* * * * *
Douglas' strangled cry never made it past his throat. He awoke, and succumbed once more to darkness, a powerful blow driving him back into the depths of shadow.
He awoke again and gagged, the bile rising in his throat. A rag constricted his mouth, and his limbs wouldn't move.
A living terror stood nearby, and with the momentary illuminating flash of lightning, the spirit knelt down to stare his prisoner in the eyes. Horrendous burns interlaced his face; the charred flesh that clung to the bone like a tired garment twitched uncontrollably, and the seared, blackened hand that turned the trembling captain's face was missing an index finger.
Douglas lost his control and retched, the bile trapped in his mouth by the gag.
"Choke on it; breath it in. Smell the stench of your imperialistic hedonism," cackled the looming monster. Douglas looked down with further horror; he was gagged with the flag of his old regiment, a dishonor beyond words. The captain glanced up at the destroyed face, and the other man saw recognition in his captive's terrified eyes.
"Oh yes. You do remember me now. You remember the little bug, the Beetle that served you tea and warmed your bath and set your home to rights. You recall the man who slaved for you."
"I... I didn't-" the muffled voice was cut off altogether as the Beetle yanked harder on the colors. Douglas gagged, his bound hands straining towards his enflamed throat.
"You didn't remember, but you do now." The little man darted along, dragging the captain backwards as he went further into the cabin. He threw the wretched prisoner against the rain-spattered window, holding him there with one, powerfully built arm. With the other, he smashed open the glass, crystal shards plummeting into the distant night.
"Oh yes, Douglas. You know me. You have known me forever, and you've buried me in the darkest recesses of your mind, but I still exist. I still breathe." The shade leaned his victim through the broken glass, Douglas' quivering frame extended into the wind. A single torn flag, wrapped around Douglas' mouth and held by his attacker's fist, was the only thing that kept the captain from sailing into the darkness below. The jagged edges along the window cut deep into the man's skin, and the wind burst through his mind like a cascade of water onto a drowning swimmer, but he couldn't scream.
"Douglas, you know your Beetle. You've watched him crawl along the ground as your men tortured him. You've watched him struggle, his spidery legs thrashing as they raped his wife. As you raped his wife when they were through. You listened for the distinctive 'pop' that comes when a bug is thrown into a fire; you stared as the Beetle burned, as he thrashed in the smoking fire under India's skies. You've seen all these things."
Douglas was crying now. Whether from remorse or animal terror, the tears flew into the wind, mingling with the raindrops. The Beetle loomed over him still, his hands twitching as if he longed to release his victim, to see him plummet downwards.
"Maybe you've waited. Maybe you've paused and thought of your Beetle as the days went along. Maybe, you've even felt some guilt as you commanded your pompous airship. Maybe."
Douglas nodded his head furiously, the water flying off his hair. The captain's whole body shook with his acquiescence.
The Beetle grinned, an animal-like smile in the night. "I've waited too. I waited, and I planned. And I followed you. I traced your devil's path across continents, across decades. I've waited long, Douglas; I've waited so very long. But sahib, you've been waiting too. You've been here, and although you didn't know it, I followed, and I was coming."
The man paused, his grin widening. "And now, your wait is over." The Indian withdrew a small knife from his belt. He paused for the lightning's strike, a speck of rain dripping through the burned grooves along his face. He paused, the flash illuminated the animal grin, and the wait was over.
A Means to Produce
The heat and stench of an impoverished city wafted up from Calcutta as the airship, Questionable, came to its moorings. Now, the city was certainly not all poor. Indeed, British rule among the Raj had led to a burst of economic trading and the rise of a powerful middle class. However, these merchants were largely British and their prosperity was entirely absent from the lower classes that suffered the poverty of a capitalistic hegemony.
