Steampunk'd

by Jean Rabe

  Constance leaned to her right as she continued to button and smooth her shirt. She saw faded writing on the side of the caravan through the dissipating steam and smoke. She shook her head as if disagreeing. “I can’t make it out yet.”

  The man sighed, let his arms drop. He looked at his belly. “Ocularius.” He looked up at her. “My name. It’s Doctor Ocularius.” His ample eyebrows seemed to rise higher with each syllable. “And you are . . . ?”

  Constance froze in the act of primping the once-stiff collar of her inner coat. “I am Constance Gatterling. But wait . . . you said you are Doctor Ocularius?”

  The man smiled and pulled the massive goggles away from his neck, stretching his chin. “Why, yes. Are you unimpressed?”

  “No, it’s just that . . . well, I didn’t expect you to use your own name.”

  “Ah, so you have heard of me. Why should I not use my name? I know I’m here, they know I’m here. What good would it do to try to deceive anyone?”

  “Pardon me, Doctor, but isn’t that what you’re best at?”

  “Deceit? No, dear lady, that’s but a sideline. An admittedly practical, and occasionally profitable one, but nonetheless a sideline to my primary distraction.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Ha—I like you already. Come, let’s resume this conversation over a blue flame and a decanter of refined mint wine.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “Yes, dear lady, you don’t think Doctor Ocularius travels the wastelands of the Spoils without the refinements of clean fire and fine libation, do you?” He smiled and disappeared inside the wagon.

  In faded yellow paint arched across the side of the wagon, she read his name and the words, ‘Traveling Tinctures, Tonics, and Bifurcated, Multi-Purpose Nostrums for the Betterment of the Eyes, Ears, Nose, Throat, and Sundry Other Parts. . . . ’

  “So, Doctor, what do you call this contraption?”

  “Contraption!” He peeked out the door. “You cut me to the core, dear girl! Why, this ‘contraption,’ as you call it, is more than a mere conveyance. It is more than a converted burrowing miner, more than a superior collection of hydraulic, steam, and forever-gear technology.” He hopped down, green bottle in hand. “It is more than a home, it is more than a workshop, it is, indeed, to a man once said to have promise—considering the limitations forced on me due to my unfortunate and unearned yet imposed exile—this beautiful brute,” he patted the cooled black steel of the silent mandible, “is the incubator of my brilliance.”

  “Well your incubator sounded to me like it’s on its last legs.”

  He pursed his lips, his brow puckering as he dragged an ancient gasbox from its rack underneath the wagon and rummaged in a vest pocket until he produced a small box of scratchers. Within seconds a warm, blue-flame fire hissed on the ground at their feet.

  He stared at the flame. “Well, it is true she isn’t suited to much more than sand travel these days—this river-valley rock nearly killed her, but this is where I found you.”

  “Why, Doctor, I am flattered. . . .”

  “Think nothing of it, dear girl. Thoughtful is my middle name.”

  They were quiet a moment, dark rose around them, and Constance pulled her satchel close. She thought she saw the doctor watch her, though with his eyewear, it was difficult to tell just where he was looking. “Tell me about those peculiar spectacles, Doctor.”

  “Ah, you have a gift for stroking the peacock’s feathers, my dear!” He smiled, sipped his wine, smacked his lips, and added, “In a nutshell, these odd eyepieces enable me to not be seen better.”

  She snorted, covered her mouth with a hand, and said, “Please, continue.”

  He sighed. “The technology is something I’ve spent my life developing. It’s far more advanced than anything those dolts back East have come up with, I can assure you.”

  She regarded the pudgy man for a moment, and then shook her head, smiling. “I think you’re a tale-spinner, is what I think.”

  “Believe what you need to,” said the Doc, finishing his wine. “I do.” He winked and slapped his knee. “So, just what brought you out here?”

  “Simple. I am a spirited young woman with a certain proclivity for the hard sciences who has just spent her formative years in the clutches of well-intentioned but fusty instructors, and I am desperate to do something tremendous with my life. Before I become one of those fusty instructors myself.”

  “And so. . . .” prompted Doc, pouring more wine into their goblets.

