Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "Mato usted," he managed through gritted teeth, bringing his pistol to bear.

  Aldora lashed out with her foot, the ball of her toe kicking the gun out of his hand. It fell into the electrified battery pond with a crackling spark, lightning dancing along the metal casing even as it sank, illuminating their struggle from below.

  "Mato con mis manos!"

  Sarsosa lunged faster than the concussed gentlewoman could react, his powerful calloused hands wrapping around Aldora's slender neck.

  A greyness came to her already fading vision as he cut off the oxygen supply to her lungs, literally choking the life out of her.

  Her one good hand flailed uselessly at his arm, unable to reach his face or neck, until, her will fading, it fell to rest on the pool's bank. Her fingertips touched sharp flint.

  Almost instinctively, her fingers closed around it, finding a bit of broken shaft, the tip of a spear skipped across an electric pond hours earlier.

  Summoning the last of her will, the last of her strength, Aldora gripped the spearhead firmly before driving it around, up and into Sarsosa's remaining eye. He screamed and let go of her neck, his hands flying to his ruined face, legs kicking in agony for the time it took the woman to regain her breath.

  By the time she had recovered, he was still.

  Aldora stared at the dead Spaniard for a long moment, until the light from his sparking gun had finally faded away, leaving her in absolute blackness.

  "Henry," she whispered, leaning her head back against the tunnel wall. It would be so easy to let go, now. To let the rumbling in the stone against her back lure her down into oblivion, to give up the finger-hold she had onto life, to let herself slip away into the comforting stillness of death. She had fought hard. She had won. She had defeated Father Sarsosa and avenged the murder of her lost love. She had kept her promise to Penelope.

  Most of her promise.

  Penny was alone, now, without a parent. She faced a life alone as an urchin, or toiling away in a work-house, if she ever made it back to England. Lord only knew what dangers orphans faced here in Mexico. The girl needed her, and she'd given her the hope of a stable life. She'd given her word. As appealing as the peace of death felt, Aldora had given her word, and she was a Lady of her word.

  "Penelope," she whispered, summoning all her will. She stood, bracing herself against the wall to rise, next to the dead Spaniard.

  There was one obstacle left in her way. She stood at the edge of the deadly pool she could no longer see, then strode to the back of her side of the pond.

  Four paces.

  About eight to ten feet.

  Her flagging endurance would have to suffice.

  Aldora tensed for but a moment, then sprang forward, bare feet flying across limestone until she judged herself at the edge of the pool, then leapt.

  ***

  "I would never have dreamed that a mere woman could accomplish so much destruction," the Colonel said.

  The escaped captives crouched in the jungle at the edge of Zipactonal's clearing, watching the last few standing pillars of stone collapse into the ruin.

  "A remarkable woman, even for a Fiske," Carvel said. "I daresay in the mould of Queen Victoria herself. We'll not see her like again."

  "She's not dead," Penny said, stepping forward. "She can't be!"

  "Capable she may have been," Carvel said, "but no one could have survived that."

  "She could!" Penny turned burying her face in Amotzxil's tunic. "Aldora's too... she can't be dead!"

  Kelley looked away awkwardly.

  "She... she's all I have."

  Amoxtli started, then pointed towards the ruins. "Xchúupal! 'U'uyeh!"

  A shambling figure became visible in the smoke and dust, stopping and abruptly straightening as it neared the periphery. A warm wind blew across the clearing, revealing the bedraggled but distinct form of Miss Aldora Fiske. She was limping, one arm hung limply at her side, and her face was bloodied, but the gentlewoman was very much alive.

  The adults watched in shock as Aldora approached, only young Penny breaking ranks to throw herself bodily into the ragged woman. She caught her gingerly, no trace of pain crossing her face as she held the sobbing child.

  Her eyes sought out the Colonel, steady, clear, challenging.

  The man looked away.

  ***

  "Is this where I'll be living?" Penny looked up at the Fiske townhouse. She didn't have much luggage, just a few outfits that the girls had picked up in Mérida before their trip back to London.

