Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology

by Jay Barnson

  “I will concede that you may have a point.” Roux was angry at Noël’s deception, but there was little he could do about it. “Still, I would lie here in pain and full of fear before I turn to alcohol to calm myself.”

  Zelie would not have approved of using alcohol as method of becalming himself. Her first husband, a prestigious man with deep social fears, had employed self-medication with large amounts of alcohol, and abused her terribly.

  He would not fall prey to the same. He handed the cup back to Noël.

  “I swear you are as stubborn a man as I have ever met.” Clement Noël broke his optimistic façade. “Let me read to you the latest letter from our patron that he wired to us with the next payout money. Perhaps that will take your mind off your pains.”

  “You might as well try,” Marcel growled.

  “Dear Monsieur Roux. It has come to my attention that you have taken my case after having been injured and that you are in fact gravely unwell. Forgive me if I am asking more of you than you feel you can give, but since you are the best in your craft, I must implore you to continue if at all possible. My gratitude knows no bounds that you would take this arduous journey to reunite my family. I will reward you handsomely. Merci. Monsieur M.”

  “He does at least pretend to guess how hard this is for me,” Marcel choked on his own emotions. “Of course I will continue, but then I am finished. Do you hear me, Inspector Noël? Finished!”

  “Whatever you wish, Monsieur Roux,” Noël did not argue this time. “Is there anything more I can get for you?”

  “Two legs that work,” he gasped. “But since you cannot do that, then please, I desperately need something for this pain in my head. But not the alcohol, unless that is truly all there is.”

  “I have something that will work just as well,” Noël replied, and produced a small bottle. “Now I will leave you to rest.”

  Junior Inspector Noël left the room, but not before Marcel caught a glimpse of the bright sun coming in through the gondola windows. There were a multitude of people on board, visiting and playing cards and enjoying themselves, not realizing they were only ever a single spark away from a flaming death trap.

  Alone in the darkened room, Marcel breathed deeply. It was strange, but he took solace in the fact that if this Zeppelin did burst into flames at this altitude, over the Pacific Ocean, there was no way he would survive it.

  By the time Noël returned, he was no longer in pain and feeling calmer.

  “I see you have come to some resolve, Monsieur.”

  “Yes. First, I have resolved that there is no pain that compare to the burns I received in Champagne, so I will endeavor to stop complaining; and second, I am not as afraid of dying as I once was.”

  “That does not make me want to help you back into your chair.” Noël smirked.

  “I have no further intention of driving myself over the edge,” he admitted. “That was a moment of irrational fear. I’m very sorry you had to witness it.”

  “Apology accepted.” Noël sat down in the wheelchair again. “I hope you will accept mine. I was a fool to think you would not guess immediately where we were.”

  “Yes, you were. I’ll trust you not to do it again.”

  “We will be landing in French Polynesia—Tahiti to be exact—in two days to refuel. I cannot be expected to leave you there.”

  That was a dilemma. “I will continue to Quebec, but no more.”

  “Then I promise.” Noël nodded.

  “How long?”

  “Two days to Tahiti. Four from there to Quebec.”

  “I should not have asked.” Marcel ’s breathing quickened.

  “Tell me about yourself, Monsieur, if it will help to pass the time,” Noël requested. “I wish to learn all you can teach me while we are together. What has been your greatest triumph in your work as an inspector?”

  “My greatest?” Marcel had to think hard to categorize all of the feats of his career into any sort of order or importance. “I don’t know about greatest, but the one I remember the best was my first case. I was as green as you are now and not specifically assigned to kidnappings at that point.

  “There was a boy in Palaiseau missing. There were very few clues to go on—a ransom note and a key much like the one we found in this case, except I tracked it to a local smith who left his mark on everything he made.” He paused and looked at Noël, who was looking disinterested. “Too long a story?”

  “Oh, no, please go on,” Noël gasped, revealing not disinterest but barely controlled emotion.

