Steampunk III: Steampunk Revolution

by Ann Vandermeer (ed)

  “The Baron was right. There’s no end to your debt. The debt—it is to a Surgeon, or a Hospital, but it’s not just for one job. Not just for the Return. It’s for every day of living you do after it. Every day is debt. My debt would be passed from boss to boss, and I would work to pay it off, and I would work to make sure that I was kept alive.

  “It wasn’t such a bad life in the start. There is an attraction to be exotic. A power. Ha. A power. I’ve wanted to stop so many times. One boss even let me. She was a terribly obese woman, caught in her own addictions. I think she understood it. I had been working for fifty-six years, by then. I—there are no jobs that will pay a Returned what she needs. I was free for two weeks before I went back to her. When I got back, I decided I would train myself. I enrolled in a college, but I never finished any course. I kept telling myself I would. I kept telling myself I could. I said it for forty years. I said it in four different cities. I said it with five different bosses. Eventually, I just—I had to just admit that I couldn’t change. I hated that.

  “It was simple, really. I told Joseph I wanted to see the Shaft—I used my best girl’s voice.” The last of the bottle was tipped into her throat. She did it roughly, angrily, and wiped her mouth with the back of her good hand after. When she spoke, there was only self-loathing in her voice, “It’s hard to kill yourself when you’ve already died once. A girl I—a girl I was friends with did it. Not so long ago. A month. We’d—we had known each other for sixty years. The night before, we got drunk and talked about how you would do it. You couldn’t cut veins, we said. You couldn’t poison yourself. You couldn’t drown. You couldn’t suffocate. There was only the heart and the head. It was like a nursery rhyme. Do you know what she did?”

  There was a pause, but not long enough for Eliana to answer.

  “She paid a man to cave her head in with a hammer. A hammer! A hammer! I—I saw her the day after. She had had the man chain her to a chair. He had left her in the basement—and—and—

  “I figured the Shaft would be a good choice. That was my idea. The Shaft. All you had to do was to jump. I could never sit there and let a man cave my head in. That waiting, that—no. No. All I had to do was push Joseph back— let him get me in close, first, tell him I wanted to stand on the edge, tell him it excited me. That was all. Then I could just push him back. Then I could just jump. Then—then—I would free, then.”

  Rachel stopped, her good hand releasing its hold on the bottle.

  In the silence that followed, it occurred to Eliana that it was now her turn to speak, that she should say something. She should offer sympathy. Understanding. At the very least she should acknowledge the other woman. But she couldn’t. The silence between the two stretched until it was taut and Rachel’s eyes closed slowly and her head sank and Eliana looked down at the smooth floor and tried to find words…and had almost succeeded when a faint scratching at the door interrupted her.

  It was the crow: its sharp, glass beak was pecking against the door.

  When Eliana opened the door, it flapped through to the cushioned armchair silently and sat, shaking flakes of ash out of its black feathers. They fell over the fabric, over the floor, the residue of its journey outside the Shaft and beneath the red sun. Once it had done that, it waited, patiently, for the Botanist to open the brass casing on its leg.

  Across from it, Rachel gazed at the crow in what Eliana considered a sudden lucidity that was inspired by apprehension and fear. There was no resignation in her gaze, however; no sense that she had accepted her fate, or even knew it, though it was impossible that she could have imagined that the tiny scrawl on the tiny note on the crow’s leg brought her any news that she would want to hear. The Department of Botany would send a man or woman to repair her. At the very least they would stabilize her before she was taken out of the Shaft.

  Surely, she could not hope.

  Surely.

  “I don’t want to hear,” Rachel said. “If they are coming for me, don’t tell me.”

  Eliana picked up her bottle of wine from next to the couch, ignored the crow, and passed it to her.

  “Don’t waste it,” the other said, quietly. Her gaze never left the bird. “It just goes right through me.”

  “Take it, anyway.”

  Silence.

  “Go on.”

  “I want to—”

  “They’re coming.”

  “—You haven’t—”

  “They were always coming.” She thrust the bottle a little. “Take it.”

