Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "Pa'tal!" he protested.

  Aldora picked up the spear's head, cleaned it off, took aim, and then skipped it across the surface of the pool. Small trails of sparks kicked up from the water wherever it landed.

  "What?" Penny stared in awe.

  "Copper and iron are never found in limestone," Aldora explained, handing the spear's shaft back to the tribesman. "They had to have been placed there with intent, and if that god Chaak is a lightning god... copper, iron, and an electrolyte like saltwater are all it takes to make a simple battery."

  "I had no idea that the Mayans were capable of making things like that," Penny said.

  "Nor I, but from what I've read they left behind a legacy of mysterious clockworks that the Europeans of the time could scarcely comprehend. Primitive batteries -- even on such a scale as this -- do not seem beyond their capabilities."

  "How do we get across?"

  Aldora examined the walls and ceilings. "There are creeper vines holding fast to the cavern. If we are brave enough to chance it, we can attempt a climb, though I'll warn you that it shan't be easy."

  She looked back from the wall to where Penny had been, only to find the girl gone. Aldora glanced around in alarm, finally spotting the girl clambering up the wall to the ceiling as nimble as a capuchin, fingers grabbing handfuls of vine.

  "Penny wait! We don't know if the roots will support us!"

  "Seems strong enough to me."

  Having reached the ceiling, Penny hung by her fingers, crossing easily, hand over hand, all the way across the deadly expanse of electric-charged water.

  Aldora watched in awe and horror, waiting for the fall that never occurred.

  Penny dropped to the ground on the other side. "Made it!"

  "You've scared me nearly to death." Aldora managed.

  She crossed to the other tunnel wall, examined the vines, removed her sandals, and almost delicately began to climb.

  Unlike Penny she didn't care to test the ceiling's vines' tensile strength, instead using the lattice of vegetation to climb sideways across the wall above the pool.

  She dismounted upon reaching the other side, and glanced across the water to where Amoxtli was taking a few steps back away from the water, broken spear shaft held in his hands.

  "I don't know if the roots would support Amoxtli weight," Aldora said. "Perhaps you should tell him to go back and wait--"

  With a long cry the Lacandon tribesman ran forward, leaping as he reached the edge of the pool, leaping through the air like a jaguar.

  He tucked and rolled as he landed, clearing the water, and coming to his feet next to the girls.

  Penny clapped her hands. "Prime jump! That had to be at least six yards!"

  "Yes," Aldora said, gazing at the guide's long muscular legs with a new appreciation. "Quite impressive."

  Amoxtli gave a smile that brought a small blush to the gentlewoman's cheeks. "Ma' Bartel."

  Penny laughed. "Hooch suit'!"

  Aldora forced her eyes away from the lines of the Lacandon man's form. "Let's continue."

  "There's a ladder here," Penny put a hand on one of its rungs, carved into the stone wall. "It's lit up above."

  "Amoxtli will go first," Aldora said. "And then I. You come up when I tell you it's safe."

  Penny nodded, stepping back, and allowing the Lacandon to make his way up the stairs.

  "You fancy him don't you." Penny whispered.

  She couldn't tell that Aldora's face had reddened in the darkness as their guide's torch had ascended with him. "That is not an acceptable topic of conversation."

  "Yeah, but you do, don't you. A right buck, he is. Want me to crack you up to him?"

  "That's enough cheek out of you, young lady." Aldora mounted the ladder, following up after Amoxtli.

  She emerged into a tunnel lit with a gas lantern hanging on a hook. It wasn't until she turned to look behind her that she noticed the harsh uniformed men with rifles holding the guide silent. It took all of her willpower to avoid glancing down the ladder towards Penny as she audibly gasped, raised her hands, and backed away, just managing to hope that the girl would take the hint and stay hidden below.

  ***

  The mercenaries remained silent as they escorted Aldora and Amoxtli through lamp-lit tunnels, and Aldora didn't volunteer any information herself. The uniforms they wore reminded her of those used by the Spanish infantry, but they were more subdued, a grey rather than light blue, rank insignia on the shoulders rather than the cuffs. Their hats were straw, in the style of the Mexican charro's sombrero. The uniforms had not withstood the jungle's rigour with grace, but the men's rifles seemed in excellent condition.