  “And so,” said Constance, crossing her boots “I aim to become the first person—a woman, no less—to cross from east to west. At least since the Long War ended, that is.”

  “But no one’s—”

  “That’s why I’m doing it. If someone had, then I wouldn’t be here.”

  “No, I suppose not. But that still doesn’t explain how you came to be alone at this spot.” The blue flames of the gasbox reflected in the small, dark lenses of his glasses.

  “I hired a tracker who came recommended . . . in a roundabout way. And then he abandoned me here, at the river.”

  Doctor snorted. “Let me guess. His name was Tico?”

  She sat up straight. “How did you know?”

  “And you paid him half up front?”

  She nodded. “How do you know. . . ?”

  “Everybody knows of Tico. He’s no guide. He’s more like . . . a sort of an anti-bounty hunter.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He loses people.”

  Constance nodded but couldn’t think of a reply. She felt an urge to stretch her legs. It had been a long day. She stood—and a strange dizziness pulled at her from all sides. Then she fell prone by the gasbox. She tried to rise and could not figure out how to do it. Doctor Ocularius stared at her, not quite smiling, not moving to help her.

  “What’s wrong, my dear?”

  “The wine—what did you do?”

  He spread his arms wide. “The wine, the night air, the gas, the Spoils, me—something isn’t agreeing with you.” He laughed then, an abrasive chuckle built into a head-thrown-back guffaw that rocked his slab of a belly.

  He rose from his seat and with a grunt, snatched the loop handles of her satchel and dragged it back to where he was sitting.

  “Why?”

  As he untwisted the clasp and parted the bag like the mouth of a fish, he said, “I know Tico. And I know he always gets half up front for taking people across. I figure the other half has to be here somewhere. I didn’t see it on your person earlier.” He winked at her over the hissing gasbox.

  Another short laugh erupted from him and trailed into the darkening, still night. The last thing Constance saw before her eyes closed was Doc rummaging in her satchel, smiling and humming as he held up various articles and marveled at them in the blue light.

  “Hey.”

  Constance opened her eyes, shut them. She felt like mud. Aching mud. Her neck was as stiff as wood and it throbbed.

  “Hey.”

  Something nudged her leg. “What?” She squinted her eyes open. The sun was up. A dark shape hovered over her and she raised a hand to visor her eyes. Someone in a wide-brimmed hat. The hat turned, looked up toward the sky, then back down. In that moment, something had glinted beneath the brim—glasses? The shape shifted, blocked out the sun, and she didn’t have to squint so hard. A faint image of Doctor Ocularius filled her mind for a moment.

  “Who—” She coughed. Her voice was dry, full of holes. She tried it again as she sat up. “Who are you?”

  “Nope, that’s my question.”

  “What?”

  He sighed, and said, “I’m Rollicker, Sheriff of the Spoils.” He sent a rope of thick brown liquid to the ground, dragged the back of one hand across his mouth, then smoothed his ample moustaches. He squinted at her through finely wrought spectacles, small lavender lenses set in brass frames.

  “Are you sickly?” she said, standing and stretching her back.

 
“What? No, not that I’m aware of. . . .”

  “That . . . stuff you just spit up. . . .”

  “Chaw, missy. That’s all.”

  “That was intentional?”

  His jaws chewed slowly, then he pursed his lips and sluiced another stream just a few inches from her boots. “Yep.”

  She looked at him fully for the first time. He was a tall, thin man and wore a sweat-stained shirt of rough cloth the color of sand. His trousers were of a darker, stronger material, tucked into tall boots. His hat was a stained affair, massive in height and width, and a dull brown leather vest ended just above a holstered pistol that seemed crude and of old-time construction, certainly older than the one Tico had worn.

  She wondered if these men carried their ancient guns as an affectation, in the way the wives of Societeers back home carried their clockwork pets, yipping, purring, growling knots of gears wrapped in fur and feathers, as a way to show they’d not lost touch with their urban forebears, what they liked to call their “instinctual selves.”

  “You must be parched,” he said as he untied thongs that held a leather-wrapped bottle to a saddle horn. He handed it to her.

