Steampunk World

by Sarah Hans (ed)

  Winthrop had lists of weapons they’d made, and in what quantities. He’d designed new knivers, the clockwork guns that shot knives based on this land’s “shongos.” They’d copied conventional guns and ammunition as well.

  Queen Josina had one list—a short one—of African allies’ promises. Daisy was able to supplement that with news from Europe courtesy of Mademoiselle Toutournier. She also gave totals of funds available from white supporters to be spent on necessary supplies, “not squandered on useless religious paraphernalia—”

  “Bibles? Hymnals? Those are hardly useless!” Mrs. Albin’s indignance was plain in her raised voice, her narrowed eyes. Poor George Albin had no hope of reconciling his mother with his wife. Their quarreling drowned out his attempts.

  Mrs. Albin turned to Wilson for his agreement, as he had expected she would. But despite her effectiveness in hushing up the scandal associated with his frequent episodes of—possession—by demons? gods? spirits of some sort—despite her help, he didn’t think he ought to side with her any longer. Eventually she’d be contaminated by his reputation.

  “I defer my vote,” Wilson said. “We haven’t yet heard all the reports, have we?” Including his own.

  Tink’s only concern since the death of Daisy’s eldest daughter Lily was the invention and refining of artificial limbs. As if one of his automated prosthetic legs could somehow retroactively replace the fatally wounded one. Wilson scarcely listened to him. Alfred was marginally more interesting to a military mind: he discoursed first on improvements to the engines powering their dirigibles and the resultant higher carrying capacities, but then he switched to the much duller topic of making Kamina’s caverns more habitable.

  At last it was Nenzima’s turn. Queen Josina had remained silent for all sixteen of the fortnightly Motes she’d attended—after all, she was not technically a citizen of Everfair but the favorite spouse of its closest ally. But Wilson thought Nenzima said what the queen would have said if not quite so discreet.

  “King Mwenda is within sight of victory. He has lured Leopold’s soldiers high, high up the Lualaba. Soon they will be trapped in the swamplands and ripe for defeat.”

  Wilson cast his mind back to Nenzima’s last speech, during the last Mote. “In Kibombo?”

  Nenzima nodded assent. “Our friends from Oo-Gandah are gathered in the mountains nearby, ready for transport.”

  “How many?”

  “The fighters of a hundred villages. All they could spare.”

  Roughly 3000 “men”—many of the Oo-Gandah warriors were female—would be waiting for dirigibles to carry them into battle. Combined with King Mwenda’s force, which at last report was double that number….“What is our latest and most reliable estimate of Leopold’s army?”

  “As many as the fighters of two hundred villages are left to them.”

  7000 against 9000. Better than equal odds, then—though the tyrant’s army would have more and more accurate rifles. “Their ammunition? Supply lines?” So much depended on the latter—food, medicine, and thus morale.

  But the poet assured the Mote once again that their secret European supporters had let nothing get through since March two years ago. Spoiled and poisoned rations, diluted medicine and malaria, had greatly reduced Leopold’s army.

  Wilson had Yoka give his report for him. Mrs. Albin no doubt thought this a tactic to avoid disasters such as the barking fits that had overcome him so many times in the past.

  The truth? Often enough he simply could not recall what it was he was supposed to say.

  “The Reverend Wilson has learned of a camp of child slaves nearby to Lukolela. He will take an airship there on a detour when we leave for the battlefield tomorrow.”

  Wilson understood that while in the chicken blood-induced trance he had said something of the sort. He, or the spirit temporarily inhabiting him. Lukolela. That would probably be found to be the holding place of the captive spy’s hostage. The statements he’d made earlier under a similar influence had all proved helpful and correct.

  Mrs. Albin was intrigued. “Is Lukolela a large camp? How many of these poor creatures can we rescue?”

  “We’re not sure,” said Yoka. “Perhaps twenty-five. Perhaps more. But they will need food, bandages, replacement hands—you understand.”

  “But first, Bibles! Yes! I insist! We must procure more, one for each—and picture books, too, telling the story of creation—”

  “They can share those belonging to others,” Daisy said firmly.