  “In interviewing him, I came to suspect his involvement, even though my superior officer thought him above the deed. I broke a few rules and poked around in his shop while everyone was out at Christmas Eve mass. Turned out, I was right. I found a door in the shop floor and a shallow basement beneath. It was down there, in the dark that he was keeping that poor little boy.”

  “How awful,” Noël whispered.

  “Right up to that point, yes.” Marcel nodded. “I’ll never forget his dirty face, his reaching hands, his cries for his papa, and how he clung to me as I lifted him out and ran with him covered in my coat against the cold to the nearest police station.

  “Sadly the smith never faced justice. He hung himself later that night.”

  “But the boy was reunited with his family?”

  “Yes, and on Christmas morning, no less. My superior got all of the press for it, but I didn’t care. I’d found my calling. That was seventeen years ago. How time flies.”

  Noël sniffled and nodded. The boy was a sensitive fellow, like Marcel used to be.

  “You get numb to it after a while,” he admitted with a heavy sigh. “Numb to everything but yourself until you find a reason not to be.”

  “And your reason?” Noël asked.

  “Her name was Zelie Guerin. And now my story has come full circle. You know the rest.”

  “Thank you.” Noël nodded. “That story could give anyone the drive to want to do what you do.”

  “To do what I used to do,” Marcel corrected.

  “What you’re doing even now. Enduring a ride in this awful machine to look for a lost mother and child.”

  “Enduring badly, I suppose, but yes. Perhaps a little sunlight would do me good.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I want to try.”

  Noël stood by to assist as Marcel lifted himself into his chair and then maneuvered it forward slowly. They went out of the dark interior room and into the public area. There, beyond the windows, was the blue sky and clouds.

  His chair stalled.

  Either that or his entire body had stalled. He couldn’t seem to remember how to move.

  “Monsieur, are you all right?” Junior Inspector Noël’s voice seemed distant.

  There were some things one just didn’t get over in a day, even if one wanted to, Marcel realized as his breathing tightened and everything went dark.

  He barely felt Inspector Noël lifting him, taking him back to bed; barely heard Noël offering the sedative and worrying out loud when he refused it.

  If it had been anyone else, he would have been worried too.

  Time became as much of a prison as the Zeppelin itself. There was too much of it between Inspector Roux and the safety of the ground.

  Their landing in French Polynesia could not have come soon enough. However, if he hadn’t been required by the crew to leave the gondola during the refueling, he might have decided to stay on board just to avoid the inevitable scene of him being forced to get back on.

  But then he would have missed the opportunity to see the beautiful island. He touched the sand, and even the water. He watched Noël run up and down the beach like a tiger that had spent too long in a cage. For Marcel, there was no escape from the cage he was in, except in memory.

  Noël brought him a sea shell, just like Max would have done. Noël had a kind heart and Marcel had almost forgiven him for dragging him onto a Zeppelin. He was sure he would forgive Noël ent
irely once they landed in Quebec.

  Marcel was ready to make the island his permanent home, as the crew started to gather the passengers for boarding. He might have considered it further but for a problem he had not foreseen.

  His chair came to a grinding halt.

  “Probably sand in the mechanisms.” Noël frowned. “I’ll get you on board and come back for it.” Noël lifted Marcel out of the chair, and carried him like a child. “Just close your eyes and pretend we’re climbing into a carriage.”

  “If you think that will work.” Marcel closed his unbandaged eye. He tried to imagine himself stepping up into a carriage, but it was better than that. He imagined himself taking beautiful Zelie by the hand and helping her in first, then joining her inside.

  That worked, at least until Noël laid him down on the bed and he could feel the vibration of the Zeppelin though his bones.

  “I could just live here,” he whispered.

  “But Quebec is beautiful this time of year.”

  “Are you actually comparing Quebec to French Polynesia?” Marcel scoffed. “I’ve never seen any place more beautiful in all of my life.”