  While the uniforms were nationalistically identifiable, Aldora noted that the men themselves were not. Of the three escorting them, two looked Hispanic, and the third possibly Eastern European. Russian, perhaps.

  The tunnel opened up into a massive chamber filled with levels of wooden scaffolding built around a towering cubic clockwork structure. Its purpose wasn't immediately apparent, shifting gears arranged around sliding flywheels, pneumatic tubes snaking between steam-powered pistons, hinged flanges tapping staccato rhythms that echoed throughout the structure. Beyond the guards walking slowly along the scaffolding she could see a man in ragged safari-wear examining the mechanism -- Mr. Kelley?

  Set around the tower and its base were caches of supplies: barrels of food and water, bundles of cloth, kegs of cordite and shot for the cannons outside.

  One of the mercenaries prodded her along with the barrel of his rifle, preventing her from taking in any more detail, and the prisoners were escorted down a side tunnel. A vine-tied wooden lattice had been placed across its far end, and two of the mercenaries stood watch as the third moved it aside.

  Aldora and Amoxtli were prodded through into a small cell where two men -- one in a ruined tweed waistcoat and trousers, the other in torn safari khakis -- sat along its walls.

  "Miss Fiske!" Colonel Isley scrambled to his feet. His face was dirt smudged, and his impeccable moustache looked ragged."Thank heavens you're alive!"

  And now they know my name, Aldora cursed inwardly. Thank you for that.

  "Are you alright? We'd feared the worst."

  Aldora hesitated, waiting until the guards' echoing footsteps had faded. "After the raid I was taken in by the local native people."

  "You're the woman who financed this rescue operation?" Aldora recognised the other man as the actor Carvel White. "I cannot say that I am impressed."

  "You know how it is. Things seldom work out as intended."

  "What the devil are you wearing?"

  "It's a tunic the natives were kind enough to lend me."

  "It's dreadful."

  The Colonel frowned. "You'd rather she traipse around in her all-together?"

  Carvel gave Aldora an appraising look. "I should say not. I prefer my women with a more classical figure."

  "I shall endeavour to recover from such stunning disappointment. If you are quite through critiquing my apparel, where are the others?"

  "Dead, I am sad, but not surprised to say," Carvel said. "Our production assistant was killed in the initial assault. Our guide slain as an example when he refused to show the mercenaries' commander whatever respect the bastard felt entitled to."

  Henry Robinson was dead. Aldora sat down heavily, hand flitting to her face. It took a lot to take the wind out of Aldora's sails, to wreck her poise, to slip the mask of perfect composure from her face. Carvel didn't seem to notice.

  "I haven't seen Mr. Girnwood, the director, since our capture, but I assume that he's dead as well."

  "No," Aldora spoke absently, distracted. "He comes from a wealthy family. He'll be kept separate from the rest of us for ransom."

  "That cannot be," Carvel said. "I'm a universally well-regarded symbol of the stage. If anyone's worth a ransom, I am."

  "Perhaps he's not a fan of theatre," Isley suggested. "Mr. Kelley was taken as well."

  "I think
I might have spotted him," Aldora said. "Working on that giant clockwork."

  "What do you suppose its purpose might be?"

  "I haven't the foggiest." Aldora looked over at Carvel. "How did Mr. Robinson die?"

  "Foolishly," Carvel said with a snort. "The director, Mr. Girnwood, was trying to wheedle some sort of deal with the mercenary commander, throwing his weight and reputation around, and quite simply exhausted the man's patience. He struck the man, and Robinson called him out as a coward for assaulting a bound prisoner. He was shot as an example to the rest of us."

  "An example."

  "So he said. It seemed to have been an effective one, at least for Girnwood."

  Aldora forced herself to focus. "And what sort of man is this mercenary commander?"

  "You'll find out yourself," a gruff voice from behind her spoke. A new pair of guards had silently appeared at the door, rifles at ready. "Come with us, Miss. Y tu tambien, hombre."