Little of these huddle masses drew the least bit of attention from the passengers and crew of the Questionable. Indeed, for fine society, indifference was often directed towards the poor. The Questionable was an airship designed for and operated by the wealthy. Several decades ago, it had been launched as an economic venture designed to exploit the new trade-lanes opening around the world. The rise of airships had certainly provided for some competition for the luxury liner, but what had first been labeled as a venture of "questionable" economic merit had managed to stay in business and even generate huge quantities of profit. Onboard the Questionable, various gambling halls, fine restaurants, entertaining theatrical shows, and viewing decks all invited the wealthy to enjoy travel by air.
So, as the Questionable lowered itself towards Calcutta's single airship dock, the peering, wealthy crowds at the observation decks were not looking for economic disparity. Rather, they were enjoying the tourism and new sights that were the Raj.
At least, most passengers remained interested in the sights.
A short, bearded little man shifted through the pressing crowds onboard the dirigible. The cramped spaces of the airship did not do well to ease his anxious nature, and he hoped to eventually find some peace, space, and an audience in India. Heaven knew he had waited long enough for such pleasures. Indeed, the torments of his political mind had ravaged him during the entire trip. He had booked passage aboard the Questionable only as a means to an end. Wealth, he despised. Or rather, he disliked the quality of wealth to remain with the wealthy. So, he did not join the passengers of the airship for a leisurely, expensive trip of sight-seeing. Rather, he bought passage for the expeditious reputation of the Questionable. Having to endure the haughty, uncaring nature of the upper-class passengers was simply an unavoidable, if pathetic, annoyance. So, the bearded man impatiently waited to be free of his numerous traveling companions.
"Karl!" a voice called from across the room. The bearded man looked up, shocked at hearing his name among the throng. "Karl!" the voice cried again. Finally, Karl located the caller and waited for the other man to approach him.
"Well, well! Good to see you out of your quarters once more," boomed the corpulent man as he reached Karl. For his part, Karl simply nodded. The other man had been a continual nuisance. But, a member of the upper classes, he felt himself to be wildly important, and as such, he attempted to shed his greatness upon others. In fact, the other man was a highly wealthy businessman; his trip to the Raj was both recreational and to check up on his many holdings in the area. The tycoon was responsible for one of the burgeoning chains of factories springing up in Calcutta. Continually jovial, Rupert Dunsworth was an unashamed Capitalist.
And Karl Marx hated him.
But, for the sake of appearing polite, he responded. "Indeed? I've been wandering the halls a bit these last few nights at least. Just because I-"
The big man cut him, interrupting as he was wont to do. "Well, all good there. Yes, I haven't had the best of sleep either. The damned jungle below made me anxious. Supposing we should be crashed; no one would live! I almost couldn't handle it, and my dear Priscilla nearly had a fit she was so scared. Do you imagine we'll be able to wander Calcutta soon?"
"Being as we've arrived, I'm sure they'll-"
"Right," interrupted Rupert again. "Certainly they will! No sense in keeping us all bottled up inside this airship. I will admit, though, that I've grown rather fond of the Questionable. She's sprightly and always gleaming. But you, Karl, you've been with us since England. What's your opinion of our little bird?"
Marx had indeed been traveling with the airship since the Questionable had docked in London. Shunned
in Prussia and exiled from France, the man had long ago adopted London as his home. Now, however, his wife Jenny had died, and his own health had started to fail. Doctors urged him to seek a warmer climate. And the author had desired nothing better than to escape the powerful grasp of Europe. While his works had gained some success, the revolutions he so longed for had failed. The lower classes had not banded together; divisions had led to complete failure of their attempted uprisings. So, if the oppressed workers of that continent would not listen to his theories and implement them correctly, perhaps other lands would. Thus, the airship's arrival in London was most welcome. Furthermore, getting a seat on the normally-overbooked dirigible was very fortuitous. Abandoning his pensive thoughts, Marx returned to Dunsworth. "It has been a long trip. Lengthy but certainly worth it. I'm excited to meet with the workers here and discuss-"
Yet again, he was cut off. "Oh don't start with that political rubbish again," exclaimed Rupert. "If I must endure one more minute of your so-called "means of production", I'll throw you over the side of the ship!" His tone was hurtful, but a smile played upon his lips. Marx valiantly tried to remain calm, but the irksome, barbaric hulk in front of him was too much to endure. "Very well," he said simply. "Good day."
