Shanghai Steam

by Calvin D. Jim

  Yet what was the purpose of Ting-Lam’s body or mind anymore? A childless woman of twenty-six years won by Master Ye and pretending to be his nephew. She struck a match against granite, cupped her left hand and then lit the fuse. Death, like life, had its determined appointment. Sooner or later, all returned to emptiness. Some returned while they still lived.

  “Fuse burns,” she shouted upward.

  “Beware,” Master Ye bellowed from above, signaling to work crews with his arms. “Run.”

  Clanks of dropped shovels followed. Down the hillside below, workmen wearing straw hats scampered, water sloshing from their buckets. The fuse shortened as seconds passed, sizzling, lighting the companion fuses.

  “Up, up,” Ting-Lam yelled. “Hurry.” What if the explosion killed her and the men discovered her woman’s body? Such shame.

  The basket inched upward. She must remain calm and steady. A woman of virtue accepted the inevitable but not without distress.

  “Lock wrists with me,” one of her Chinese comrades shouted.

  He leaned over the precipice as the basket neared the top, clamping his dusty hands around her forearms. This was no time to let his touch bring a flush of embarrassment. She let him pull her free from the basket before it rested on firm ground. Then she ran with the men away from danger. Master Ye limped far ahead of them all, the moon-flame gun in his arms, his waist-length gray queue bobbing with his jerky movements.

  The granite dragon roared. Stone spewed into the air like fireworks of angry giants. The heavens rained dirt, dust and gravel. Ting-Lam flattened herself against the rough earth, arms shielding her head, although the main blast shot away from her.

  “Five feet,” a man’s voice shouted in Cantonese. “Maybe.” He coughed. “To have certainty, we must clear this rubble.”

  Ting-Lam expelled air from her lungs. There was a chance, then, she would not have to work with that stronger and more dangerous blasting gelatine, the one that detonated with ease during mixing because of excess liquid nitro glycerin.

  The aroma of black tea greeted Ting-Lam as she ladled the steaming beverage from the old powder keg into her earthenware teapot. Hundreds of Chinese laborers sat around the mountainside. Their chopsticks dipped into dented metal bowls filled with seaweed and rice.

  “Si,” one of the men whispered, gesturing in her direction.

  He meant death. They thought she would be the next to die. But she need not endure their glances, for the cook’s helper always brought her mid-day meal to Master Ye’s shack. Both Ting-Lam and Ye must take advantage of the high sun’s radiant warmth, return energy and natural balance to the crystal which powered the moon-flame gun.

  Ting-Lam opened their shack’s splintery door. The rusty iron hinges creaked, the welcoming sound of privacy. During the afternoon, she would continue helping Ye build a spare moon-flame gun. A better assignment than shoveling granite rubble until twilight. How fortunate they knew how to work with energized crystals. Still, Ye’s moon-flame crystal held far more power than she could release, for she had not yet achieved true oneness with it. Her qi could flow across the crystal’s surface but never filled the inside.

  Sunlight streamed through a small glass window and onto a table where aligned lenses bathed in the nourishing rays. The circular black crystal, dark as a moonless midnight sky, rested beneath the lowest lens. Two bowls of rice and seaweed waited on the opposite end of the table. Master Ye sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his drooping mustache framing his lips. She poured tea and set his meal in front of him, then joined him on the floor.

  “Do you think we conquered five feet?” Ting-Lam picked up her chopsticks and shoveled a lump of rice to her mouth.

  “No matter,” Ye said. “Brockton would find flaws in the Great Wall. Then want to rebuild it.” A piece of seaweed dangled from the end of his chopsticks. “If we work in harmony, our current methods will suffice.”

  Ting-Lam sighed, preparing herself to receive yet another correction. “Is my work the flaw?”

  “No,” Ye said. “But we must look for a way to enlighten Brockton.”

  “Oh.” Until she learned his weakness, a thousand candles wouldn’t brighten that man.

  “Besides,” Ye added, “if we don’t finish the main tunnels by winter, snow will finish many of us.” He frowned, his facial creases more prominent than ever.

  “But the company knows the danger of snow.” Rough weather had forced them to suspend their tunnel building last winter.

