Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "Sounds a right time. Were I a younger man, I would go myself, but these days all my pleasures are vicarious."

  The Colonel stirred his drink. "There is a bit of a complication."

  "Complication?"

  "Our patron, the financier of the proposed expedition, insists upon accompanying us."

  "Oh, civilians," Donaldson said. "Money always has its price. As long as he minds us and stays out from underfoot, I've no objection."

  "It's a bit more complicated," the Colonel said. "Our patron is one Miss Aldora Fiske."

  Silence filled the den, all eyes turning towards the colonel, papers lowered, cigars drooping from hanging jaws.

  "And yes. Of those Fiskes."

  "A... a woman?" One of the more conservative members folded his broadsheet, placing it on the bar.

  "Miss Fiske has repeatedly assured me that she is quite well travelled."

  "What does her husband have to say?" Donaldson asked.

  "Miss Fiske is engaged to be married to one Alton Bartleby. He has presented no objection."

  The silence returned.

  "I served with an Alton Bartleby," one of the junior members said. "He was a capable officer."

  "Well, if this Bartleby takes responsibility--" the Colonel began.

  Donaldson folded his hands. "The Fiskes are a respectable family--"

  "If she minds her place--" another member said.

  "I feel I should mention that this is perhaps our last opportunity for an expedition this year." The Colonel rolled himself a new cigar. "And we've not the budget to finance anything on our own."

  "Let's put a vote to it," a member suggested. "All in favour, say 'Aye?'"

  A cascade of members voiced their approval.

  "Opposed?"

  A scattered handful, Donaldson among them, disagreed.

  "Motion is carried. I'll have word sent to Miss Fiske. If you are interested in taking part, report to Mr. Foster so that he knows what measure of provisions to order."

  "No good comes of a woman on expedition," Donaldson said. "Bad for morale."

  The colonel sipped his tea.

  ***

  The club treasurer Foster and the military-minded Colonel Isley conducted the expedition's preparations in a brisk and businesslike fashion. Bags of beans and hard-tack, a pound of dried tea-leaves, tents, haversacks, canteens, mosquito netting, malaria pills, extra boots, rifles for the men, and various camp-tools were all gathered. Miss Fiske was content to leave the details to the men, signing bills-of-sale and handing over cheques as required with little question or comment.

  Travel was likewise uneventful; a quick freighter across the channel from London to Paris, a train trip to Lisbon, then a pan-Atlantic steam-flight direct to Mérida. In Mexico they'd met with an official who offered moral support for their rescue operation, and warned about peasant uprisings and bandit activity in the area. So warned, the expedition crossed the interior of the Mexican countryside to the jungle. The government had made little attempt to improve the local infrastructure or to exert control beyond taxes, and it wasn't long before the last of the villages on the jungle outskirt was well behind them. The expedition continued afoot, heading in the general direction of the film crew's last known destination: the ancient Mayan ruins of Zipactonal.

  "Have you ever been on safari, Miss Fiske?" Colonel Isley asked.

  "I've visited the Sundarbans in India--"

  "Walking paths formed from the plodding feet of generations of tourists," the Colonel said, leading the way with his machete, hacking away at the thick underbrush. "I am by no means denigrating your holiday experiences, Miss Fiske. Travel is a vital step for citizens of the Empire; we should never forget the larger world that Her Majesty extends dominion over."

  "Colonel Isley--"

  "But what you must bear in mind regarding these jungles is that they are not so well travelled."

  The colonel extended a gloved hand to gently caress the bark of one of the trees.

  "They are virginal. Unsullied by the boots of civilised man. Even the locals do not stray far within. The rainforests are the realm of nature, haunted only by bandits and the spirits of the Mayan people, known only by the bones of their ruins."

  "I can assure you, Colonel, I am quite aware of our situation." The frost in Aldora's voice was almost enough to wilt the nearby foliage.

  He seemed not to notice. "You needn't fret. You travel with military men, and Kelly here a Guild recognised engineer."

  "Then I'm sure I feel quite safe." Aldora glanced sidelong at Mr. Kelly, who had been stumbling along beside her. "Though I am surprised to see an Engineer so willing to leave his laboratory to go striding about the jungle, Mr.Kelly."

