Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology

by Jay Barnson

  “May I come in and take a look?”

  He shook his head. “They are really strict about the rules now, miss. How long ago did you work for the telegraph?”

  “Until just last week. They are installing the new machine in my office, and I decided to move on. I came here to be closer to family. My cousin is getting married on Sunday.”

  “Oh! Are you Grace Anderson's cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  He motioned just past Winnie's shoulder. “It looks like she's here for you.”

  Winnie turned. Grace hastened onto the train platform as quickly as decorum and her shoes would allow. As teenagers, Grace had been a tomboy, more so than Winnie. A redhead given to wearing boy's shirts and overalls, the younger Grace wouldn't have cared who saw her barefoot in a flat-out run. Now she wore a dress and carried a parasol.

  Winnie bid the telegraph operator a hasty farewell, and crossed to meet her cousin. She embraced her old playmate with sincere pleasure and a wide smile.

  “Winnie, it's wonderful to see you,” said Grace. “Mama is so glad to have you stay with us.” She motioned to Winnie's carpetbag. “Where's the rest of your luggage?”

  “This is it,” Winnie admitted, suddenly self-conscious. “I sold everything I could before I left. I'm starting fresh.” The last was a bit of fiction she told herself when she discovered that her room full of books, slicks, and odd mechanical tinkering projects—her life for three years—wouldn't sell for much more than the price of her train ticket.

  “I just realized that it was time to . . .” Winnie hesitated, realizing she was invoking her late mother's words, but couldn't come up with a better way of phrasing it. “To settle down, I suppose.”

  Grace cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Is that so? It's funny. I didn't think that would ever happen when we were girls. As I recall, you were never happy unless you were getting us both into trouble.”

  “As I recall, you had few objections.”

  “None at all. I wouldn't trade those times for the world! Mama used to call you an 'instigator.' You pulled everyone around you into your adventures.” Before Winnie could protest, Grace added, “But now I'm pulling you into mine. I can't tell you how happy I am to have you here for the wedding. And if you want to settle down, Mama is already making preparations for you.”

  They started down the road into town. Before losing sight of the railroad station, Winnie glanced over her shoulder. The slack-jawed young man sitting on the bench had not changed his expression, but he'd turned to stare after the two of them. Winnie looked away.

  As they made their way into town towards Grace's family's home, they caught up on family events, and Grace listed some of the people in town that Winnie should meet—mostly eligible bachelors. Winnie found herself only half paying attention, preoccupied by the memory of the disturbing stare.

  Winnie asked, “Did you notice that young man sitting by the telegraph office?”

  “Oh, that's just Joshua Sayre. Don't worry about him. He's harmless.”

  “Harmless?”

  “He's not altogether right in the head, as Mama likes to say. He's been dumb since birth. Can’t speak a word. Poor kid. I don't think he understands what is going on most of the time. One of God's special children, Mama says.”

  “Why is he at the train station?”

  “I think he goes there every day. I don't know why. I suppose he is happy there, and he doesn't make trouble.”

  The following evening, the town square gleamed with lanterns and strings of electric lights donated by none other than Francesco De Falco himself. Winnie had read about the eccentric inventor in her slicks and papers back in New Jersey, and had hoped to meet him someday.

  Aunt Emily had delegated much of the wedding preparations that morning to other family members so that she could personally attend to Winnie's meager wardrobe, which was entirely ill-suited for such an event.

  That evening, Emily launched a personal crusade to ensure Winnie was properly introduced to Carlton “society.” For her part, Winnie was more curious about the provider of the electric lights. Between introductions to various older couples in town—all of whom, Winnie discovered, had single sons of marriageable age and decent employment—Winnie asked Emily if De Falco was in attendance.

  “Mr. De Falco? Oh, no,” Emily answered. “He doesn't come to anything like this. Not since his sweet wife died last year.” Without so much as a suspicious glance at Winnie, she added, “Isabella had the patience of a saint, I think, and I doubt he'll find another woman willing to put up with his lack of attention to family matters.”

  Winnie flushed. “I didn't know he was a widower. I was just curious. I've read about him.”