  "Impressed?" Aldora asked. She'd acquired new clothing as well, pleased with the availability of European-style garments in the Mexican port city, only a few seasons out of date.

  "It's nice." Penny was good at sounding polite but unimpressed. "Not as nice as a Maharajah's palace of course, but it'll do."

  Aldora adjusted her parasol, hiding her smile. "I am ever so pleased that it meets with your approval."

  Penny smoothed out the unfamiliar lacy hem of her skirt. "I've never... lived in a house, you know. Father and I... we always kept moving, staying with others. I've never had a home."

  The townhouse's door opened to emit Aldora's fiancé Bartleby. He flashed the girls a grin.

  Aldora rolled her eyes. "Penelope, this is my fiancé, Alton Bartleby. Mr. Bartleby has a home of his own, though you wouldn't realise it from how often you'll find him here."

  "Penny," the girl said, giving a small curtsy.

  "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Robinson," Alton said. He stepped aside, revealing a young Chinese girl in a short sleeved dress. "Allow me to introduce to you Miss Xin Yang, ward of my business partner."

  "你是我的朋友吗？" The Chinese girl stepped forward with a friendly smile.

  Penny blinked with pleasant surprise, then responded in Xin Yang's own tongue. "是的！让我们成为最好的朋友！"

  She turned to Aldora. "She wants to be friends!"

  "I know." Aldora stepped aside towards her fiancé. "I understand Mandarin. Why don't you two run off to the yard? Xin Yang can show you around the grounds."

  Penny dropped her small bag and ran off, hand-in-hand, with the other girl.

  Aldora turned to Alton. "You did that on purpose."

  "Did what?" Alton asked. "I simply thought that your new foster might enjoy someone her own age to play with while adjusting to her new household."

  "Nothing you think is simple."

  "And if you should happen to decide that a more permanent stewardship of Xin Yang might be occasionally a benefit..."

  Aldora laughed. "Does James know you're here?"

  "Oh good lord no. He prefers to have the girl in our own home, even though he never leaves his workshop. The chap can be a bit... overprotective at times."

  "He's protective of the both of you."

  Bartleby rolled his eyes. "Don't I know it. It's tiresome. Anyway, I'm pleased to see that you've reconsidered how children fit into your lifestyle."

  "It's not a matter of children, it's family," Aldora said. "We all have them; most people have two. The family we're born into, and the family we choose. It's only by way of rare accident that the two happen to coincide."

  Bartleby watched the two girls disappear around the corner of the house. "And which is this Penelope?"

  "Whatever the matter of the former, she is firmly the latter. I have chosen that she be raised in my home, as my daughter. I trust, dear fiancé, that you do not object?"

  "I wouldn't dare."

  Fine Young Turks

  Aldora Fiske navigated the shifting patterns of the quadrille effortlessly. Her evening gown was cut was to the very edge of fashion, a diaphanous teal tunic over her draped narrow pastel blue skirt, waistline cinched high just below the bust in a precise Empire style, her hemline just above the cuff of her high curved heels. To the untrained eye her movements were casual, effortless, and relaxed, but there was purpose behind every step, intent behind every turn, a reason behind every change in
partners. There were many she would speak with this evening, many she would listen to, and it was the shuffling steps of the quadrille which would bring dancers together and take them apart again.

  The band played on, Turks with European orchestral instruments, playing with precision and largely ignorant of the subtle conflict filling the Constantinople palace's ballroom around them, the dancers an international sea of muted European style amid opulent Ottoman decor.

  Her partners in these movements were almost as adept at this social chess as she, and everyone had their own political agenda for the evening. None were so inexperienced that an unexpected twist would trip them up or make them lose their pace, and so the lunges and feints of this dance were intended to channel individuals towards and away from one another, as desired. The experienced players, such as Aldora herself, knew how to think several movements and motions ahead. The game became one of understanding and anticipating the choices in partner other dancers were apt to make, and then presenting attractive alternatives to get them where you wanted them to be.

  Having finished flirting with the eligible and noble Italian Comte Montagni, Aldora moved with the changing measure, displacing Mme. Viviani, wife of the French Minister of Labour.