  Like the others Kelly had dressed for the expedition in rugged khaki with belted bush jackets, and a pith helmet. Unlike Colonel Isley, however, Kelly did not wear his outfit with ease. The jacket hung loose off his frame, and he seemed to be having considerable difficulty keeping his helmet steady on his head. In Aldora's estimation this was the first time he'd ever been on a wilderness excursion.

  "I will admit that this is not the environment I am accustomed to," Kelly said, looking up at the thick canopy overhead. "I am not personally one for fieldwork, but this was an opportunity I could not let pass me by."

  "Do go on." Aldora herself was not so gauche as to wear trousers, even so far from London's watching eyes and wagging tongues, but she had sacrificed her haute couture skirts for athletic bloomers fastened just below the knees. She had shouldered her knapsack without complaint, politely declining the Colonel's repeated offers to carry it for her.

  The engineer's cultured nasal voice seemed to fill the air as the party continued, adopting that lecturing cadence that Aldora frequently pretended not to be bothered by. "In many ways my career has been following in Babbage's footsteps. I first studied and then emulated his work during my Guild apprenticeship, and then chose analytical engines as my speciality as I embarked as a journeyman."

  "Analytical engine?" Colonel Isley paused to take a quick drink from his canteen. "I'm afraid that I'm only familiar with combat engineering."

  "At the Academy there was a saying -- 'to the flash goes the funding.' Kelly flashed a painful smile. "It's easier to explain airship engines and lightning cannons to the public, but it'll be analytical engines that change the world. Imagine it -- mechanical devices capable of thousands of arithmetic calculations an hour, logical control flow with conditional branches and loops... integrated memory..."

  The Colonel narrowed his eyes slightly. "Yes, it all sounds very complicated, but what do they do?"

  "Thinking machines," Kelly said. "They'll let one Engineer do the work of hundreds. Innovation and design will progress at a rate that will make the last hundred years' rushed advancement look like a snail's pace."

  "That sounds dreadful and short-sighted." The Colonel shook his head, stooping to examine a patch of mud.

  "Short-sighted?" Aldora asked.

  "Work too fast and they'll run out of things to invent." The Colonel stood, gaze panning from side to side, speaking with some distraction. "Then they'll have to get real jobs."

  "With all due respect, Colonel--" Kelly began, stumbling over his words.

  "Someone passed by, not too long ago."

  "Bandits?" Kelly asked, moving closer.

  "Boots." The Colonel waved the engineer away. "Natives would go barefoot or sandalled, I should think, and the tread on these prints is too sturdy for simple highwaymen, unless purloined. I would presume military."

  "That does not bode well," Aldora said.

  "Let us men worry about such unpleasantries," Isley said. "We'll keep you safe, have no fear."

  After a few moments the Colonel started walking again. "They're at least an hour ahead of us. Continue your story, Kelly."

  "Yes, well. That Babbage travelled to Mexico is well known, but what he aimed remains a great mystery. He told no one of his intentions, swore the workmen who accompanied him
to secrecy, and burned all records of his journey upon his return."

  "Quite the mystery," Aldora said.

  "It most likely has something to do with the Mayan ruins he was visiting, though what, none can say for sure."

  "Weren't the Mayans known for their own clockwork astronomical relics?" Isley asked.

  "All we have to go on is the writing of the Spanish conquistadors," Kelly said. "They left little of what they encountered intact. All that remains in the ruins are what wasn't valuable and would not burn."

  "Pity, that," Aldora said. "The boots of military men tromping once more across the face of history."

  "I can assure you, Miss Fiske," Colonel Isley said, puffing his chest out. "The Royal Military takes the greatest of care when dealing with an indigenous people's cultural heritage."

  "I meant to imply nothing to the contrary," Aldora said, thinking the man looked quite the quail.

  The Colonel harrumphed.

  ***

  As the sun set Isley called for a stop along a winding stream. He worked quickly but diligently to set up the camp despite Kelly's help, while Aldora erected her own shelter a short ways away.