  Winnie couldn’t remember reading anything about De Falco’s family. She’d never thought of the people written about in the slicks as real people, with families and neighbors and personal calamities.

  “I understand the papers haven't been too kind to him since Isabella died. But I don't think he's grown as mad as they say.”

  “Mad?” The slicks she'd read may have been a little out of date, and described him as eccentric, but she'd never thought of him as insane.

  Emily didn't answer. Instead, she gently propelled Winnie into another dance.

  Three dances later, Winnie made her way to the edge of the crowd to get some fresh air and gather her thoughts. The social attentions were getting a little overpowering, and her feet were starting to hurt. It had been a long time since she'd been to a dance.

  Just as she thought she'd made a clean escape, Grace appeared at her side. “You aren't leaving, are you?”

  Winnie shook her head. “No, just taking a little rest is all.”

  “Good. I'll rest with you so you don't get lost.” Grace grinned. Her fiancé, the only veterinary doctor in the area, had been making a last round of visits to ranches all week and wouldn't return to town until the next morning. Grace had been restless all evening, as a result, and eager for the chance to spend time alone with her cousin.

  A small commotion nearby interrupted them. Investigating, they found three large boys surrounding Joshua, the mute Winnie had seen at the train station. The biggest of the three, probably sixteen years old, demanded, “Why'd you steal them, huh? Why are you stealing from the party, dummy-boy? Say something!”

  Joshua's expression was hard to read, but he was clearly frightened. His right hand nervously tapped the side of his patched trousers.

  “Clem! What's going on here?” Grace demanded of the ringleader.

  Clem said, “Buddy caught Joshua stealing lights from the party! We were just making him fess up and return 'em!”

  “Wait! Slow down!” said Winnie. She ignored the three boys, focusing her attention on Joshua.

  “That's all! We weren't gonna hurt him or nothing, just make him give the lights back!” the youth demanded.

  Grace said, “That would be a job for his uncle or for the sheriff now, wouldn't you think? You know good and well that he can't fess up to anything. Clem, what would your daddy say if he heard you were bullying Joshua here? Or that you had that flask in your back pocket?”

  Too late, Clem tried to hide the flask. “Aw, he wouldn't care,” he said with the casual urgency of someone who knew his father would care very much.

  “You don't think so?” Grace asked. “Good. I think I saw him at the dance. Let's find out, shall we? That, or you boys make yourself scarce in the next five seconds.”

  The youths exchanged glances and ran away.

  While Grace glared after the retreating trio, Winnie focused on Joshua. “Did they hurt you?”

  Joshua said nothing, but continued tapping his side with his hand.

  “Why did you take the lights, anyway?” she asked.

  “It won't do any good, Winnie,” said Grace. “Joshua is as dumb as a fence post.”

  Winnie ignored Grace. “Really?” she asked. “I think I'd like to see it.”

  “See what?” asked Grace. “What are you ta
lking about?”

  Winnie smiled. “Grace, have you seen Mr. Sayre tap his side like that before?”

  It took Grace a moment to realize “Mr. Sayre” meant Joshua. “Sometimes. I'm told it's a nervous habit of his.”

  “No, it's not. That's Morse code. He says he's got something very important that he wants to show us.”

  Grace was dumbfounded.

  “It would be highly improper for me to go alone with Mr. Sayre this evening, Grace.”

  Grace sighed. “You ain't been in town two days before you go dragging me back into adventures. You got me saying 'ain't' again, too!”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Grace smirked. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

  Grace and Winnie followed Joshua along a little-used road, surrounded on both sides by tall trees. Joshua produced a tubular device, nine inches long and wrapped in wire, with a small crank on one end, and three lights—the ones he'd taken from the dance—on the other. He wound the crank several times to wind an internal spring, and then pressed a switch on the device. The lights glowed and illuminated their path almost as well as an oil lamp. When Winnie asked where he came by such a device, he responded through taps against his leg.

  “Illuminator. Made it. Tired of forgetting oil.” Winnie translated the comment to Grace, who was still wide-eyed at Joshua's abilities.

  “So . . . how can he . . . ?” Grace began.

