Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology

by Jay Barnson

  Marina took them from him, genuinely touched at the gesture. The leather was waterlogged and one of the lenses severely cracked, but none of that mattered to her now. Despite the gesture, she hesitated. “I’m still not—”

  “Also, they managed to scavenge up quite a bit of your ship!” His over-enthusiasm was amusing. “It’s outside. Once you’re up to it, you should take a look.”

  Marina sighed loudly. “You’re trying very hard to get me to agree to this.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  She bit her lip as she paused a moment to think. “I will escort you to France,” she began slowly. “You will check in with your grandparents so there’s no blame on me. After that . . .” She shrugged. “I guess I can’t control you.”

  The gratitude that filled his eyes was almost comical. “Marina, you are a hero.”

  “I’m going to lose my biggest client,” she muttered amidst his celebrating.

  “You won’t because no one will know.” Roy grabbed her hand, and she didn’t have the strength to bat him away. “And because I already told my father everything about how much of a genius you are. He has plans for you.”

  Marina raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Engineers are valuable. Maybe not in Australia particularly, but I know England houses some of the best universities.”

  Marina slowly shook her head. “If your father is offering me a job, I have to decline. I much prefer working for myself.” Never mind that she no longer had a ship.

  “Not a job. An investment! A scholarship, per say, to a British university.”

  “I don’t speak English, Roy.”

  “But you could learn. Just stop being stubborn for one minute of your life and think about it.”

  And Marina did, pondering the idea in her mind before answering with carefully chosen words. “Larissa thought I was always running away. Maybe she was right. But no more.” She paused before continuing. “She always talks about leaving Russia. Maybe this is our opportunity.”

  Before Roy could misunderstand her, she added, “I’m not saying yes. I need time to think about this.”

  Roy pulled back. “Of course, of course.” He happened to glance at the table. “You can keep the dagger, by the way.”

  “It’s a bit morbid.” She stopped herself when something suddenly occurred to her. “What is the date?” Roy told her. Marina smiled gently. “Today’s Larissa’s birthday.” She looked over at the dagger once more. “I know what to do with that.”

  When she finally had the strength to look, Marina’s heart nearly broke at the shattered remains of her ship. What remained was useless, at her first glance, nothing but burnt wooden wreckage.

  A particular piece caught her attention, however, and her heart nearly stopped when she realized what she was looking at—the steering mechanism, with all the accessories still attached. As she inspected it with disbelieving eyes and a wandering metal hand, Marina realized that it was still fully intact, and, with a bit of refurbishment, could easily be reused.

  That piece had been her father’s great gift to her, his way of validating her use to him, reminding her that she was capable of so much more than her disability. It had been the very foundation of their designs, the core, the very heart of the machine. And here it was back again.

  A faint smile tugged at Marina’s lips. The Zeppelin could be rebuilt; the most important piece, and her the sum of her father’s work, remained. His legacy would continue through her.

  Roy’s offer burned in Marina’s mind for the duration of the journey home. To work as an engineer for his father, the possible opportunity of attending a university . . . It was nearly overwhelming to take in. She needed time, she had told him as they parted. There was work to be done—fixing the airship was of paramount importance to her—but she insisted that she would be in touch soon.

  Perhaps they would agree to pay for schooling for Larissa. That would certainly sway her decision.

  The surrealism of the moment flooded Marina’s mind as she stood before the door of her home in the middle of the chilled night. With an amount of hesitation that surprised even her, she unlocked the door and entered the dark, single room. As her eyes adjusted, she immediately spotted Larissa sleeping in her bed. Marina smiled gently as she approached her and knelt, placing her hand on her sister’s shoulder. She spoke. “Larissa? Larissa, wake up.”

  With heavy blinks, Larissa stirred into wakefulness, but her eyes widened with joy when she saw Marina. She surged up and nearly jumped into Marina’s arms. “I missed you.”