  The latter was directed at Amoxtli. Aldora rose, interposing herself between the men and her guide. "You don't need him. He's a native -- he doesn't speak English or Spanish."

  "That's up to the commander. Come along."

  ***

  The guards escorted Aldora and Amoxtli past the clockwork tower and through darkened corridors to the dusk outside beyond the temple's entrance, and to a large central pavilion tent. It was dark and sombre within, lit by beeswax candles, decorated with Catholic iconography. A portable altar had been set up at the far end, flanked by tall standards bearing a severe and geometric Christian styling. The fore of the tent was occupied with rows of folding chairs of wood and cloth.

  The man occupying the tent was dressed in a uniform similar to the other mercenaries, over which he wore a black Catholic clerical waistcoat, buttoned all the way up to the collar. To Aldora his ensemble gave the impression of a militant cassock, made all the more blatant by the gun-belt slung along his hips. He was tall, dark, and athletic, with a regal Hispanic bearing that well suited the pavilion tent's atmosphere.

  The guards stopped just outside to flank the tent's entrance.

  "Miss Fiske, I presume?" The militant priest looked up as she and Amoxtli entered.

  Aldora placed his accent as educated Barcelonian. "I am afraid you have the advantage."

  His smile did not reach his eyes. "Father Jago Sarsosa. I apologise for the circumstances."

  "Charmed. Should I call you Father Sarsosa or Commander Sarsosa?"

  "You may refer to me as is your pleasure, Miss Fiske."

  She grinned unpleasantly. "Be careful with your permissions, Commander, I may just take you up on them."

  Sarsosa's smile didn't falter. Everything about the man, Aldora noted, was impeccable. His pocket kerchief was folded just so. His moustache was waxed to the perfect degree. His hair parted expertly down the middle.

  This was a man who prided himself on his control, perhaps to a pathological degree.

  He addressed Amoxtli. "And you, sir?"

  Aldora spoke quickly. "He is only a simple native guide. Speaks nothing but his tribal tongue."

  Sarsosa studied the man carefully before apparently dismissing him as unimportant. "Very well. Let us not unduly waste one another's time, Miss Fiske. You financed the expedition to find your filmmakers, so it is obvious that you come from money. Are you married?"

  "Why, Father Sarsosa. That's rather forward of you."

  "Miss Fiske."

  "I am engaged to be married."

  "Then it is to your father that I should address your ransom."

  "You would stand a better chance of getting your money with my fiancé. Is that what this is all about?"

  "The ransoms are incidental to our business in the region. Opportunities that arise must be exploited."

  "How mercenary of you."

  "I have to admit that I do not care about your opinion of me in the slightest, just that someone will pay for your release."

  "If you must know, then yes."

  Sarsosa nodded. "Then I shall appoint you facilities more suited to your station."

  "And the rest of my expedition?"

  "I have not yet decided their fate. Your behaviour shall, in part, determine what is to become of them."

  "Your point is well taken. Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

  "You may ask." Father Sarsosa leaned casually against his altar, arms folded across his chest.

  "Does the Church condone what you are up to?"

  "The Church? Oh. The vestments I wear. No, Miss Fiske, I am no longer with the Catholic Church, but I find their iconography projects a useful air of authority."

  "You left the church?"

  "I was excommunicated," he said.

  "I suppose they look down on their missionaries turning mercenary."

  "I was no missionary, and our disagreement was one of philosophy. Are you familiar with the writings of Charles Darwin?"

  "On the Origin of the Species?"

  Enthusiasm filled Father Sarsosa's voice. "Yes! The work changed my life. Darwin's true message was not one of biology, but one of leadership. Some men, you see, are simply superior to others. Smarter. Stronger. More suited to lead. More suited to set doctrine. I do not blame the Church for expelling me for my outspoken cries for modernisation; men of power must make what choices they must in order to secure their positions; I was a threat, and I was dealt with. So is the natural order."

  "So you are no priest. Are you at least a military man?"