  “You can ask him. He can hear you just fine,” said Winnie.

  “I'm sorry. Mr. Sayre, why can't you speak?”

  Joshua responded, “Don't know. Just can't. Nothing comes but noise. Don't like how it sounds. Pa said my brain don’t work right.”

  They came to a gulley, where a shack sat nestled among trees, just above a brook. The moonlight seemed brighter here, but it was still no place Winnie would like to find herself alone.

  “Was Pa's workshop. Worked with wood,” Joshua drummed out on his leg as they grew close to the shack. “Uncle ignores it. I stay here a lot.”

  “Aren't you afraid?” asked Winnie.

  “Of what?” Joshua asked in return.

  “Animals? People?”

  “Sometimes.” Joshua opened the door and entered, setting his illuminator down on a workbench, and fumbled for matchsticks to light an oil lamp.

  The two women stepped just inside the doorway, unable to see much in the shadowed reflections from Joshua's device.

  “Winnie,” Grace said, “I do believe this is the liveliest I've seen you in two days. A dance and a number of interested young men didn't excite you, but an old shack in the middle of . . .” she trailed off as the lamp lit the room.

  Strange devices filled Joshua's workshop, most of them manufactured from converted junk: magnificent constructions of gears, chains, pistons, and cranks. Most may have been nonfunctional works of art for all Winnie knew, but they were beautiful in their complexity and obvious passion.

  An object that resembled a winged kite hung from the ceiling, carrying a gondola like an airship. A telegraph sounder with printing apparatus, constructed by whatever means and parts Joshua had available, sat on a workbench. It showed signs of frequent use.

  Diagrams and paper tapes of Morse code printouts were tacked to the walls, and Joshua had written many notes on them by hand. Winnie observed that most of the hand-written annotations used dots and dashes rather than the English alphabet.

  Joshua Sayre thought in code.

  “Mr. Sayre,” she asked. “What were you doing by the telegraph office yesterday morning, when my train came in?”

  “There every day. Listen to messages.”

  “Can you understand them?”

  “Yes. Too fast at first. Understand now. Why I need your help.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Winnie.

  “You know code. You warn De Falco. He won’t believe me. You speak and convince him.”

  “You mean Francesco De Falco? Convince him of what?”

  In answer, Joshua pointed to a series of printouts on the wall, dots and dashes annotated with dates. The earliest was dated just over two and a half months ago. Joshua had circled the third and ninth word of each listing. The circled words strung together formed an ominous series of messages:

  CONTINUE SERVICE NEED PROTOTYPES AND PLANS AWAIT AIRSHIP ARRIVAL CARLTON JUNE

  AIRSHIP DISPATCHED FROM CALCUTTA ESTIMATE FIVE WEEKS ARRIVAL BE READY FAST TRANSPORT NEEDED OBJECTS

  ENGINEERS READY TO DUPLICATE NEED OBJECTS AND DRAWINGS

  FALCON OPTIONAL CAN ELIMINATE OR CAPTURE YOUR DISCRETION

  NO PREFERENCE USE DISCRETION

  CONFIRMED AIRSHIP IN CALIFORNIA ARRIVAL TWO WEEKS

  AIRSHIP ON SCHEDULE WAIT FOR CONFIRMATION

  FIVE DAYS

  TWO DAYS

  These words were encased within a number of short messages like, “DO NOT ELIMINATE POSSIBILITY OF VISIT IN SEPTEMBER OR OCTOBER” and “PHOTOGRAPHER WILL CAPTURE WEDNESDAY EVENT WILL SEND COPY YOUR ADDRESS.”

  The last transcript was dated the previous day.

  “Mr. Sayre,” Winnie asked, “how did you get these transcripts?”

  Joshua pointed to the telegraphy device on the bench—a writer that would print out a tape of an operator's code. It was no faster than drawing the dots and dashes by hand, but would be more precise. To Joshua's hand, it would be far more natural.

  “You transcribed these from memory?”

  Joshua nodded. “Remember most messages perfectly,” he explained through his taps.