  “They’ve dropped too far behind schedule.” Ye withdrew a pouch of dried herbs from the pocket of his robe. “I heard this morning they fear losing investment money and plan to push ahead regardless.”

  The barbarians dared challenge winter? Ting-Lam accepted the pinch of herbs Ye gave her and sprinkled it on her rice. The mixture that prevented her monthly bleeding brought bitterness to her tongue. Ye had emptied his tea cup. She reached for the pot.

  “Tea can wait.” How stern Master Ye sounded. “Walk the circle for me again. Always practice preparation for unwelcome surprises.”

  Ting-Lam had not finished her rice yet, but it would do no good to argue with Ye. When he decided it was time for a lesson in Baguachang, that was that. Did he think bandits waited to kidnap her? Or Brockton — who considered Buddha a devil — might attack? Best not to interfere with the replenishment of the delicate black crystal. Ye might sell her. She stood and moved well clear of both him and the table.

  She bowed to him, then lowered a fist-sized stone from atop their covered clothes chest to the floor. Arms outstretched forward, elbows bent, curved palms facing the front of her shoulders. She walked with four small heel-to-toe steps around the stone. With each subsequent circle, she widened the distance between her and the stone, moving outward, her eyes surveying the one-room dwelling, inspecting even shadows.

  Now she lifted her feet further off the ground when she stepped, her motions slow and graceful. Baguachang taught how to flow out of the way of harm, while using opponents’ energy against them. Plus, in combat, a well-placed step, a knee in a precise location, could snap an opponent’s leg bone in two pieces. Still less dangerous than blasting gelatine spiked with extra nitro glycerin. Oh, for a giant moon-flame beam to use instead of such unstable explosives.

  “Lift your knees a little higher when you dragon step,” Ye said. “Always keep your arms ready to protect your chest, throat and face.”

  Someday she would do this exercise to perfection, and Ye would offer praise instead of corrections. That would return a bit of her dignity. Besides, she had a duty to please him. He had once been a skilled master of this martial art before he injured his leg in a wagon accident. Not as skilled as Wu Sing would have been if Baguachang had existed back then.

  Wu’s skills included spreading harmony. Might he offer Ting-Lam advice about enlightening Brockton? Could Wu steal the energy from her emptiness? No, the path away from emptiness, like the path to achieve true oneness with the moon-flame crystal, must arise within her.

  The sun slipped low in the western sky. The work gangs prepared to end their day. Ting-Lam’s gang of twenty Chinese gathered outside on the mountain to hear the verdict. Had their crew of diggers and explosives handlers progressed five feet into the new tunnel today, or not?

  The curly-headed Brockton climbed out of the lift basket, the quickest way to and from the excavation. His blue-gray eyes stared straight at Ting-Lam and the canvas sack containing the moon-flame gun. His meaty hand clutched a measuring stick. A frown formed on his round, bearded face. Not a good sign.

  “Four feet, ten inches,” Brockton announced.

  Ting-Lam did not manage English well, but she understood measurements and the words ground into the pit of her stomach. Two inches short of the five-foot goal, the length of her little finger. The goal she had to reach to avoid premature explosions and more deaths.

  “Two inches mean little to mountains.” Hand grasping chin, Master Ye stepped forward. “I’ll take my own measurement.�
��

  “So, I don’t know what I’m doing, yer telling me?” Brockton said.

  “No. Is the way of old men to see for themselves.”

  The moon-flame gun warmed Ting-Lam’s hands through the heavy canvas sack, as though it invited her to achieve true oneness with its crystal. The wind whispered Cantonese words into her ear. A translation of Brockton’s? Well, the barbarian’s wishes were not inevitable. Wu Sing’s were.

  “Me go first,” Ting-Lam said in English. She should explain herself, but English hurt her head and twisted her tongue. “Fix, fix.” She stepped forward, pointed at the basket, then at the sinking sun. She turned toward Brockton. “Then you measure.”

  Master Ye squinted, accentuating the age lines on his face, his skin like wrinkled paper. Ye nodded. He trusted her to follow her own plan. Holding the moon-flame gun, she climbed into the empty lift basket. Her fellow workers lowered the woven vessel fifty feet down the mountainside as she put on her goggles.