  “I agree. But I’ve got to—”

  They lurched off the ground. Marcel gasped in alarm, only in part because his chair had just been left behind.

  “I’ll go see if I can get them to go back for it.” Noël rose.

  “Don’t.” Marcel croaked, and caught Noël’s hand before coming to his senses. “I mean, yes. Go.” Noël left him alone with his fear. He breathed deeply, he counted out loud, he imagined himself anywhere else, and again it finally worked as long as Zelie was in the memory.

  It was pretty obvious, by the time Noël returned, that the junior inspector had failed in his mission to stop the zeppelin from leaving without Marcel’s mechanical chair.

  “I am so sorry, Monsieur.” Noël croaked his apologies. “They would not go back. They do not understand!”

  “It will be fine, Clement.” Inspector Roux mourned the loss of his freedom of movement, but it was not Inspector Noël’s fault by any stretch. “I still have two perfectly good legs to rely on, they just happen to be yours.”

  Noël looked relieved. “I am at your service, Monsieur.”

  Marcel was already well aware of that and grateful for it.

  The eternal trip to Quebec ended with little fanfare. Marcel refused to look back at the Zeppelin as Noël carried him to their waiting carriage.

  “Oh, hey.” Noël smiled as they were both seated. “It’s been seven days. Are you ready?” Marcel nodded with controlled anticipation as Noël started to remove the bandage over his right eyes.

  The brightness was overwhelming at first, but settled down until he could see clearly.

  “What does it look like?” Marcel asked the one thing he could not tell without a mirror.

  “An eye.” Noël laughed. “What were you expecting?”

  “Just that.” He felt himself smile. It felt foreign to him.

  But he saw Quebec with both eyes.

  Montreal was greener than he’d imagined it, for some reason, yet still very different from French Indochina. It was also cooler than any of his previous destinations. Noël bought him a heavier coat to keep out the fall chill.

  They arrived at their destination, and much to Marcel’s alarm, they found themselves at the base of at least a hundred stone steps.

  “I’ll not have you carry me to meet our villain, if he is even here.”

  “Then what will you do, crawl up the steps?”

  “No, I’ll wait here,” he replied. “You’re perfectly capable of doing this on your own. He clearly knows by now that you’re with me. He might even think you are me since you’ve done all the work thus far.”

  “I suppose.” Noël frowned. “If I must.”

  “Yes, you must,” Marcel countered. “Really, Inspector Noël, you have my vote of confidence.”

  “Merci beaucoup,” Noël declared cynically as he exited the carriage. He looked back a moment later, chagrined. “Monsieur, I’m afraid the carriage driver has other errands to run. Do you want to sit here at the base of the steps and wait for me?”

  “I can’t just go with him?”

  “It’s a full load, paid in advance. I argued your case; he’ll come back for us later.”

  “Fine. If I must.” Marcel grimaced.

  “Yes, it does appear that you must.”

  Fortunately, it was a beautiful day. Junior Inspector Noël settled Marcel into a shady corner and then jogged up the steps like the energetic young man that he was.

  Marcel waited.

  And waited.

  “Inspector Noël!” he yelled. Worry for his junior inspector rose in opposition to the setting sun. “Clement?”

  There was no one around to ask for help, nowhere to go but up.

  One step at a time he climbed. With his hands, mechanical and otherwise, he dragged his useless legs and feet.

  Was this really necessary? He pulled himself up another step. Where was Noël? Was the boy in trouble? Was there anything he could even do about it?

  Another step.

  His body was starting to fail him. His arms ached, his hands were bleeding. The climb had already exhausted him well beyond anything he had ever known.

  And he was only half-way up.

  Rage that had been building for months spilled over.

  “Why am I here?” he asked the darkening sky, and pulled himself up another step. “This ridiculous journey has only further proved that I am nothing, useless!” He dragged his legs up yet another step. His shoulders burned. “Where is my friend? Is he dead? He’s dead, isn’t he? My one friend. You’ve taken my one friend? You’ve taken everything!”