  “I know, I know. I missed you, too.” Marina’s grip instinctively tightened when she heard Larissa sniff loudly, knowing well it was the first sign of her tearing up. “You can cry, milakha.”

  And she did. Larissa crumbled into Marina’s arms, eventually managing a single, coherent phrase through her sobbing. “You came back?”

  “I promised you, didn’t I?” Marina began stroking her sister’s dark hair, so much like her own. “Don’t ever forget that you’re the most important thing to me.”

  Larissa’s grip on her tightened. “I missed you.”

  “I know,” Marina replied, pulling back and removing a wrapped, brown package from her bag and setting it on the bed. With a tenderness known only between the two of them, Marina wiped the tears from her sister’s eyes and kissed her forehead. “Quiet your tears, my angel. I have quite the story for you.”

  “Inspector Roux, there has been a kidnapping.”

  Marcel Roux’s heart would once have raced at the words: a kidnapping! Immediately his keen mind would have gone to work, investigating, interviewing, uncovering, and rescuing. He had been the première specialist of Paris—of Europe.

  No longer.

  “I am sorry to hear it,” he replied in defeat. His hoarse voice sounded only vaguely like his own. He did not even look at the stranger at the door and looked instead out of the window of his invalid hospital room at the smoke-clouded rooftops of his beloved Paris.

  “Sir, we need your expertise.”

  “Monsieur, I need it far more than anyone, so if you can locate it back on the streets of Aÿ-Champagne, do feel free to return it to me.”

  “Ah.” The visitor moved from the doorway to the foot of Marcel’s bed. “I was told there had been an accident in Champagne, but no one claimed that the famed Marcel Roux had lost his expertise there. The whole of inspectors everywhere might have rushed to the scene to discover it for themselves.”

  “You are too kind, though misinformed.” Marcel turned his face into the light to look at the stranger to make his point.

  Yet his guest seemed unfazed by the appearance of his scarred face, or by the clouded eye or the missing fingers of his right hand. If that was not enough to dissuade the youthful gentleman, then Marcel Roux could not demonstrate the rest, for his legs no longer obeyed the command to rise and walk.

  “What is your name, Monsieur?”

  “Junior Inspector Clement Noël, sir.” The young man saluted with eager haste. Everything about him proclaimed him green: the freshly tailored police inspector’s uniform, the spotless leather boots, the pristine hat. The boy so crowded the tiny room that Roux was curious as to who had encouraged him into police inspecting rather than the brute squad.

  “Inspector Noël, as you must clearly see, I am of no use to you.”

  “That is not what I am told by countless others. Will you not even hear the details of the case and advise me in what direction I should take?”

  “Fine.” Marcel gave in only to get it over with. It was a mistake to entertain even the slightest notion that he could any longer be helpful to any cause, let alone a kidnapping. “I will hear it.”

  “The wife of a prestigious Frenchmen—who must remain anonymous for the sake of the remainder of his family’s safety; we shall call him Monsieur M—was taken from Parc Montsouris as she walked with her child, who was also taken.

  “It happened this morning in broad daylight. There are t
wo witnesses, but they have given us completely different stories. The only physical evidence we have are the baby’s pousette, which we have left untouched at the park, awaiting your perusal of the scene.”

  “My . . . my perusal of the scene?” Roux gasped at the audacity of the junior inspector. “I cannot stand. I can barely see. My hand is useless.”

  “Monsieur, it is your brain we need. The rest of you, well . . . There is a man who specializes in chairs that can move themselves. You could sit in that chair as well as you could sit here.”

  “I could not afford it.”

  “Monsieur M has very deep pockets. He specifically said he must have you and no one else. So if he must have you, you must have that chair. We could pick one up on our way to the scene. What say you, Monsieur?”

  There had been a handful of defining moments in Marcel Roux’s life: his graduation from the academy, his marriage to the elegant Zelie Guerin, and the birth of their baby boy, Maximilien, just over three years ago.