  “Okay.” Rachel’s voice was quiet with submission. Instinctively, her broken arm reached up—she must have been left-handed—but a moment later, her good one found the bottle. The first one, made from cheap glass, lay on the bed, the neck splintered in a web of cracks. When she took the bottle, Rachel’s eyes, the eyes she had never been born with, but which had been born to someone else, those dark, dark eyes held Eliana’s with a terrible fragility. “Please read the note to me.”

  Eliana approached the crow. It scratched gently at her hand and she rubbed its cold, bronze head through its feathers. The crow had been in the Shaft as long as she had—had, in fact, come down when the unit was lowered and put into place. It had been her only companion for the years, but she had never named it; nor did she know if it were male or female. The crow was, as Rachel had said of herself, an object, a thing. It responded to Eliana’s touch only because it had been taught to do so when it was alive. At least, that is what she told herself, though she was unable to fully believe it.

  “What does it say?” Rachel said, her voice still quiet, still soft.

  “It is from Callagary,” she began, then stopped. She had her back to the other woman and, conscious of it, she could not continue. She turned. “Joseph. He wrote this. He said that there was an accident on the top. That they had feared the worse. A Surgeon is on his way down as he writes.”

  “A Surgeon?”

  “Yes.” Silence. The crow’s cold claws pulled at the fabric of the chair. Awkwardly, Eliana added, “I’m sorry.”

  Still, Rachel did not reply.

  “I—”

  “How do you live here?”

  “What?” Rachel had spoken hard and quick, as if she were accusing her, and it caught Eliana off guard. “What are—”

  “It’s awful, down here.” Her voice softened and took on, once again, the tone that a woman might use when she talked to herself, and did not require an answer. In her hand, the bottle lay still, drunk only by Eliana; but the stain, still growing in size and accompanied by an ever-growing sharp odor, had finally began to drop faint traces of discolored red wine on the bronze floor. “There’s no fresh air. It’s so dark. Your light—it’s not like the light up there. It’s harder. Brittle. Everything feels like it is burning. How can you stand it?”

  “No one watches down here.” Eliana hesitated. Rachel’s eyes were not focused on her: they wandered about the narrow unit, as if everything were new, and slippery, and she could not grasp it. Her good hand no longer gripped the bottle, but rested on it. Quite clearly, the strength, strangely for a body made, and without muscle, was gone. She’s dying. She might not be alive by the time the Surgeon arrives. Quietly, Eliana said, “On the surface, all we worry about is life. Who comes back. Who has what rights. Who is dominant. We fight, because we think God is watching. Or God isn’t watching. The world is dying around us and we fight and we try to make people live a certain way, never understanding that it doesn’t matter. That the world we live on is—”

  Rachel’s eyes focused, suddenly, on her, and Eliana’s voice faltered, the last word unspoken on her lips.

  “Don’t let them take me,” the dying woman said.

  A single luminescent dot was descending toward her.

  Eliana shifted. In her straining arms, Rachel was heavy, and the stuttering, gurgling moan of her chest was the only sign that she was still alive. She spoke softly, now, a continual murmur as if she were speaking to a mother, or an older sister, and her cold,
hard head was pressed in to Eliana’s neck and shoulder, as if she were a child. Because of this, the Botanist did not tell her of the figure who rode the thin bar down her cable, and who, in an hour or so, would be upon her unit. She wondered if he—it would be a he, she decided, on instinct—she wondered if he could see her, standing barefoot in her faded black and blue, her hard, bare feet walking off the dirt trail and to the edge of the path. The pale glow of the fungus around her did light the area, if poorly, and yellow light did fall out of the unit’s doorway. It was possible that he could see her, if he were looking.

  It didn’t matter. It simply didn’t. A stone stabbed into the sole of her foot, and she grunted from the pain, but kept walking. The moan in Rachel’s chest began to grow louder. It rattled as if she were empty. As if all she was could be described by a heart that had been made from bronze. Perhaps, even, that was true, as the sharp, putrid smell that had been about her in the unit when Eliana picked her up had all but disappeared in the Shaft. Perhaps all that was left of her was a struggling, dying heart.