  His breathing tightened and he had to stop climbing until it returned to normal or he would faint.

  There was no evidence that Noël was dead. There was no need to put himself in a panic. No need to blame God for his trials when blaming man would suffice.

  Be grateful, Zelie would have said. How much easier had that been when she’d been with him?

  He was grateful for Clement Noël for dragging him against his will out of his invalid bed and into the world to solve a case. It would be more than unfortunate if something were to happen to his new friend. That got him moving again, one step at a time.

  He was grateful for the man in Morocco who built mechanical arms and fingers. He was grateful for the Vietnamese man who had studied the art of micro-steam technology and restored the sight of his ruined eye.

  If only there was a man in Quebec who could return to him the use of his legs or improve the skin on his face—wouldn’t that be something? And he would benefit all because of a wild-goose chase.

  Epiphany washed over him like a wave of the ocean.

  He knew what he was going to find at the top, and it wasn’t a woman and child! It might have made the climb easier if it had been for someone else that he had to do it, but could he make it to the top when it was for himself alone? Did he even deserve what he was going to find there?

  However, there was still the possibility that he was wrong; that Noël was in trouble. That chance, mixed in part with the hope of healing, gave him the will to climb.

  It was full dark when he reached the top. There was a road to cross, and a row of businesses. It made him wonder why the carriage driver had dropped them off below. Perhaps it was a private, gated drive.

  All but one of the shops was dark. He dragged himself across the stone-paved road toward that one small light in the window. He reached up to the door knob, and in failing, collapsed.

  Fortunately, a woman inside saw him.

  “Monsieur, are you all right?” she gasped. He caught his reflection in the door and realized his repaired eye, though perfectly normal looking was still surrounded by old bruises left over from the surgery. The palms of his hands were torn up and bloodied, and he’d worn holes in the legs of his pants. He was a pitiable sight.

  “My friend
. . . my friend is missing,” he managed through his breathlessness. “Have you seen him? I need to find him.”

  “I do not know where to find your friend, Monsieur. But perhaps I could be of some help to you otherwise.” He looked up at her and realized first that she was beautiful, and second that she wore a frame around the lower half of her body that was helping her to stand and walk.

  His heart leaped within him at the hope, but propriety got in the way.

  “Mademoiselle, I cannot pay.” He already felt guilty for how much of his patron’s money he had justified spending, if there even was a “patron”. Had the Commissaire commissioned and put Noël up to the journey? He had no one to ask.

  “I would not leave you helpless when I have the means to give you relief, Monsieur. I will get my sons to help you inside.” The woman left the room and came back with two grown men who brought him inside, placing him face down onto what might well have been a surgical table. “First, I must be sure that you are a good fit.”

  He didn’t know what she meant by that, but she proceeded to remove his mechanical glove, and his uniform coat and the shirt and undershirt beneath, until all he was wearing from the waist up was the key on a string that he’d taken from the kidnapping victim’s purse.

  She then touched his bare back, starting at his neck. She was feeling down along his spine, and then she wasn’t, or at least he could no longer feel her touch.

  She brought out a strange looking belt connected to two circular plates. The higher plate he felt her place against his mid upper back. It was cold against his skin. He couldn’t feel the other plate lower on his back, beneath his injury.

  “With this,” she said as she called upon her sons to help him roll over and then clasped the belt straps across his chest and then his abdomen, “you create a framework.” She pressed a button now centered on his chest and a tiny flexible metal scaffolding—for lack of a better word—unfolded automatically around his lower body and legs, right over the top of his torn pants. “You will push the same button to retract the brace when you are finished with it,” she continued. He barely heard it, still watching the brace with its little round nodes pressing against various parts of his legs, down to his ankles and boring through the sides of his shoes to reach his toes.