in the world. But it’s old and unreliable. Your devices alone will let us leap ahead, at least to where we should be. It’ll be good to make some much-needed improvements.”

  “That’s my intent for everyone,” Jesse said. “I’d love to talk more about this in the coming weeks.”

  “Or sooner, perhaps. Prefect DuBois must approve all of this but I don’t think it’d be a problem with a high recommendation from me and a meeting, face to face, with you.”

  It sounded promising, even though Jesse hadn’t heard that name in a while, years in fact having dealt only with the Master Mechanics. He hadn’t met Prefect DuBois in all these years, having been swept away into the corporate tower once his father’s funeral ceremonies had ended.

  “That’d be wonderful,” he said, and Pyrofly perked up at the prospect.

  With all the dealing out of the way, both men sunk into the backs of their hard chairs with well-deserved relief. It would have been nice to relax for longer, but the time to go their separate ways was approaching. Jesse was the first to stand, his chair squawking in protest.

  “So, as far the rest of this fine day goes, do you have plans?”

  “I think I’m going to take in the sights around the market – there was a particular set of merchants on the far end that had some interesting weapons attachments for sale. It’s not often that four hundred years of anything comes around, so I want to take in what I can and see if there are any deals to be had.”

  “I wish I could join you,” Jesse said with a grin, wondering if Pyrofly would face the same ridicule as the man at the jewelry store. Part of him thought he would face even more trouble due to his appearance, yet now that Jesse knew him a bit better perhaps not. Pyrofly’s carefree attitude was rather infectious and an effective barrier against that sort of thing.

  “Pyro…” Jesse began, pausing to see if he’d be corrected for shortening the name. He wasn’t. “If you aren’t doing anything for dinner, I’d be happy to have you out at Winthrope Limited later, before all the evening festivities. I think someone like you would enjoy the fireworks”

  Pyrofly was excited, but only for a split second. His face turned into a deep-set frown.

  “I haven’t seen a good firework display in, well, never. Would have stayed until tomorrow, but I’m catching the Sunset Express to Bala so I can make it to Barro by the morning. No rest for the wicked it seems; you can blame another boooring meeting with the Prefect Council for that.”

  Pyrofly rolled his eyes so far they were mere slivers of white and Jesse laughed, knowing the feeling. They both navigated the crowded saloon on their way toward the exit. Pyrofly waved frantically at the barkeep while Jesse remained more collected.

  “Well, you might be able to see some of them from the train,” Jesse said. “I think the Express leaves around the same time they start. I suggest the last west-facing seat on the upper deck. There are some good views from there.”

  “I hope so,” Pyrofly replied, sounding sad. He snatched his glass off the table and polished off the thin line of honey at the bottom. “As great a time as I’ve had, I don’t want to take up any more of your valuable time, Mr. Winthrope.”
<
br />   “Firstly, call me Jesse,” he insisted. “It only feels right after addressing you as Pyrofly this entire time instead of Mr. Nelson.”

  “I’m glad for that, too.”

  “Secondly,” Jesse continued, “please take up as much of my time as you want to. I’m due to meet with Mayor Randolph and some of our mutual banking cronies in about an hour. The only thing more fun than that and their fees would be to impale myself with a hot poker from a fireplace.”

  “I would hate to keep you from that,” Pyrofly said jokingly.

  Things hadn’t changed outside except that it had gotten far more crowded and noisy. After a prolonged handshake on the Junction’s porch, the two said their final goodbyes and parted ways.

  Jesse watched as the energetic young man disappeared, that fringe of red hair the last of him to vanish amongst the drab crowd. Something told him it wouldn’t be long before their paths crossed again, likely the desire to close a deal with Barro as soon as possible. But before any of that could happen, Jesse would have to get his next impending meeting out of the way, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

  After he turned, starting back through the marketplace, something striking caught his roving eyes. It was the same woman that had passed by the saloon doors earlier except he was able to take notice of the stress and unease stretched firmly across her face.

  Jesse deduced, or perhaps wished as he watched her pace back and forth, that she was not from Diablo. The style of her clothes in general was different, like that found in a wasteland settlement, while her head and eyewear he specifically recognized as ‘Gulch Gear.’

  I wonder if she’s a survivor of that horrendous attack? he pondered, having read some of the preliminary reports about the Gulch massacre on his desk earlier. He could visualize Frost’s face with each brutal word, ecstatic with the news.