  The vote went predictably except for his own choice. Not that that would have changed the outcome: only her godson and her husband sided with Mrs. Albin. Wilson ought also to have favored buying religious texts over more grossly physical supplies. That he’d chosen otherwise would be viewed as treachery on his part. Mrs. Albin awarded him a sour look. But by morning he was able to forget it.

  Alfred and Chester and their construction crew had been busy. Four new craft were ready to fly north to join Mbuza, the first vessel of Everfair’s ever-expanding fleet. Zi Ru and Fu Hao were unavailable, attached to occupying garrisons at Mbandaka and Kikwit. But Boadicea and Brigid were just as big, and the untested new dirigibles, Kalala and aMileng, were supposed to be much lighter, much faster. New materials, Alfred explained. One more of similar design, the Phillis Wheatley, was scheduled for production later this year. At the moment too many colonists lodged inside, but during the dry season the space of the largest cavern would be free for the necessary work.

  Rain hazed the relatively cool air. Dawn had always been his favorite time of day. Wilson walked out along the wooden dock to Kalala with no worry that he might slip and fall dozens of feet to the steep, rocky mountainside below. There were no handrails to hold, but the bark had been left on the logs out of which the docks were built. That kept them from becoming too slick.

  The prisoner was already aboard. He’d spent the night beneath one of the airship’s storage shelves, safely sedated by juice extracted from the roots of an herb known to the Bah-Sangah. Yoka showed Wilson the supply he carried in a horn in case another dose was needed before they arrived.

  Kalala’s capacity was about 80 adults. Wilson had 30 fighters board, bringing their jumpsheets with them. Typically, slave camps were guarded by no more than six or seven soldiers. So it was when they arrived at Lukolela after a journey of a little over twelve hours.

  Night was about to fall. Bare red dirt passed beneath Kalala’s gondola, darkened to the color of an old wound by the sun’s absence. A hut hove into view—that would be the overseer’s quarters. Just past it a smoldering fire fought against the rain. By its fitful light, more than by that of the failing day, Wilson saw a huddled group of children. He counted thirty. Two guards with guns stood over them. There’d been two more by the hut. That left another two or three out of sight, most likely patrolling the clearing’s perimeter.

  Bombs could provide a distraction, but Leopold’s thugs had become more wary as Everfair and King Mwenda’s warriors increased their raids. At Bwasa, according to Loyiki, the soldiers had for the first time shot and killed their slaves before fleeing the attack. That was almost two years ago. Since then, he had been developing different tactics.

  They circled back around and all but ten fighters jumped, their falls slowed by their rubber-coated barkcloth jumpsheets. Of course the guards hit some with their rifles. Venting gas, Kalala came lower. The ten fighters remaining aboard had a harder time aiming than those thugs on the ground, but only four targets. No, five: the overseer had come out of his hut. He was armed, too, but Yoka downed him neatly. The way he worked his shotgun’s action with the fake hand, you’d never know the man ever had a real one.

  Full night now. Gunfire came from the woods, but it was sporadic. Wilson ordered Kalala lower, but kept the bonfire in the distance. Fighters shepherded the pitifully thin children toward the dirigible’s rope-and-wood ladders. Still in partial shackles—the chains linking them had been struck off—no time for more—they had diff
iculty climbing up. Wilson leaned forward to help and felt a sudden heat under his arm.

  He’d been hit. He knew the sensation; it had happened before. Always a surprise—he fell to the side, against the gondola’s slanting bulwark. In the dark and with the confusion of the starving children coming aboard, Wilson managed to conceal what had happened. But once they’d cast off their ballast and set course for an overnight berth above the Lomami, Yoka hunted him down. Wilson was staunching the bleeding as best he could with his coat balled up and held tight against his armpit. The lamp Yoka carried showed it soaked in red.

  The apprentice touched Wilson’s arm carefully, with his flesh hand. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

  “No. Worse. It’s numb. But I think the bullet’s in there. Still.”

  Yoka replaced Wilson’s coat with his own and made him lie flat. He used something—a belt?—to hold the pad in place. “There are healers on Mbuza.”

  Wilson knew that. “I will go to them when we reach Kibombo.” If he didn’t die before then.

