Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology

by Jay Barnson

“You are the one who keeps saying the patron can give me whatever I need.” Marcel winced. He really was taking advantage now, but he wanted to continue on the case and he was not going to travel by Zeppelin no matter what, so if they had to reach French Indochina in ten days, they needed to travel quickly.

  Noël just smiled and nodded.

  On the train back to Paris, Marcel once again couldn’t sleep. He too much enjoyed the use of his right hand. Opening and closing it, opening and closing it, over and over again until someone watching, who didn’t know better, might have thought he was a man possessed.

  He felt almost normal again until the inevitable moment that he didn’t. Junior Inspector Noël continued to help him take care of his physical needs. No more comments or questions.

  Marcel hadn’t done all that much to strengthen his upper body while in the hospital; he hadn’t cared enough. Now, with his new functioning right hand, he wanted to be able to do more for himself and he found he could—though his arms grew sore very quickly.

  It was worth it.

  Traveling to French Indochina would require more preparation and a few more changes of clothing. Wearing a French Inspector’s uniform on a train filled with foreign travelers had the potential to lead to more trouble than it was worth. With great trepidation, Marcel asked the junior inspector to stop by his home in Paris and retrieve what he needed. He wouldn’t go inside. He would just send in Noël.

  And if he caught a fleeting glimpse of Zelie or Max at the door, then that would be more than enough.

  However, when they arrived, they found his home was empty. Zelie had taken everything. He’d told her to and she’d done it.

  Why was he so surprised?

  “So, I guess we’re going shopping?” Noël shrugged. To take the absolute end of Marcel’s marriage with such nonchalance, clearly, the young man had never been in a committed relationship.

  “Just tell our patron I’ll pay him back for the personal items,” he sighed. “Most of my old clothes wouldn’t have fit anyway.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Hospital food was not really a priority for me,” he admitted. It sounded a little less mental that way. He just hadn’t felt like eating much of anything, not even food he’d once liked.

  “Then I’ll see that you eat well on the Trans-Siberian Express.”

  Marcel made no reply. It was pointless to argue with an eternal optimist.

  The Trans-Siberian Express was anything but relaxing. Perhaps it was the speed at which they traveled, but everyone seemed somewhat frenzied. Inspector Roux got away from it as soon as he could and retired to his small room and bed to think.

  It was one of the oddest cases he’d been on, and one of the simplest, so far. What kind of person was he dealing with who wanted smaller amounts of money than the usual payoff, then expected Marcel to deliver it personally, only to send him off on another journey to deliver still more money? He liked a good mental challenge, but thus far, all it seemed to be was a far-flung ransom drop.

  Though it would make it more difficult to track down the kidnapper with the money trail so spread out . . .

  So they were dealing with a smart criminal. A well-connected criminal.A criminal who knew Inspector Roux—or at least knew of him—and was willing to challenge him. A criminal who quite possibly wanted to get caught . . .

  He studied both notes written by the kidnapper—now translated into French by Inspector Noël—hoping to reveal more clues, but to no avail. The only clue, in fact, that it rendered was that Inspector Noël had not come from the typical background of the common police inspector. Marcel could get by in English, and knew a phrase or two in Spanish, but Moroccan and Vietnamese spoke of a more traveled history.

  “Have you ever been to French Indochina?” he asked the junior inspector when the boy showed up at his door some time later.

  “Oh, yes,” Noël replied as if the memory was a happy one. “My father was a military man, so we were stationed there for five years when I was quite young. I should have mentioned that before. I am somewhat versed in the language, and can even read a little, as you saw.”

  “Impressive.” Marcel could have been jealous of such an adventurous upbringing. His own had not been exotic in any way. “Where else have you lived?”

  “South America for a year, and Madagascar for two. I’ve never been to North America, however, and quite look forward to the opportunity at some point. How about yourself?”

  “I have only ever lived in France,” Marcel replied. “But I have traveled most of Europe on various cases. This will be the first time I’ve traveled to the Far East.”