  “Is that a real horse?” She nodded toward the beast behind him, the same deep brown color as his spittle.

  Rollicker snorted a laugh, “As opposed to what? One of those modified steam-powered contraptions you’re used to? By god, if those dandified clothes didn’t give you away, your reaction to seeing a live, kickin’ horse surely does.”

  She uncorked the top of the bottle, sniffed it, and did her best to keep from gagging as she swigged. “It’s just that in the civilized part of the country we have modern conveyances of all manner that are far tidier and less cruel.”

  He shook his head, half smiling, then said, “Tell me, missy, if it’s so grand in the East, what are you doing out here alone into the Spoils?”

  She turned her back on him. “Constance Gatterling. That’s my name.”

  He gave her a nod.

  “Thank you for finding me.”

  “Dumb luck on my part—and yours. I’m headed back to town anyway. So, what are you doing out here?”

  She said nothing. Despite the morning’s dry heat, a shiver worked up her back. “It’s so bleak.”

  “Didn’t used to be—used to be beautiful prairies, rich with wildlife, birds, grasses taller than a man’s head.”

  “What happened?”

  “Long story.” He mounted the horse and gathered the reins, then offered a hand down to her.

  She backed up and said, “Hmm, that vile doctor told me to be wary of you people of the Spoils. . . .”

  So fast she had no time to react, the sheriff leaned and snatched her shirtfront, balling her four layers in a grimy, calloused fist. “You saw Doc?” He shook her once. Her head wobbled in a nod. “Doc Ocularius?”

  She nodded again.

  Rollicker released her and said, “Take me to him and I won’t leave you out here.” They stared at each other a moment. His jaw muscles working hard, his eyes glinting behind the lavender lenses. Then he freed his left boot from the stirrup and extended his arm again. After a moment, she mounted up behind him and he guided the horse north.

  Most of an hour passed, and she found that if she turned her head to one side and breathed, she could lessen the blended stink of horse, unwashed man, and raw Spoils air. Finally she said, “What do you hate Doctor Ocularius for?”

  He answered quickly, as if he were waiting for Constance to ask. “You name it—theft, murder, trickery. Years ago, when the damnable Long War was still on, the dust from the blue stone you all so desperately need back East was making everyone who mined it go blind. Some genius decided that would be bad for business, so they sent Doc Ocularius out here to help us all keep our sight, since he seemed to be the greatest thing since wind-up lightning. But they didn’t figure on him bein’ a greedy little weasel. He’s been playing the middle against both ends ever since, keeps everybody blind, so to speak—us and the powers that be back East, while he drains off profits for himself.”

  “So you’re out to get him.”

  “Pure and straight. All I need is one clear shot at his mangy hide. . . .”

  “But why? Didn’t he save everyone’s sight? And that in turn kept the mineworks open, correct?”

  “You know, for a little bit of a thing, you sure talk a lot.”

  “You’re not the first to tell me that.”

  “Might be you wanna listen to others once in a while instead of flapping your gums.”

  “For better or worse, it’s my curiosity that got me here.”

  “Yeah, smack dab in the Spoils. If this is the plan you had for yourself, I’m not so sure your gears are lining up quite right.” He tapped his forehead and grinned.

  “Well, aren’t you going to tell me?”

  He sighed. “Tell you what?”

  “Why you haven’t eradicated the Doctor.”

  He was silent for a few paces, then in a lowered voice said, “I can’t find him.”

  Behind him, she smiled. “Well, that doesn’t seem so difficult. I found him in short order.”

  To her surprise, he nodded and kept riding. After a few minutes of silence, he spit again and said, “He fixed me up, same as the rest. Only he did a little something different with my eyes. I suppose you noticed these here spectacles.”

  She nodded. “They’re not the most masculine looking things, I’ll grant you. But at least you can see.”

  “Yep, I can see. But not everything.”

  She waited for more, but he grew silent again. After a few quiet minutes, Constance said, “What is that stench?”