  At the landing, she set the canvas-wrapped gun on the floor of the bore, then climbed out. Not much light here. Night approached. Already someone raised the basket to carry Brockton down. Ting-Lam had better work fast. This trip, she would have no time for drawing Chinese characters.

  She took several steps into the shadows. If Brockton focused on flaws, he could have made his tunnel-depth measurement on the most shallow section of the excavation. A bulge of earth, the width of her forearm, extended out from the rear wall of the excavation. Yes, this part was less deep. Could she obliterate two inches of granite here? She unpacked Master Ye’s moon-flame gun, then raised the equipment to her shoulder.

  Oh, spirit of Wu Sing. May the magic light work without the ritual just this once. She pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Nothing! How foolish to set aside her ritual for the sake of speed. Now what was she going to do?

  Then the silent blue light-beam streamed from the gun’s barrel toward the bulge in the excavation’s rear wall. Gray smoke rose, turning black and acrid. Thicker than ever before. She held her breath. Despite goggles, her stinging eyes teared. The beam had created as much smoke as an explosion. Blessed energy of Wu Sing. Coughing hard, she released the trigger. How much rock had she burned away?

  A gust of wind thinned the smoke, revealing a huge hole where the bulge had been. She had not cut away a mere two inches of granite. More like two feet. A miracle!

  “Servant of the devil!” The voice of Brockton Tim.

  Ting-Lam wheeled around, pointing her gun toward the cavern floor. She hadn’t understood all his words but knew the sounds of anger. Through shifting smoke, Brockton loomed tall near the tunnel’s entrance, his canvas trousers and jacket coated with soot. If she and Brockton had stood back-to-back, the top of her head would not have reached his neck.

  “I fix,” she said. “You measure.”

  “Gimme that blasted thing,” Brockton hollered.

  He lunged toward Ting-Lam. She darted away from him with a dancing motion. Master Ye’s gun must stay safe. She leaped toward the excavation’s mouth and placed the moon-flame gun into the lift basket.

  “Up,” she shouted in Cantonese, pushing the basket clear of the tunnel even as she turned to confront Brockton.

  “Heathen Chinaman!” His eyes glowered, brown-and-amber pools of rage. “Tis sorcery yer after using to melt this much rock.”

  He dove at her again. Would he plunge them both down the steep slope?

  With a sharp breath, Ting-Lam angled one of her feet so her heel met her toe. Her quick spiral, like a serpent’s twist, moved her clear of Brockton’s forward charge. A space waited behind the back of his heel. She aimed her foot toward there as she turned. The ground behind Brockton’s foot met her own. He stumbled over her opposite leg and pitched forward.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Brockton shouted, as momentum thrust him in the direction of the precipice. But his death could never bring her harmony or dignity.

  Her next forward twist delivered her in front of Brockton. Her shoulder slammed his chest. A whoosh of breath heaved from his lungs as Ting-Lam lurched away from him. Had she redirected his fall?

  Ting-Lam turned to face Brockton. He lay on the floor of the tunnel. With a ragged groan, he pulled himself up, his curly hair like a mass of worms. He was safe. But now what? A voice whispered foreign words into her ear — English.

  “Bad to fall off edge,” she said, repeating what the voice had whispered, her arms still placed to guard her chest and throat, but shifting with serpentine motion.

  Brockton just sat there, eyes wide as two teacups and his head angled to one side.

  Why, she — Cho Ting-Lam — had won a match against granite and human stone. Teachers Wu and Ye had shown her the way but she had walked the path of discipline and discovered Brockton’s weakness: unwelcomed surprise. Plus her qi had filled the crystal and summoned much energy from the moon-flame gun. Pleasant warmth spread through her.

  Still, one task remained. Ting-Lam concentrated upon oneness with her surroundings. She could feel the barbarian’s readiness to consider her terms. Perhaps a moon-flame woman’s path to dignity depended neither on marriage nor sons.

  “You. Me.” Ting-Lam spoke using her deepest voice and bowed in Brockton’s direction. The English words came easier now. “No more too much nitro. We build tunnel in harmony.”

  Brockton nodded in agreement and laughed, yet Ting-Lam felt his uncertainty. Foolish man. Enlightenment, like a patient mother, waited for his attention. He would learn.