  She smiled as her movements began to mirror those of her new partner, the wealthy industrialist Brugmann. "Only in Constantinople would I dream to see a French woman dancing with a German."

  Brugmann laughed. "Perhaps the atmosphere puts us in a conciliatory mood, Miss Fiske. It is yet Miss, is it not?"

  "I do approach the end of my spinsterhood," she said. "But you needn't fear my fiance minding my dancing with another man."

  "A trusting man, your Mr. Bartleby. And you trust him enough to travel half the world away."

  "If the Reich can trust the Third Republic..."

  "It isn't France that concerns us, but their chosen ally."

  The dance had brought Minister Guignard Viviani himself alongside the couple, no doubt a manoeuvre the Frenchman had initiated soon after seeing his wife dancing with the industrialist, and had been compelled to complete even after she had moved on.

  "You needn't concern yourself with the Tsar," he said in passing. "Russia is in no position to initiate a war, not after the trouncing the Japanese gave them."

  "If they're so weak an ally, then why waste your time courting them?" Brugmann asked.

  Guignard smirked and the dance shifted, Aldora moving to join him.

  "As a counterweight to your own ambitions, of course," he said. "The French and Russian governments are not inclined to start a war, but you can rest assured that together we are well equipped to end one."

  "I'm sure you find great pleasure in rattling your sabres," Aldora said, subtly moving the Frenchman away from the German, "but I can assure you that none here are impressed."

  "Forgive me, of course," the Frenchman said.

  "It is from our elusive host that you should beg forgiveness."

  "Ah! Perhaps the opportunity is upon me."

  Guignard turned slightly, allowing Aldora a glimpse of the curtained archway leading into the ballroom. A handsome Turk stood there, dressed in a long emerald robe with tight sleeves over a pale blue and navy tunic. He was tall and thin, with an olive cast to his features that Aldora found quite appealing. The dance's steps turned her away from the man, and far be it from her to make a scene craning her neck around for him.

  "Our host joins us," Guignard said. "Cemal Yavuzade Bey."

  "What do you know of the man?" she asked, careful to keep her interest sounding mild.

  "He's a representative of the Ottoman Empire's ruling Committee of Union and Progress parliamentary party."

  "A mouthful of a label."

  "Perhaps you've heard of them by their other name, the Young Turks?"

  "That does sound familiar. I remember hearing something about a coup?"

  "From what I can recall the Young Turks marched on the Sultan and demanded he reinstate the constitution he'd suspended. The man capitulated, and the Turks seized power. This ball is most likely a calculated ploy by the Committee to show off the empire's reforms to the great powers of Europe, to inspire confidence in the "Sick Old Man of Europe's" financial future."

  Aldora chuckled. "For a transparent ploy to inspire confidence in ones debtors, it certainly is a pleasant one."

  While she had expected spectacle at the ball -- the familiar European style was a considerate touch -- she did not expect their host to be so young and handsome. As the dance progressed and she passed from Guignard to a new partner she spared Cemal a second glance -- and to her fluster he caught it, deep hazel eyes locking her own pale blue. She found it impossible to look away from their intensity at first, and when she finally managed found herself partnered with Mr. Herbert, the loathsome American industrialist whose great airship had brought most of her fellow guests all the way to Asia.

  "Miss Fiske!" His greedy eyes sought out her décolletage. "How delightful it is to have the opportunity to dance with you."

  "Forgive me, Mr. Herbert. I do feel a bit faint. You will excuse me?" She backed away, still moving in time to the music but increasing the distance between herself and her temporary partner.

  Mr. Herbert nodded but frowned, finding himself alone in the quadrille. He made a game attempt to dance with an invisible partner for a few movements, then walked awkwardly off the floor to titters just loud enough for him to hear.

  ***

  Aldora swayed between dancing couples, away from the centre of the ballroom, instinctively navigating between their complex steps as easily as when she had been part of the pattern herself. Cool air across her flushed skin drew her through a tapered arch onto a vast balcony, and she chided herself for having had such a public reaction. It was unthinkable for a lady of her stature to show such obvious interest. She could but hope the ballroom's lighting was such that none noticed her blush, her gaze, her obvious stare.