  “Then I hope you’ll take the time to enjoy it,” Noël smiled. “And that’s not going to happen sitting here alone in your room. Come and meet the other passengers. It’s time for dinner.”

  “I am content to eat here.”

  “I know. You are the most content-to-be-alone man I’ve ever met, but come anyway. You can practice your investigative skills. I’ve already overheard one of the passengers is traveling with her husband’s urn to scatter his ashes in sixteen countries. I challenge you to pick her out among the crowd.”

  “I cannot imagine that would be difficult,” Marcel smirked. The challenge was placed before him. “But very well.”

  It had been a long time since Marcel had made conversation just for the sake of making conversation. It felt awkward to join one table full of strangers for dinner, and later another for a game of cards.

  The woman who was traveling with her husband’s urn proved to be no challenge at all to identify because she talked about it constantly. It was no stretch to guess that Noël had only issued the challenge to get him out the door.

  Inevitably, someone at the table would ask Marcel about his accident. His deformed hand, his scarred face, his clouded eyes, and especially his inability to walk intrigued them. Each time the story had to be told, it became a little easier to tell. The images burned into his memory frightened him a little less, until he began to see them as a man watching a silent film instead of reliving it.

  Noël was never far away when he found himself in need but kept a fair distance whenever a larger group was involved. Marcel hadn’t expected that Junior Inspector Noël had a shy bone is his oversized body, but perhaps the boy just didn’t like crowds.

  The former, uninjured version of Inspector Marcel Roux had always been energized by the people around him. The ability to engage so many people at once had been a part of his success and even his charm, according to Zelie. He could not come close to matching either in this current state, but at least he had been able to manage a decent conversation among strangers.

  Inspector Roux slept peacefully that night for the first time in ages, and the nights that followed as well.

  The biggest difference with riding an express, other than the increase in speed, Marcel soon realized, was the quality of the travel. He had ridden on trains that had been plagued by delay or breakdowns, or inconsistent track gauge requiring long waits, but this wasn’t so bad. It was a fair substitute for Zeppelin travel in his opinion, though the Zeppelin would have made straighter course and potentially halved the time spent.

  He didn’t care.

  As it was, all of Europe passed by in hours, and the more interesting parts of Russia were lost in the night. The scenery through the steppes was bleak the few times Marcel even dared look out the window at their nauseating speed. Now nearing the end of their journey, there was nothing but green. The trees flashed by so fast that the forests could hardly be viewed unless a wider vista opened up. For the most part he’d continued on as he had the entire trip, keeping the blinds drawn to keep from being ill.

  They arrived in Hanoi with an abrupt squeal as the train went from Express speed to full stop. Marcel adjusted right away to the change, but poor Noël had to take several deep breaths before he got used to standing still again.

  “Now to find our carriage.” Noël smiled, undaunted after he’d wheeled Marcel’s
chair down a ramp and gathered their luggage.

  “No rest for the weary,” Marcel sighed.

  “Not when one of us won’t take a Zeppelin.” Noël smirked, and left it at that.

  Their carriage took them to the Hanoi Opera house—a magnificent multistoried building of French design. In the approaching dark, the scaffolding that covered the upper towers gave the unfinished facade a gothic air, but crowds were entering, so it must have been open for business.

  Noël helped Inspector Roux exit the carriage and took him inside. They entered a box where there were a few other patrons but still plenty of room for Marcel’s chair.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “Watching an opera.” Noël grimaced at him like he should have known that. “This is the address where we’re supposed to meet our next payout. Sorry. Don’t you like opera?”

  “No. But my wife Zelie loved them. It was her dream for me to see one with her, so she scrimped and saved until she could afford the tickets. Unfortunately, I hated the entire experience, except for being able to watch her love the entire experience. I never told her that.”

  “I see.” Noël sat down in a chair next to him. “Who’d have guessed? A Frenchman who hates opera . . .”