  "I'm afraid you may find travel fare a bit lacking compared to what your household staff prepares, Miss Fiske," Colonel Isley said, watching as Mr. Kelley built a fire.

  "As I have mentioned multiple times, I am well familiar with wilderness travel." She had resolved to patiently repeat it until it managed to penetrate the thickness of the Colonel's skull.

  "Yes, well. I am sure that you will find that Lacandon a tad more 'wilderness' than the sunny coasts of Brighton."

  "Colonel Isley," Aldora wheeled on the man, tent stake in hand.

  "I can assure you that I am an experienced world traveller. In addition to the jungles of India, I have ridden wild stallions in the American west, snowshoed the wilds of northern Canada, sailed the Barbary Coast, and toured the Arabian desert." Her patience exhausted, each named destination was punctuated with a step forward, and the Colonel found himself forced back by the ire in the woman's gaze. "Am I clear?"

  "Yes." The Colonel managed, pushing the tip of Aldora's tent stake aside. "Quite."

  "Good." Aldora turned and returned to her tent, hammering in the last of the stakes.

  Kelly watched her with some surprise. "That's... more travel than I would gather most woman of your calibre are familiar with."

  A flush came to Aldora's neck and face. "Forgive me... I mention it not out of braggadocio, but to save the Colonel the bother of having to explain and condescend to me the basics of travel beyond the Empire's borders."

  He chuckled, then lowered his voice. "You needn't justify yourself to me, Miss. Frankly, I was almost as tired of the old man's blather as you. I'm only surprised you bore as much of it as you did."

  Aldora gave a relieved chuckle. "While Colonel Isley may be an exceptional chauvinist, I am sorry to say that the vaunted halls of London society are no strangers to the perils of misogyny."

  "You-- ah, you're engaged to Mr. Alton Bartleby?"

  "Oh yes," Aldora said. "The dear. I do so hope he is getting on well without me."

  "Ah. I was engineer on the Benbow while he served there. Good man, from what I'd heard."

  Aldora froze a moment, then turned towards the man slowly. "Mr. Kelly."

  "Yes?"

  "My fiancé does not much advertise his naval service..."

  "I don't see why not. He was a capable lieutenant, and well regarded by the men--"

  "His reasons are his own, but he has taken pains to counter rumours of his military past within the city of London. We would both be appreciative if you did not undo his careful work."

  Kelley nodded. "I don't quite understand, but I'll respect his privacy."

  "Thank you, Mr. Kelley."

  ***

  It was a small sound that woke Aldora from her slumber, a tiny noise easily overlooked in a strange place after a long day's march. Many would have written it off as the normal sounds of jungle life, or as one of her companions shifting in their tents, but there was a quality to it that roused the gentlewoman immediately and had her reaching for the pistol she habitually kept under her pillow.

  It was the sound of exaggerated care, and she had long ago learnt the difference between the courtesy of quiet and the treachery of stealth.

  Aldora was as quiet as the campsite's stalker had intended to be, rolling to the back of her tent and quickly slipping into her boots while her ears strained to hear the absence of noise. There were several of them, a group, moving into position to descend upon the camp in unison. Before she was even awake enough to process this and what it might mean the pen-knife was in her hand, cutting a slit through the back of her tent. She slipped through it soundlessly, cringing slightly at the noise she'd made brushing against the fabric, fancying that all ears were attuned to her every motion.

  It might have been that small sound that set off the attack, or it may have simply been time, but no sooner had she ducked into the foliage than did come shouts and gunfire behind her.

  "Se toma a la mujer," a rough voice called. "Voy a por el viejo loco!"

  "Enrique se ha desaparecido!" came an answering cry.

  She plunged headlong through the underbrush, sharp jungle leaves and thorns tearing at her hands and sleeping gown, dampness making its thin cotton cling to her body, threatening to tangle up about her legs.

  She couldn't hear pursuit following over the noise she was making stumbling through the bushes and ferns between the trees, but instinct drove her on, certain her that dangerous men with rifles were but steps behind her.

  Aldora pushed clear from the bushes into empty space, uncontrolled momentum carrying her out over a steep ravine.