  She leaned against the balcony, letting the cool Mediterranean breeze soothe her embarrassment, and looked out over Constantinople's skyline, its domes and towers silhouetted against the setting sun. Black shapes silhouetted against the fading light, passing between the minarets, both European airships and the smaller Turkish ornithopters with their articulated wings, the distant lights of their swaying, darting movements almost seeming like fireflies one might reach out and grasp.

  "Would you like to go for a ride?"

  She'd never heard the Bey speak, but she knew it was his voice without turning around. She daren't. "I beg your pardon?"

  "You're watching the ornithopters. I'm told they never took hold in Northern Europe... my personal 'thopter sits on the roof of this palace. Perhaps you'd like to take a ride in it some time?"

  "Thank you for the offer," Aldora said. "But I was merely enjoying the view."

  "Do you like it?"

  "It's breathtaking."

  "Tell me," he said, standing next to her. "Tell me what you see."

  She spared him a sideways look, fixating on the inches between their hands on the railing. "I see the setting sun. The rising moon. I see the bay, and ships of all sorts."

  "The harbour is the Golden Horn, and across the Bosporus Strait is Stamboul, the Byzantium of the Greeks and Constantinople of the Romans."

  "I thought this palace was in Constantinople."

  Cemal chuckled. "It is. Stamboul is the old city, the old way, built on seven hills, each topped with an extravagant mosque by Sultans gone by. On this side of the bay is Pera. Both are Constantinople, but Stamboul is its past. Pera is its future. Pera is what I've invited you all here to see."

  "What makes Pera its future?" Aldora glanced at her host, caught him looking at her, and looked away quickly.

  "Pera exists on the cusp of Europe and Asia," he said. "The embassies are here. The trading houses of Europe have their offices here. On the streets of Pera you might think yourself in any of the great cities of England or France, with just a taste of what makes Constantinopl
e Turkish. On its streets you will pass citizens from across the Empire, from Egypt to Macedonia to Kuwait to Armenia."

  "It sounds wonderfully cosmopolitan." Somehow her hand had moved closer to his, and she could almost feel the heat radiating from his skin.

  "As the empire has been for centuries."

  "Cemal Bey?"

  The gruff voice startled Aldora, and she stepped quickly away from Cemal. One of his servants -- or guards -- waited in the doorway. "Sizin misafirler sizi soruyor."

  "Ben hemen orada olacaktır." He turned to face Aldora straight on, and she found herself almost lost in the deep hazel of his eyes. "If you will excuse me?"

  "Yes," she said. "Of course."

  ***

  Aldora stayed, waiting on the balcony, watching the airships drift above the harbour long after her host had left.

  "There you are." Penelope, her eleven year-old ward, stomped towards her, her white skirts bunched in her hands, broad velvet sash around her middle.

  "Have you been behaving yourself?" Aldora asked, taking a moment to compose herself, hands flying lightly to her hair.

  "I'm being a Lady," Penny said. "I was wondering if we might go visit Kalil tomorrow."

  "Your friend. He lives across the bay, in Stamboul?"

  Penny nodded. "Yes, in the Aksaray neighbourhood. I know the way. I can show you."

  "Perhaps," Aldora said. "I would like to see more of the city."

  "Kalil and I can serve as your guides," Penny said. "Father and I visited the city often."

  The girl's smile faded slightly, and she turned to overlook the city alongside her guardian.

  "I miss Father."

  "I know you do, dear." Aldora slipped an arm around the girl's shoulder. "I miss him as well. Henry... he was one of the finest men I've had the pleasure of knowing."

  Taking care of Henry Robinson's daughter was the only way she could make things right with herself. She'd arrived too late to save him from the Spanish madman who'd taken his life in the jungles of Mexico, but she had rescued the girl. Adopting her was the closest she would get to reconciliation with the girl's father. It would have to be enough.