  The sheriff sat up straight, tilted his head back, and pulled in a deep draught of air. “Aaahh.” He half-turned to her and said, “That, little missy, is the smell of fashion, and music, and theatres, and cinematographs, and cyclerigibles and all manner of modern advance that you so enjoy in the East.” He turned fully toward her, his leather saddle creaking. “That, little missy, is the smell of Rankton.”

  “I should say. . . .”

  He laughed wide-mouthed then, and she saw for the first time the blackened nubs of his teeth. “Capitol city of Abandonia. . . .”

  “How very wistful. Tell me, is it as forlorn as it smells?”

  “No, Lord no . . . it’s worse.”

  “If it’s so bad, then why don’t you leave, Sheriff Rollicker?”

  “You know, for a smarty-type, you’re none too bright. There ain’t no leaving the Spoils, girl. Once you’re in, you’re in. The only folks ever end up here are those born into it, those sent here because they have no choice,” he spit, looked her right in the eye, and said, “and fools.”

  As the horse walked slowly into the little town, the whole of which seemed backed up to a blunted rise of blue-grey rock, everywhere she looked Constance saw remnants of what seemed a thriving mining past. Great steel-and-wood conveyors, their canvas belts tattered and hanging, jutted at the base of a sprawling mass of shale that leaked between buildings and dissipated in the street. Brass tubes and mammoth rusted gears poked between leaning planks of wind-chewed boards the color of thick smoke. Valves and smokestacks atop steel skeletons on steel wheels, shot through with rust and holes, lay dragged and forgotten in the middle of the street, the rotted carcasses of the machinery of promise.

  Signs on some of the collapsed, gaunt buildings told of once-lively trade: Abandonia General Mercantile; Flo’s Pleasure Palace; The Blue Dream Bar, and at the end of the street, faded black letters on a leaning sign close by a gaping hole in the rock mound read: J.S. Kalibrator’s Blue Stone and Gasworks. To her surprise, Constance saw smoke lifting up and out the top of the entrance rough-cut into the rock, and several men straggled in and out, carrying arc rods and flatpicks.

  “We’ll get you cleaned up at the jail house, then set to work finding Doc. Strikes me he’s never too far off.”

  “No need.”

  “Now see here, missy. .
. .”

  She sighed. “Keep your big hat on, Sheriff Rollicker. He’s here.”

  “What . . . in town? How do you know?” He looked left and right, his glasses glinting.

  “Sheriff—he’s right over there.” She jutted her chin toward The Hard Shine Saloon. “See, there’s his wagon.”

  Rollicker followed her pointing hand, looked right at the wagon, then to the left and right of it, shaking his head.

  She opened her eyes wide and stared at him as if he were a dumb child. “You know, the one that reads: ‘Doctor Ocularius and his Traveling Tinctures, Tonics, and Bifurcated Nostrums for the Betterment of the Eyes, Ears, Nose, Throat, and—”

  “Girl, I don’t see a damn thing but Horace Gorton’s broke-down mule and a drunk floozie sleepin’ off a toot by that post out front. What are you playin’ at?”

  She stared at Rollicker. “You’re not kidding me, are you, Sheriff?”

  With his little finger he pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose and smoothed his moustaches. She guessed he was fighting the urge to shout at her again.

  Then she understood and her mouth dropped open as she stared at him. He looked away. “So that’s what you meant when you said you can’t see everything. Of course! Last night I laughed at the Doctor when he said his glasses helped him to not be seen. It must have been the wine that made me so very ignorant. Those spectacles of his would make—”

  “Girl, you’re doin’ it again. Chattering away like old Judge Bulger when he gets a few snorts in him—”

  “Sorry. . . .”

  But the sheriff was squinting harder now at the mule. “Doc Ocularius, huh? Right here under my very nose! Hell, I’m callin’ him out right now.”

  “What? Wait, what does that mean?”

  “Means I’m aiming to get the Doc out here, settle his hash once and for all, right here in the street.”

  “But how will you see him?”

  “I won’t,” he smiled and spat at their feet. “But you will.”

  “What?”

  “Yep, just muckle onto him when he tries to climb aboard his wagon there. I’ll see you and I’ll pepper whatever it is you’re grabbin’ onto.”