  “Perhaps.” Yoka’s face disappeared from Wilson’s narrowing field of vision for a moment. “I must prop you up to help you swallow.”

  “Swallow what?” It was a hollowed out horn Yoka lifted to his lips—though he wasn’t sure this was the same one containing the soporific drug they’d given the prisoner. The taste of what he drank from it was both bitter and sweet, like licorice and quinine.

  “Now you will sleep. And dream. And very likely, you will live,” Yoka seemed to be saying. His meaning floated free of the words. “If you do, you should promise yourself.”

  Promise himself. Wilson wanted to open his mouth. He had questions. Or at least one. Promise himself. Promise himself what?

  Then he was walking up an endless mountain. Or down? Sometimes he thought one, sometimes the other. Whichever, it was hard work. Why shouldn’t he stop? But he smelled—something. The scent of fire—he wanted to find who it belonged to. It wasn’t out of control, a forest burning up. How did he know that?

  Rough stones gave way to soft soil, plants clinging to the ground, mounting up the walls of a rude shelter, an open-sided shed. Here was the fire. A forge. The smith working it wore a mask like a dog’s head. He was making—Wilson couldn’t see exactly what. Shining shapes stood upright in pails to the forge’s right side. They resembled giant versions of the symbols used by Bah-Sangah priests. On the left loomed a pile too dark to discern more than vaguely. Hoping to see better, Wilson went just a little nearer, but not near enough to get caught.

  The mask’s muzzle turned sharply toward him. A powerful arm reached too far and a huge hand wrapped itself around his neck. It pulled him closer, choking him.

  From behind the mask came a man’s voice. “What are you doing here? Stealing secrets? Or are you dying and you come to me for your life?”

  Of course he was dying. Loss of gravy. Loss of blood. He said nothing, but the smith seemed to hear his thoughts.

  “If I give you your life back you will owe it to me. Acceptable?”

  The big hand loosened and Wilson nodded. Yes. Its grip tightened again and drew him in next to the fire. It draped him over the anvil. He shrank, or the anvil grew until it held all of him.

  Turning his head, Wilson saw the smith take a shining symbol from one of the buckets and bring it toward the anvil. He rolled his eyes up to follow its progress, then lost sight of it. Then cried out as it burnt his scalp.

  “Silence!” commanded the smith. Two hard blows on his skull stunned him into compliance. Another scalding hot symbol was slipped under his neck. The smith’s hammer smashed into Wilson’s throat, driving his tender skin down against the letter of fire. Scarcely had he recovered, breathing somehow, when a large new letter was laid on his chest, and hammered home with three mighty swings. Smaller symbols were burned and bashed into the palms of his hands. Radiating pain and heat, Wilson wondered if this was how Christ felt when he was being crucified. Then he scolded himself for his blasphemy—but without speaking, for the smith had bade him to make no noise.

  If life was suffering, it belonged to him yet. Under the next letter his left knee smoked. The dog mask spit on it. The hammer hit. It must surely have broken his bones, Wilson thought. But after the final symbol was affixed and the smith told him to stand up, he found he could.

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “I can get one,” Wilson said.

  “Remember whose you are now.”

  “But I don’t know your—”

  “Ask Yoka my name.”

  He awoke. He presumed he did; he must have been sleeping. Dawn again, and the airship was moving, clouds and the pale curve of last night’s moon passing behind Kalala’s red-and-purple envelope and coming swiftly back into sight. He could feel both arms. He clenched his fingers and released them. That hurt. Cautiously he sat up. His senses swam, but not unbearably. He shrugged his shoulders. Some pain, and an annoying restriction—Yoka’s makeshift bandage. He eased off the sash and the pad it had held in place tumbled to the deck. It was stained and dry.

  Dry.

  It ought to have been wet. It ought to have stuck to his skin.

  Slowly, Wilson lifted his arm and examined the wound. The healing wound. Where the bullet must have entered, his flesh had started to pucker into a raw, raised scar a little darker than the rest of his armpit. With the hand of his unhurt arm he probed his shoulder and as much of his back as he could reach.

  Nothing marked an exit.

  Yoka approached, carrying a clean shirt, seeming unsurprised by Wilson’s convalescence.