  The accident had taken everything from him.

  Now this bumbling junior inspector was standing there pretending he might be of some use again.

  “No,” he said with firm resolve, and turned his face away.

  Noël ignored his answer. “Let me read to you this letter from our patron before you decide.” Marcel closed his eyes, but he could not shut out the words:

  “Monsieur Roux, I am most desperate to bring my family together again. We have lived in such love as has not been known but for a lucky few. To lose my family is a burden I cannot bear much longer. Do please choose to help me if you can. I will reward you handsomely in the end. Thank you for your attention. Monsieur M.” Junior Inspector Noël folded the letter and put it away in his coat. “This is truly a desperate situation, Inspector Roux, and they have only asked you for the smallest aid.”

  “Smallest indeed,” Roux scoffed, but he was already starting to wonder about Monsieur M. The letter had offered no specific clues but to the happiness of the couple with their young child. Who did he know in a position of such prestige that they did not dare be named and who also had a wife and babe? M Montrose? M Mercier? M Michaud . . . ?

  Noël interrupted his thoughts. “Will you take the case, Inspector?”

  “Clearly I must.” He gave in only for the money, to have something to leave his once beloved Zelie and little Max.

  Dearest Zelie. He barely remembered sending her away. There had been angry words—all his. He’d promised her divorce, a chance at a full life instead of this nothing he now lived.

  He owed her still. After ten years of putting up with him and having a daughter lost at birth, but now a healthy son to raise, she had given him so much. She deserved so much more than the mere money he might be able to send.

  “I will need . . . a servant,” he admitted with chagrin. “To attend to my needs.”

  “Is that not what junior inspectors are for?” Noël had come prepared, and set a parcel on the bed. He opened it to reveal a new inspector’s uniform, down to the shoes.

  “But—?”

  “Compliments of the Commissaire Divisionnaire,” Noël replied. “Who has also hoped you might be willing to accept this particular case.”

  “Very well,” Roux sighed. The hospital nurse had earlier insisted on giving Marcel a bath, so he was comfortable putting on the new uniform with the extensive help of the eager-to-please junior inspector. “I see now you were never intending to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “On the contrary, Monsieur.” Noël buttoned Marcel’s coat, then set the inspector’s hat on his head. “I was never expecting the legendary Inspector Roux to turn down a case involving a child. It is your own reputation you must thank for all this.”

  There was something disconcerting about being lifted by another man as easily as he might have lifted his own child, but Noël lifted him out of bed and carried him into the hallway.

  Nurses and other hospital patients lined the hall. It was a parade he’d neither asked for nor felt he deserved. One old fellow even clapped as he passed by.

  “It’s Monsieur Roux, the greatest inspector of our time!” The old man’s slurred speech and crippled body—all making such an effort in his behalf—touched Marcel deeply.

  “I used to be,” he conceded, though only after they had passed.

  “That’s a good enough place to start.” Clement Noël carried him through the double-doored exit and Roux had to put up a hand to shield himself until his one good eye could adjust to the sunlight.

  Parc Montsouris was going to be a difficult place for him to focus on a case, the inspector realized. It had been a favorite spot for he and Zelie to bring little Max. Not only did that make the case feel a little too close to home, but to see other happy couples and their happy children darkened his mood as Junior Inspector Noël guided him across the grass.

  Marcel already despised the steam-driven chair that Noël had stopped to purchase along the way. True, it was an extraordinary feat of science, but it was also a monstrosity. There was nothing of demure about it as it hissed and rattled its way forward.

  “You could guide the chair by yourself, you know. That’s what that little box by your left hand is for,” Noël offered. “It would take no time at all to show you how.”

  “No time at all is still time wasted,” Marcel muttered as he set his eyes on the very spot near the lake where he had proposed to Zelie on one knee.

  He couldn’t even bend that knee now.