  The Shaft was before her. Its emptiness yawned wide and full, and she could see the track that ran its circumference like a giant, fallen halo; a broken halo, for she could not see the wall on the opposite side. It was as if, on her ledge, she stood at the very edge of a burnt, broken world, and that there was just nothing, an absolute nothingness before her.

  “It’s okay.”

  Rachel’s whisper barely rose over the sound of her heart. If her cold lips had not been so close to Eliana’s ear, the dark wind of the Shaft would have stolen it, the now grinding growl of her heart smothered it. When Eliana met her gaze, she found Rachel’s eyes open, partly lucid, partly aware, but not fully. She was not gone, but she was going.

  “It’s okay,” Rachel repeated. “It’s okay—God is not watching, not down here.”

  “No. He never is.”

  And she let go.

  Franz Hiller, a physician, fell in love with an airship. He was visiting a fair in Berlin to see the wonders of the modern age that were on display: automobiles, propeller planes, mechanical servants, difference engines and other things that would accompany man into the future.

  The airship was moored in the middle of the aviation exhibit. According to the small sign by the cordon, her name was Beatrice.

  In contrast to the large commercial airships, Beatrice is built for a maximum

  of two passengers. An excellent choice for those who live far from public air-

  ship masts or do not wish to be crowded in with strangers. Manufacturing

  will start soon. Order yours today, from Lefleur et Fils!

  Franz had had no previous interest in airships. He had never seen one up close, let alone travelled in one. Neither had he had any interest in love. At thirty, he was still a bachelor; his prospects were good, but he had been profoundly disinterested in any potential wives his parents had presented to him. His mother was becoming more and more insistent, and sooner or later Franz would have to make up his mind. But then he found himself here, in Berlin, facing this airship: Beatrice, her name tolling like a bell.

  Franz couldn’t stop looking at her. Her body was a voluptuous oblong, matte skin wrapped tightly over a gently rounded skeleton. The little gondola was made of dark wood (finest mahogany!) and embellished with brass details (every part hand-wrought!), the thick glass windows rounded at the edges. Inside, the plush seat was embroidered with French lilies, facing an immaculately polished console. Beatrice was perfect. She bobbed in a slow up-down motion, like a sleeping whale. But she was very much awake. Franz could feel her attention turn to him and remain there, the heat of her sightless gaze.

  He came back the next day, and the next, just to look at Beatrice and feel her gaze upon him. They could never touch; he once tried to step inside the cordon but was brusquely reprimanded by the guards. Franz could sense the same want from her that filled himself, a longing to be touched.

  He sought out the representative of Lefleur et Fils, Lefleur the younger in fact, a thin man with oil-stained fingers who looked uncomfortable in his suit. Franz offered to buy Beatrice outright; he would write a check on the spot, or pay in cash if needed. Out of the question, was Lefleur the younger’s reply. That airship there was a prototype. Not at any price? Not at any price. How could they start manufacture without the prototype? Of course, monsieur Hiller was welcome to order an airship, just not this one.

  Franz didn’t dare explain why he wanted the prototype so badly. He accepted the catalogue offered to him, and returned home. He thought of Beatrice, caressing her picture in the catalogue. Her smooth skin, her little gondola. How he wanted to climb into her little gondola.

  After two weeks, the fair closed. Beatrice was taken home to Lefleur et Fils’ factory in Paris. Franz fantasised about travelling to the factory, breaking into it at night and stealing her; or pleading his case to the owners, who were so touched by his story that they let go of her. Franz did none of this. Instead, he moved out of his parents’ home, much to their consternation, and left for Berlin where he found new employment and rented a warehouse on Stahlwerkstrasse. Then he placed an order.

  Two months later, a transport arrived at the warehouse on Stahlwerkstrasse. Four burly men who didn’t speak a word of German unloaded four enormous boxes, and proceeded to unpack the various parts of a small airship. When they left, an exact copy of Beatrice was moored in the warehouse.