  He took the shirt. “What happened?” he asked, then almost gagged coughing; his throat was tight, rough, swollen.

  “That’s not to be talked about. Not here. Besides, the drums say we’ll soon be busy. You won’t have time to wonder about all that.”

  Wilson was stiff; he needed Yoka’s help putting on the shirt. Its warmth was good. His head ached. His arms and legs throbbed and trembled. He leaned against the nearest woven panel and forced himself to his feet.

  They’d brought few provisions. Wilson’s chief want was water, but he knew he’d need more than that to get through the coming battle. As they passed over Malela en route to Lutshi, he was eating his second plantain. The thirty fighters had been deposited at Ombwe an hour earlier, as planned. King Mwenda had split his troops, leading and chasing Leopold’s men into the swamp. The majority of the king’s fighters were to the north of the invader’s army; in order to reinforce the southern contingent. Mbuza, Boadicea, Brigid, and aMileng had been ferrying Oo-Gandahns all morning. Kalala was to join them for this final trip of four.

  The small airships could only transport 50 adult fighters. The rescued children had proved unwilling to leave Kalala with the fighters from Kamina. The countryside was strange to them. They had endured enough. Strategically speaking, Wilson admitted to himself, it had probably been a poor choice to add their rescue to the day’s mission. But the spy had cried with joy when reunited with his newly-freed son.

  In the end, only space for thirty-three fighters was needed. Most Oo-Gandahns had already been taken to their battle positions, and many of those left seemed to prefer flying in the other dirigibles. Perhaps it was the dispirited attitude of Kalala’s passengers, which was of course due to the children’s exhaustion, malnourishment, and sores. It was nearly an hour after Brigid’s departure that they, the last to leave, finally took to the air.

  Ignoring his own weakness, Wilson did his best to help tend to the unfortunates. He’d learned a little Swahili, but only a few of them understood it; he had a hard time remembering which and telling them apart.

  The bonds restraining Leopold’s spy had been removed. He still wept with his son in his arms. Then he rose and ran for the lit lantern hanging by the prow. He opened its top and dashed palm oil liberally over the airship’s wood decking and bulwarks and touched the wick to them. They blazed up like torches.

  Shrieks filled the bright air. Panicked, sta
mpeding fighters ran to Kalala’s stern, tilting the deck. The stability vane levers must no longer be working. Or else they’d been abandoned.

  Wilson clung to the bulwark’s head-high gunwale, hauling himself forward, hand over hand. He encountered a living obstacle: Yoka, who apparently had the same thought. His metal hand took more effort to operate but gave him a surer hold.

  Side by side they inched upward. The fires grew unstoppably, unreachably. It was hopeless.

  Yoka glanced overhead at the envelope of rubber-coated barkcloth. Filled with explosive hydrogen gas. “We must cut the lines.”

  “We’ll die,” Wilson objected.

  “No.” He reached one of the ropes tethering gondola to envelope and began to climb. “I’ll open the vent first and lower us.”

  The way to the deck level vent control was blocked by the fire. “But how will you—”

  A penetrating scream rose above the general wailing, then fell further and further away. Wilson pulled himself up to sit astride the gunwale and caught sight of a man pinwheeling to earth sans jumpsheet. The trees below looked no taller than lettuces.

  “That was the prisoner,” said Yoka. “The others pushed him out.”

  “We’ll never know why he did this, then.” Wilson commenced shinnying along the gunwale like a child sliding up a bannister.

  “I believe he had more than the one boy held hostage,” Yoka shouted.

  “What?” It was becoming hard to hear Yoka as the distance between them widened. A logistical concern sprang suddenly to mind: he’d have to walk across the burning deck to cut the lines connecting it to the airbag. They were as far from reach as the vent release.

  “Just before the spy set us on fire, I overheard his boy ask him where was his twin. Another boy or girl.”

  A second hostage. It seemed obvious now. “Do you have a kniver?”

  “Here. Catch!” The polished brass of the knife-throwing gun slipped through Wilson’s fingers. Fortunately it landed on the deck instead of following the arsonist to earth. He retrieved it, then scrambled onto the gunwale again with the kniver clenched between his teeth. He heard Yoka yelling something but couldn’t understand what he said.