  The crime scene was a simple one. The pousette—a fancy steam-driven stroller only to be afforded by the wealthiest citizens of Paris—sat alone and empty in the dry grass beside the cobblestone trail.

  Two sets of patrolmen flanked the scene, still interviewing the two witnesses. Roux wanted to see the scene first without their input. He requested Junior Inspector Noël park his chair on the edge of the graveled walk to have a long look.

  “Hold on a moment, Monsieur.” He put up a hand to keep Noël from eagerly plowing forward, but then sighed. “No, never mind. The police have unfortunately already trampled the grass around the pousette.”

  Noël took that as permission to approach the scene. Roux watched the young man look around and inside the pousette without nearly enough care.

  “Look at that, the villains. They left the child’s blanket behind,” Noël lamented. Roux wanted a closer look. He tried to turn the wheels of his chair with his hands before remembering the little chair guiding-box. He pressed the button and the mechanisms of the chair hissed and jolted as the entire contraption moved forward with a lurch.

  Too late, he realized that he didn’t know how to stop it.

  Fortunately, Noël was quick on his feet and stopped the chair just before it struck the pousette and ruined the crime scene.

  “Go button on top, stop button in front.” Noël smiled. “Reverse over here on the outside . . . and barely any time wasted.”

  “Merci, Inspector Noël.” Roux was shaking, trying to pay attention. The fear of embarrassing himself in front of strangers and officers who knew of him enough to recommend him was one he had not expected to be feeling today.

  Marcel pulled himself together and looked into the pousette. He picked up the soft yellow blanket and forced away the depth of concern he immediately felt for his own little boy. He needed to focus on the case in front of him, not be constantly distracted by the past. Beneath the yellow blanket, a silver cup had been left behind.

  “So clearly not a robbery gone wrong.” He frowned and continued to investigate. A tiny decorative purse hung from the handle of the pousette. He collected it carefully and then struggled to open it with the stumps of his lost fingers and his weak left hand, until Noël reached down wordlessly and opened it for him.

  Left handed, he drew out the contents of the purse onto his own handkerchief. There was a key tied to a long ribbon, a torn opera ticket, and some small change, so again, definitely not a robbery gone wrong.

  He took a closer look at
the key. There were no markings that he could use to determine its origin as he had sometimes seen in past cases. The ticket no longer bore the name of the opera as that portion had been torn off, but it was dated from the previous season, so perhaps merely a keepsake.

  “Should we keep the key?” Noël asked. His inexperience was showing.

  “It belonged to the victim, not the kidnapper. It’s more than likely irrelevant.”

  “More than likely irrelevant or completely irrelevant?” Noël frowned.

  Marcel sighed. The boy was making him doubt himself.

  “Fine.” He offered the key-on-a-string to the junior inspector, who turned around and put it over Marcel’s head as a necklace, rather than his own.

  “For safe keeping.” Noël shrugged at the glare Marcel gave him. The boy seemed to forget, perhaps purposefully, that Marcel wasn’t going to be involved in this case for much longer. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I tend to lose small things.”

  “Of course you do. Let me meet the witnesses,” Inspector Roux replied impatiently. Rather than attempting to move the chair again, he waited for them to be brought to him one at a time.

  The first was a young man dressed in ragged, filthy clothes.

  “Two men came from the direction of the lake, riding a tandem bicycle.” The fellow’s voice trembled. “When suddenly they stopped, grabbed the woman and her baby, and rode away with her fighting and kicking.”

  “You just stood there and watched?” Roux frowned.

  “Well, sir . . . the bicycle sprouted wings and flew off up into the clouds. There wasn’t nothing I could do.”

  Marcel blinked. The story had gone from believable to outlandish, though not impossible in that day and age. He had only to touch his chair to remind himself of advances in steam technology. The young man seemed sincere and worried. The way he fingered the rim of his hat in his hands spoke plainly of humility or perhaps nervousness.

  “Merci beaucoup.” Marcel nodded and Noël escorted the young fellow away.