  “This is the same opera!” Marcel laughed out loud before he realized that he was disturbing the overture. “This is the same opera I saw with Zelie last year in Paris.” He whispered this time. “It’s about a fellow named Bacchus and his girlfriend who dies and that’s all I could figure out.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Noël said with mild sarcasm.

  “Sorry.” Marcel turned to look at the stage.

  He didn’t hate it this time. He didn’t love it, but it reminded him so much of Zelie that it hurt. When the characters wept on the stage, he found himself weeping uncontrollably right along with them. Crying was something he hadn’t done enough of. It was something he needed to do, for the lives that had been lost. For the life he had lost.

  “Well, that was fascinating.” Noël clapped half-heartedly at the end of the final curtain call. “Not a fan of the ending.”

  “It was better the second time,” Marcel admitted. “Though I cannot see the stage as clearly, I understood the plot a little better.”

  “You cannot see clearly, Monsieur?” A Vietnamese native dressed to the nines and sitting in the box seats with them turned and bowed slightly. He wore an extensive eye contraption that might well have allowed him to count the individual freckles on the lead singer’s face. “Have you any desire to explore what could be done about it?”

  “It’s not the typical sort of vision problem.” Marcel frowned. “I lost the sight in my right eye an accident. It was burned.”

  “I thought as much.” The man bowed slightly again, perhaps not wanting to offend him by reminding him that he was scarred. “I specialize in eye wear and prosthetics, if you are interested.”

  “I couldn’t possibly . . .” He stopped talking and glanced up at Noël.

  “Yes, of course he is.” Noël smiled.

  “But we have to meet someone.”

  “It’s already done. A local came and went during the second act. I don’t think you noticed. You were so very absorbed in all the action.”

  Marcel was astonished by his own lack of vigilance. “Then we have another note . . .”

  “Yes, we do.” Noël handed him the paper.

  The words were in French, but written too small for him to read in the poor lighting. He sighed heavily in frustration. “It is too dark in here for me to read it.”

  “I can guarantee you perfect vision in both eyes.” The man bowed slightly again. “Will you not consider my offer?”

  Marcel gave in more easily this time. If it helped him to further help resolve this case then why not?

  They took another carriage ride to a business district. The sign on the shop door read in French: Dr. Bao Chiem, Premier Eye Specialist, so that at least helped to legitimize the whole affair. The first room was full of spectacles, both singular and double-lensed. Marcel was pretty sure none of those would work for an eye clouded by fire.

  The next room was where the prosthetics were kept. It was full of mechanical objects. Binoculars, telescopes—all built to extend a man’s natural ability to see—lined the shelves. As the craftsman began to show off his many wares, Marcel felt somewhat ungrateful.

  “I only want to be able to see,” he said. “Nothing fancy. Nothing even noticeable if that’s possible.”

  “Ah, a minimalist in a maximum-minded world. Fortunately for you, I am the world’s premier specialist in micro-steam technology. Here is what you want.”

  It was behind glass, and tiny. It was a circular iris and lens, with a micro steam engine behind. Its intricacy left Marcel flabbergasted.

  “How does it work?” Noël asked with youthful exuberance.

  “With the smallest of small connections to the eye itself, the optic nerve and especially the tear ducts to produce enough moisture to provide a continual source of power.”

  “That sounds . . . invasive.” Marcel frowned. “We don’t have that kind of time to spare, do we?” He looked at Noël, who merely shrugged.

  “Yes, yes, of course you do.” Dr. Chiem nodded. “You can heal while you travel. Come with me and we will get it done immediately.”

  Marcel moved his wheelchair back, feeling almost defensive.

  There was another reason he didn’t want to fix the eye. He had massive scars on that side of his face that he didn’t ever have to fully look at when he caught a reflection of himself because all he’d had to do was turn his head away enough that his left eye couldn’t see them.

  With both eyes functional, he would have to see himself for what he was.