  The realization dawned on Franz as he stood alone in the warehouse, studying his airship. This new Beatrice was disinterested. She hovered quietly in the space without a trace of warmth. Franz walked along her length. He stroked her skin with a hand. It was cool. He traced the smooth, polished mahogany of her gondola with his fingers, breathing in the aroma of fresh wood and varnish. Then he opened the little door and gingerly seated himself inside, where a musky undertone mingled with the smells of copper and fresh rubber. He imagined that it was Beatrice. He summoned the sensation of warm cushions receiving him, how she dipped under his weight. But this Beatrice, Beatrice II, had a seat with firm stuffing that didn’t give.

  “We’ll manage,” said Franz to the console. “We’ll manage. You can be my Beatrice. We’ll get used to each other.”

  Anna Goldberg, a printer’s assistant, fell in love with a steam engine. She was the youngest and ugliest daughter in a well-to-do family in Hamburg; her father owned one of the largest printing works in the country. Since Anna showed intellectual talent, she was allowed schooling and worked for her father as his secretary. In that way she would at least earn her keep. Anna was happy with her employment, but not because she loved the art of printing or the art of being a secretary. It was the printing presses. When other girls her age mooned over boys, she had a violent crush on a Koenig & Bauer. However, it wouldn’t do to start a romance openly in front of her father. She saved every pfennig of her income, so that when the day came she could afford to follow her love. At twenty-eight, she was still waiting for the right opportunity.

  It finally came the day she met Hercules at the Berlin fair. He was a semiportable steam engine: a round-bellied oven coupled to an upright, broadshouldered engine. He exuded a heavy aroma of hot iron with a tart overtone of coal smoke that made her thighs tingle. And he was for sale. Although Anna came to the fair every day for a week to get to know him properly, she had really made up her mind on the first day. She could just about afford him. Anna announced to her parents that she intended to visit a friend and her husband in Berlin, and possibly find a suitor there. Her parents made no resistance, and Anna didn’t tell them her stay would be indefinite. She rented a warehouse on Stahlwerkstrasse, and moved her possessions there.

  Arriving at the warehouse with Hercules, Anna was greeted by a confused gentleman and a miniature airship who already occupied the space. The gentleman introduced himself as Dr. Hiller, and wouldn’t meet her gaze, but showed her a document. They seemed to have identical leases for the warehouse on Stahlwerkstrasse. Anna and Franz visited the
landlord’s office, where a small seborrhoeic woman regretted the mix-up. Sadly, it was too late to save the situation as all warehouses were now occupied. She was, however, convinced that Dr. Hiller and Fräulein Goldberg could solve the situation between them. As long as the rent was paid every month, it wasn’t very important how. They would even get a discount for their troubles. With that, she thanked them for their visit and asked them to leave.

  “I can’t have people burning things in the warehouse,” said Franz once they exited onto the street. “The airship is very flammable.”

  “What does Dr. Hiller do with it?” said Anna.

  “I don’t think that is of Fräulein Goldberg’s concern,” said Franz. “What is Fräulein Goldberg going to power with her steam engine?”

  Anna stared at him with a blush that started at her neck and crept up her cheeks. “His name is Hercules,” she said quietly.

  Franz stopped and looked at her. “Oh,” he said after a moment, and his eyes softened. “I apologise. I think we share the same fate.”

  Returning to the warehouse, Franz led Anna to the airship moored in the far end of the room. “This is Beatrice,” he said, and laid a possessive hand on Beatrice’s gondola.

  Anna greeted Beatrice with a nod. “My congratulations,” she told Franz. “She is very beautiful.”

  They agreed on sharing the warehouse, with a partition in the middle. Anna brought a simple wood stove. After she pointed out that he, too, would need to cook for himself, Franz allowed her to install it in an alcove in the middle of the far wall of the warehouse, as far away from Beatrice as possible. The alcove became a shared kitchen and sitting room. It even took on a cosy air.

  Anna was constantly at work shovelling coal into Hercules’ gaping maw and topping up water for the steam. At night, she would get up every other hour to feed him. Franz, who left for the clinic each morning, imagined she would do the same in the daytime as well, as she was often busy shovelling coal no matter what time of day he came home. Other than that, she mostly seemed to be busy reading technical manuals and papers. She had brought an entire bookcase full of them.