For a split second, Marx registered shock on Rupert's face before the former turned and shuffled off through the crowd. The Questionable's debarking procedure was sure to take at least an hour more, and at present, Marx felt he could not endure unpleasant conversation. So, he escaped to his cramped quarters among the airship's residential corridors.
Ducking through the brass-lined doorway, he came to what had sufficed as an abode for the previous two months. Attempting to make the space more livable, the writer had hung tapestries of home. A German lake glistened amid a misty morning in one, while the smiling eyes of a mother beamed towards her little girl in another. Marx loved these poignant images of Prussia, and despite the cold reception his work had received there, he was still enamored with his homeland and its people. Plus, the tapestries were able to cover the room's mechanical appearance.
Ever since the industrialized, powerful nations of Europe had become enamored with steam-power, architecture and design had been radically shifted. Once, Marx had been able to see and love the curving angles of stone and the smooth polish of oiled wood. Now, however, metal was everywhere. Windows were lined with metal rivets; door handles were exclusively brass; furniture was always emblazoned with cogs. Essentially, the industrial world had come to dominate everything in society.
And there was the problem. In order to prosper in this new, modern world, countries must be industrialized. Gone were agrarian societies forever. And with the shift had come exploitation. What Dunsworth had been reluctant to hear was Marx's views on what he called the "means of production." Since the beginning of time, the wealthy had exploited their workers by owning the means to make money. Currently, it was the factories. The wealthy owned the factories, and the workers had to approach the wealthy for work. A simple equation, but it provided for a vicious cycle of abuse. However, Marx's ideas were radically different.
Instead of an upper-class-controlled economy, Marx hoped to establish a communal society in which everyone strived to help his brothers. However, his thoughts were not welcome in Europe; the wealthy had criticized him, and the poor had failed to rally around his goals. So, the theorist had found himself in India, looking for a new outlet, a new audience for change.
Angrily slapping the polished brass doorframe, Marx ardently desired that the new land would listen to him. Having read about the Raj's culture, customs, people, languages, and economy over the course of the entire trip, Marx knew what problems he was likely to encounter.
The Hindi society was, much like European culture, steeped in a hierarchy of power. Many of those at the bottom, born into their caste, refused to believe that they could advance. The gods had given them a lower status; if they lived their lives well, perhaps reincarnation would be kinder. Thus, little desire for advancement existed. For a political theorist devoted to the empowerment of the oppressed, the situation did not bode well. But, discontent was present as well. Nearly two decades previous, the great uprising of 1857 had been unleashed. While it failed and the malcontents had been brutally and effectively crushed, it was still telling. Could the Indian people rise again? Might a leader give them hope and bring about a new revolution?
Marx was willing to try. Having met with utter rejection in Europe, he was more than a little hopeful that his ideas would be accepted amid the jungles of the Raj. The crux of the matter would be to gain new converts to his theories. With the exploding industrialization of the colony, men were literally becoming enslaved to the wealthy by the hour. The Raj was full of factories seeking workers; shifts were lengthening, and some businessmen had even begun to run continual shifts. Once the day faded into night's shroud, new night-workers rushed in to continue the never-ending production. Textile production, furniture fabrication, and sawmill operations were common, and while highly lucrative for the owners, accidents from faulty machines and dangerous work environments were ghastly. Marx was determined to fix this as well.
All of these thoughts pooled and seeped through his sub-consciousness as the man lay down amidst the tangled sheets of his cot. The next few days promised to be a maelstrom of activity; he would sleep while the chance presented itself.
The Questionable Tales: A Steampunk Quintet Page 4