  * * * * *

  KOMENAR Publishing released Heroes Arise, Laurel Anne Hill’s award-winning novel, in 2007. Her shorter works of fiction and nonfiction have appeared in a variety of publications. The fans of HorrorAddicts.net voted Laurel “Most Wicked 2011” for her steampunk/horror podcast, “Flight of Destiny.”

  Love and Rockets at the Siege of Peking

  K. H. Vaughan

  Bullets and shouts battered the walls of the British Consulate. Smoke from the burning shops and houses outside the lines of the foreign powers drifted everywhere, perturbed by shot and shell and the constant movement of the fire brigades. Ragged Chinese Christians carried water in soup tureens to prevent the flames from overrunning the 4000 souls within the legations. Outside, the Boxers ran through the streets with spears and knives screaming “Sha! Sha!”

  Colonel Sir Claude Maxwell MacDonald, summoned to yet another urgent situation, paused to peer from an ersatz loophole. Corpses in the streets baked in the June sun. All the buildings around the diplomatic quarter were burning. Even the Hanlin Yuan library was not spared, although some of the diplomats had mounted a rescue attempt, crossing the alley under fire. A few books and artworks were recovered but most burned, including hundreds of Ming audio recordings on porcelain discs.

  He considered the Boxers a disorganized rabble, suitable only for vandalizing railroads and butchering civilians. However, the ten-thousand Gansu Braves of General Dong Fuxiang were disciplined and carried modern Mausers. Their fire was withering and snipers continued to take a bloody toll.

  “Well, Williams? What’s all this then?” Sir Claude demanded, entering a stable the Welshman had converted to a workshop. The horses had long since been slaughtered for food.

  “Sah!” Williams said, snapping to attention. “Mitchell here has got this machine cobbled together but she can’t maneuver. What we need is a proper mechanic to sort it all out.”

  Sir Claude regarded the enormous crab-like monstrosity. The International Gun was an amalgam of scavenged parts, including a rusted iron cannon of uncertain origin with Russian shells of slightly wrong caliber, mounted on a baroque Italian motorized walking chassis, and powered by an American twin-piston Corliss engine. Even if the damned thing wouldn’t fire it should scare the hell out of the attackers, clanking and scuttling about on its three hydraulic legs.

  “You can man this thing?”

  “Yes, Sir!” a Yank said, jumping down from the cockpit. “Gunner’s Mate First Class, Joseph Mitchell, U
nited States Marine Corp, Sir! I’m pretty handy with the Colt machine gun as well.”

  “Marine, eh? Embassy Guard? Damnedest thing, Navy men defending embassies.”

  “Sir, if this situation isn’t like a ship repelling boarders I don’t know what is.”

  “Quite,” Sir Claude acknowledged. “Then the thing is to find a suitable mechanic, yes?”

  “We’ve got plenty of men who can turn a spanner,” Williams said. “But this…” He shook his head. He and Mitchell had been over the possibilities but had come up empty. The situation was grim.

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance,” came a cheerful voice. The American woman, Ann Margaret MacReedy, stood behind them in a heavy white linen shirt and canvas army trousers, her brilliant red hair pulled back.

  “Madam! Whatever is it that you are wearing?” Sir Claude exclaimed.

  “Trousers, Sir Claude,” MacReedy said. “I’m sure you are familiar with them.”

  “Of course I am! However, this is highly irregular. Men’s trousers? Not proper dress for a lady.”

  “I can’t work in a dress, and the Boxers don’t care if I wear a ball gown, trousers, or walk about in the altogether. Indeed, Miss Polly Condit Smith has taken to wearing her nightgown for that very reason. I’ll not be hacked to pieces for propriety’s sake.”

  The Colonel flushed and sputtered at MacReedy’s suggestion and tried his gentlemanly best not to allow an image to form in his mind. Scandalous! No doubt a suffragette as well.

  “Well, alright then,” he concluded. “But what help can you possibly offer in this situation?”

  “Mr. Williams? A Stillson wrench, please.”

  “Yes, mum!”

  “Please, ‘A.M.’ or ‘Morning,’ or ‘Miss MacReedy’, if you cannot bring yourself to say either.”

  Morning MacReedy rolled up her sleeves and vanished to her waist within the gun’s motion housing. After twenty minutes probing within she emerged, her face smeared with grease.