  “I can’t make this decision right now, please,” he gasped. “We’ll get a hotel. I’ll think about it.”

  “Marcel, this man is the best there is.” Junior Inspector Noël knelt by the chair. “You shouldn’t be worried.”

  “I don’t doubt his work, it’s just . . . I’m not . . .” A rush of anguish struck him. “A lot of people died. I should have died . . .”

  “You will die too, Monsieur, one day,” the specialist gave a slight nod. “You can choose a long life of seeing or a long life of not seeing, and that has little or nothing to do with how well your eyes work.”

  Marcel closed his eyes a moment and took in the man’s solemn wisdom. “Fine, then . . .”

  It wasn’t until he was going under for surgery that he realized he hadn’t even thought once about the cost.

  Inspector Marcel Roux fought with demons in his drug-induced dreams. They loomed above him, monstrous and fire-breathing. He would try to get away, but always, when he turned there was an edge with only darkness below him.

  And then he would jump into the darkness.

  No matter how many times the dream recurred, he could never stop himself from jumping.

  He awakened with a start. In the dream, a demon had stabbed him in the eye. Back in reality, it still felt like it.

  “Welcome back, Inspector Roux.” Noël was sitting beside him in his wheelchair as he lay in a bed in a dimly lit room. “How are you feeling?”

  “It hurts . . .”

  “I figured. The surgery went well. You should be able to take the bandage off in seven days.”

  “Where are we?” he asked. But the room had a familiar vibration. “Oh!” he gasped, and tried to sit up before he remembered it took more effort than just wanting to. Noël held him down in any case. “No!”

  “Don’t panic, Monsieur.”

  “Don’t panic?” Marcel spat. “We are on a Zeppelin!”

  “It is a very large, very safe Zeppelin.” Noël had not let go of him, which was probably for the best because he was angry enough to want to fight, and afraid enough to want to flee, yet he could do neither very well. “In fact it is our own French national Zeppelin built out of the newest in technology. Its route through some of our French protectorates,
with a stop in Quebec to refuel, made it the perfect solution.”

  None of that really mattered to Marcel. A Zeppelin was a Zeppelin and in his mind, a death trap.

  Noël was still talking, something about natural gas fields of the former Confederate American States. “. . . and not by the crude hydrogen that so injured you before. Helium is incapable of burning at all.”

  But injured and burning were the only parts of it Marcel comprehended. “I have to get out of here.”

  “That’s really not an option; we’re over the Pacific Ocean,” Noël replied.

  “Then let me over the side; drown me,” he lamented. A part of him knew he was being irrational, but that part had lost control. “If only I could walk there on my own.”

  “Then, for that reason alone, I am glad you cannot walk.”

  Marcel recognized an element of logic in Noël’s words, yet could not contain his overwhelming fear. “How could you do this to me?” He fought to catch his breath. “Are you not my friend? Could you even claim to be now? You’ve been so kind to me.”

  “I am still being kind.” Noël replied. “Would you like some more of the sedative that Dr. Chiem provided to knock you out during the surgery? It seems to work a little too well on you, but you might benefit from a few more hours sleep.”

  “I would take an eternity of sleep over this betrayal,” he gasped.

  “I’m sorry.” Noël frowned, and finally let go of him. He took a bottle out of a bag sitting on the floor beside the wheelchair. The sedative was nothing more than a very strong alcoholic beverage. “Our trail now leads to the Americas, so I really had no choice.”

  “A steamship, perhaps?” Marcel wished, and watched Noël measure the drink into a small cup.

  “I had none at my disposal that could sail to from French Indochina to Quebec in under a week,” Noël said. “Not like this bird can.”

  “I wish it was a bird." Marcel’s voice cracked. “Instead it is a prison.”

  “I apologize for perhaps not recognizing the depth of your fear,” Noël set the cup in his hand. “But then again, any trial can become a prison when one is unwilling to seek help enough to work against it.”