  Gravity grabbed her, smashing her against the muddy slope.

  She tucked the best she could as she tumbled down, bowling over small thorny brush and saplings before plunging into the cool depths of a river's waters.

  Aldora thrashed for a moment towards the surface before a sudden fear of beasts hidden in the dark water struck her spine. Such creatures were attracted to the jerky motion, sure signs of wounded prey, and she adjusted to push against the water with long smooth strokes.

  After righting herself in the water and rediscovering equilibrium she swam with the current towards what she believed to be the closer bank.

  Fingers torn by jungle bushes and numbed by the cold water scrabbled at the shore. Weighed down by her sodden nightclothes, Aldora managed to pull herself from the current and onto the shore, where she lay panting and gasping for breath.

  "Antal-ot ma'alob?" came a voice in the darkness, speaking a language that she didn't recognise. "Mina'an aanta?"

  Aldora's eyes searched the blackness, but could not see the speaker. He was near, though, next to her.

  "Okay," she managed, closing her eyes, beaten and exhausted. "I give up. I surrender. Me rindo."

  Strong hands grasped her, picked her up, but she was too disoriented and battered to struggle. It was best, she maintained, to endure the indignities an enemy might visit upon one when defenceless, and then attack from a point of power later. Spaniards were -- if anything -- even more chauvinistic than her own countrymen, and the bandits of Mexico were probably no different. She was, to them, only a woman, and for now that was her greatest asset. It was an all-too common weakness in others that she was quite happy to exploit.

  To her surprise her captor did not take her back across the river to the camp to rendezvous with the others, but instead trod swiftly through the jungle, hoisting Aldora over his shoulder. She was surprised to see that he wore his hair long, almost to the small of his back, and he was dressed in a simple cloth tunic. She allowed herself the small hope that he wasn't one of the bandits that had raided her camp.

  ***

  Aldora found herself carried to a small village of primitive palm-thatched huts.

  "Le'!" the native carrying her shouted. "Inkaxan ixoq ka mina'an aanta!"


  A number of figures appeared in the hut entrances, dressed in cotton tunics, men and women both with long hair. They stared through the darkness at Aldora, an old man bringing a lit torch closer as he peered at her face.

  "Tu'ux kaxan?" the elder native asked.

  The other native put her down, helping her stand steady. "Tumen ja'l. Leti' púuts'ul máak."

  "Please," Aldora made the appeal to those around her, her eyes flashing from face to face. "Do any of you speak English? Alguno de ustedes habla Español?"

  The natives returned blank stares, muttering to one another in hushed tones.

  "Taas tzeb?" the one who had brought her asked.

  "Wáa," the elder replied. He turned towards Aldora, speaking in a slow sing-song and extending his hand. "Bin tutséel... bin, bin."

  Aldora let herself be lead by the old native towards a central hut lit by glowing embers. The elder ducked within, then gestured that she should follow. "Bin, bin."

  Inside waited a young girl, lighter of feature than the others, though her tunic was of the same simple cotton, and her matted hair was just as long. She stared at Aldora's dishevelled state, her muddy hair, her scratched skin, her torn nightgown.

  "Hello?" Aldora said, feeling acutely self-conscious in a way that she hadn't with the other natives moments before.

  "You -- you're English?" the girl stammered.

  "Yes." Aldora said, a flood of relief washing through her. "Yes, I am."

  "Are you here to rescue me?" the girls eyes cast across Aldora's ruined nightgown.

  "I... my party had come to the jungle in search of a missing film crew."

  "That's me!" The girl scrambled to her feet. "I mean, I was a part of that expedition, with my father."

  "I'm afraid I'm not in much shape to rescue anyone at the moment," Aldora said, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder to steady her. "Highwaymen ambushed our camp. I alone managed to escape."

  The girl's face fell and she seemed almost to collapse in on herself. "Oh... that's what happened to me. They took everyone, but I escaped."

  Aldora studied the disheartened girl silently for a long moment. It was obvious that she was trying her best not to cry. She half-raised a hand to comfort her, but let it fall to her side, not sure exactly what to say or do. Helplessness wasn't something she was well acquainted with.