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  In response, Joshua began tapping out a message. His rhythm slowed and his taps grew more crisp. In this more formal and deliberate “voice,” Joshua tapped out the message:

  CANT WAIT TO SEE FAMILY AGAIN. LOOKING FORWARD TO WEDDING. WILL ARRIVE THURSDAY TRAIN AT ELEVEN IN MORNING

  Winnie looked aghast. “What's wrong?” Grace asked. She hadn't been included on Joshua's side of the conversation for several minutes.

  “He just repeated the telegram I sent you last Friday. Exactly.”

  “Why?”

  “So I'd believe him when he told me he copied all of these messages on the wall exactly as he heard them.”

  Winnie looked back to Joshua. “Who sent these? To whom are they addressed?”

  “From India to Mister Stone. He moved here January.”

  Winnie repeated Joshua's response and briefly explained the meaning of the messages. “The circled words suggest a plot to steal some property, kidnap or kill the owner, and escape in an airship back to India.”

  “All this was sent from India?” Grace asked, “Can they do that?”

  Winnie nodded. “They would be expensive but easy. The East India Trading Company just laid two new Pacific cables last year.”

  Grace looked at her strangely. Winnie laughed. “It was big news in my profession.” She turned back to Joshua. “Does Mr. Stone send out any cablegrams? I'd be reassured if I saw the other half of this conversation.”

  Joshua tapped, “Can’t hear outgoing messages.”

  Winnie nodded. “Right, it only sounds the incoming messages, and operators don't key in the messages by hand on the new equipment. You believe 'Falcon' refers to Mr. De Falco, because the messages mention prototypes and designs. Do you have any proof?”

  “De Falco hired Stone one hundred ten days ago. First message seventy-nine days ago.” He made a noise from his mouth, the first they’d heard, which sounded somewhere between a moan and a yawn. While unpleasant, Winnie took it as an exclamation of confidence.

  “Was there a message for him today?”

  Joshua again slowed his rhythm to a deliberate, formal pace, and repeated the message:

  HAPPY TO CONFIRM DECEMBER WEDDING YOUR SISTER ACCEPTED ENGAGEMENT

  Winnie mentally counted the words, and said, “Confirm engagement.”

  “What does that mean?” asked Grace.

  “It means that if Mr. Sayre is right, Mr. Stone will kill or kidnap Mr. De Falco
and steal his research sometime in the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Why would he believe us, Winnie? Shouldn't we talk to the sheriff instead?”

  “Do you think the sheriff will believe us?”

  Grace shook her head. “I'm not sure I believe us.”

  “But if Mr. Sayre is right . . . ?”

  The two women looked at each other. The familiar scheming grin broke on both of their faces simultaneously. The decision had been made.

  “Mr. Sayre,” Winnie announced, “we must make the acquaintance of Mr. De Falco immediately. Would you be so kind as to gather your transcripts and guide us to him?”

  Winnie's disappointment grew as they drew close to the De Falco Electrical Works. While the laboratory was the largest building in town, and she'd realized that Mr. De Falco was not in the same league as Mr. Thomas Edison, the building was still much smaller than it had seemed in photographs. Was it possible that the slicks had not just exaggerated the enterprise, but the man himself?

  Francesco De Falco lived in a modest brick hall-and-parlor house on the side of the laboratory. As they approached the door to his home, Winnie realized that she had no idea what to say to the man she'd read so much about. She hesitated at the door, knuckles raised and ready to knock, and looked to her two companions for inspiration. Joshua's face was blank, as usual. Grace returned Winnie’s look with wide eyes and a shrug. Hoping something would come to her, Winnie knocked.

  The man who opened the door was only somewhat recognizable from his pictures in the papers. Winnie knew he was only ten years her senior, but hints of gray streaked his unruly black hair. His goatee and mustache, also in need of a barber’s blade, were decorated by breadcrumbs that had taken nest during his dinner. He stood in bare feet and an unbuttoned vest.

  As he looked over the two women in their dance clothes, it was unclear which side was more surprised by the others' appearance.

  “I'm terribly sorry,” he said, his southern drawl not completely masking his Italian accent. “Did I forget I was receiving visitors this evening?”