  "After I left the church--"

  "After they excommunicated you--"

  "-- I served my native Espania's army loyally, until my regiment was sent to Cuba during the rebellion. I saw an advantage in the guerrilla tactics that the natives used... an adaptability and flexibility the Spanish army lacked. A man must always be flexible to take opportunities as they arise. As soon as the Americans joined the Cubans, I defected with my most loyal soldiers and joined the revolution -- together, we helped liberate Santiago. It was glorious."

  "Impressive, I'm sure, but how does a revolutionary hero become a mercenary thug?"

  Sarsosa raised an eyebrow. "You hope to rile me. Miss Fiske, you are a brave woman to have made your trip into the jungle. And either resourceful or lucky to have evaded my men until you entered the temple. It is circumstances like these -- strife -- that both reveal our highest selves and forge us into more perfect beings. You can rest assured... I shall not underestimate you."

  Aldora blinked. "Nor I you, Commander."

  "Then you must know that trying to get me to reveal more than I wish out of anger is foolish. But enough of me. The girl. She is yours?"

  "The girl?"

  He turned his head slightly. "The girl who followed you and the Indian. She has evaded my men, but we will have her soon. I'm not sure she's worth the trouble trying to take alive. Is she your daughter?"

  "She is my ward," Aldora said carefully.

  "Then she shall be returned to you intact."

  "Thank you."

  "Show your thanks with your compliance, and you and your ward will remain safe. Take her away."

  ***

  The guards separated Aldora and Amoxtli, taking the native hunter back towards the cell with the others, while Aldora was taken down another corridor.

  They escorted her through a simple locked door into another cell. While still rather makeshift, this one was better appointed, with military-style cots and a folding table holding a bowl of fruit.

  The engineer Mr. Kelley was sitting at the table, while a second, plumper man reclined on one of the cots. Both stood as she entered, remaining silent until the guards had shut the door.

  "Are you alright, Miss Fiske?" the skinny man asked.

  "None the worse for wear, Mr. Kelly." She turned to the larger fellow. "You are the director, Mr. Girnwood?"

  The heavyset man raised a hand weakly. "And you are?"

  "Miss Aldora Fiske." She walked up to Girnwood, stared him in the eyes for a second, then slapped him sha
rply across the face.

  He rocked back, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself. "Wh-what?"

  "That is for getting a good man killed."

  "What?"

  Aldora grabbed him by the tattered remains of his collar, slamming the man against the wall. "Henry Robinson was more of a man than you will ever know, you snivelling worm. He'd lived more, loved more, accomplished more than you can even dream, and now he's dead, leaving an orphaned daughter behind, all because you couldn't sit still and keep your mouth shut."

  Girnwood gasped and grabbed at Aldora's fingers, trying to pry himself free. "The girl survived?"

  "By all rights she is your responsibility now. Your lack of caution took her father from her, your self-importance almost took her life away, and I'd not add your incompetence to the burden she must bear for the rest of her life, but if you should survive this ordeal you must never forget what it is you've done. Are we clear, Mr. Girnwood?"

  "Y-yes, Miss Fiske."

  "Excellent."

  She gave the man a last shove against the wall, then released him and turned to sit at the table, pulling a banana from the bowl. Mr. Kelly and Mr. Girnwood exchanged glances.

  "Did you know Mr. Robinson well?" Girnwood asked. "If so, I'm sorry for your--"

  "Mr. Kelly." Aldora's quiet voice cut Girnwood's clumsy condolences off.

  The engineer sat up straight. "Yes, Miss Fiske?"

  She pointed the banana, half-peeled, at him. "The mercenaries have you examining the clockwork tower."

  "Oh, yes. Fascinating thing."

  "Is it Mayan?"

  "Parts of it, yes."

  "Only parts of it?"

  "Well, yes. Others were, I believe, built by Mr. Babbage some decades ago when he visited the area."

  "To what end?"

  "Well, the Mayan clockwork, what remains, seems to be an observatory device of some sort. It measures wind, temperature, humidity, geothermic pressure... and the tower that Babbage constructed about it appears to be an Analytical Engine that interprets the presented data in a host of different ways. Taken together I believe it's sort of a predictive computation device."

  "Predictive?"