Shanghai Steam

by Calvin D. Jim

  “What happens now?” Su Yin’s eyes were wide as she watched airships flare like fireworks in the night sky. Her fingers tightened against his.

  Feng knew her question was an honest one. There might be more ships. More soldiers. He took her hands in his, drawing her close.

  “I don’t know what they’ll do, but they know that we’ll find a way to fight.”

  * * * * *

  Ray Dean was born and raised in Hawaii where she spent many a quiet hour reading and writing stories. Performing in theater and working backstage lead her into the delights of Living History. The genre of Steampunk allows her to play in a history created from her own imagination.

  The Legend of Wong Heng Li

  Frank Larnerd

  Lying on his back with his straw hat pulled low, Wong Heng Li let the spring sun warm his bones. He was dreaming of home, of Zhu Yan, the bandit girl, and the baby she cradled in her arms.

  In the dream, the baby reached for Wong, wrapping her tiny fingers around his thumb.

  “Wake up,” said a voice, cutting through the vision.

  Frowning, Wong lifted the brim of his hat. “You called for lunch. I still have twenty minutes.”

  Boss Tanner put his hands on his hips. “You’ll get your break. Now come on. There’s a man I want you to meet.”

  Wong followed the rail boss past the tents to the front of the line. A colorfully painted wagon drawn by four dapple horses stood by the tracks. Next to the wagon was a spectacled man with an enormous curled mustache.

  Tanner said, “Wong, say hello to Mr. Coppersmith.”

  “What about my break?” Wong asked.

  “Listen,” Boss Tanner said, taking Wong aside. “This fellow says he’ll pay a hundred dollars if I got a man that can beat his machine. He’s trying to impress the Central Pacific with my testimonial.”

  “Not interested.”

  Tanner grabbed his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll split it with you. Seventy-thirty.”

  Wong brushed past him.

  “I told you those coolies are too small to be efficient,” Coppersmith said.

  Wong wheeled around, his braid whipping about. “Chinese people might be small, Mr. Coppersmith, but remember, we made one giant wall.” He turned to his boss. “Fifty-fifty.”

  Tanner licked his lips. “Sixty-forty?”

  “Who helped you when the wolves came?”

  “You did.”

  “And the Indians?”

  “You did, Wong.”

  “And the Mormons?”

  “Dammit, Wong.” Tanner rolled his eyes. “Alright, fifty-fifty.”

  A half hour later, the entire camp gathered near the track they had prepared for the contest. Protruding from the timbers were rows of steel spikes, tapped in just enough to hold them upright. The railmen whispered to one another as Wong stretched beside the rails.

  “Gentlemen,” Mr. Coppersmith called out. “Today, you will witness the future of locomotive ingenuity. My latest design will usher in a new age, an age where machines not only replicate, but improve on man’s labor. No longer will we be burdened with foreign hordes and their corrupting influences.”

  Wong spat in the dust.

  “No. No, my good sirs,” Coppersmith continued. “Let every soul here make note and spread the message of this demonstration far and wide. Tell your friends of the fateful day that you beheld the industrial ingenuity of Coppersmith Steam and Automation Designs as it drove the first blow in its destiny to hammer out the defects of mankind’s pursuit of physical endeavors!”

  Coppersmith yanked a lever attached to the wagon. “I give you Astondo! The metal man!”

  Machinery clicked and groaned the sides of the carriage folded away.

  Wong wrapped his braid around his neck as a giant shining statue climbed down from the wagon. It was ten feet tall and made of bronze metal plates. Broad at the shoulders, the machine had giant arms, one ending in a massive mallet, the other a three-fingered claw. Its face had simple stern features, and on its head was a spiked Prussian helmet.

  Astondo lumbered toward the group, causing the rail workers to fall back before it.

  Coppersmith smiled. “Astondo, are you ready to show these gentlemen what you’re made of?”

  Steam hissed from the machine’s mouth as it twirled its mallet in the air.

  Wong stood beside the bronze machine. Its head swiveled toward him and let out a menacing hiss.

  Boss Tanner called to the competitors. “Before you is a hundred yards of track. Each of you will take a side, driving in every spike until you hit the end of the line. The winner is the one that gets there first.”

  He drew his pistol, aiming it in the air. “Good luck!” Tanner’s pistol fired, and Astondo swung its mallet down, splintering the wooden tie with the spike. Hissing, Astondo continued to the next spike.

  Wong closed his eyes and sat cross-legged on the track.

  “Well,” Coopersmith smiled, “it seems your man has fallen asleep on the job.”

  Tanner waved him off. “Don’t worry. He always does this when he’s fixing to raise a ruckus.”

  Wong let his mind drift away to an empty silent place. He let his breathing slow, and through the darkness of his thoughts came an image of the past.

  Sunlight filtered between the blossoming branches of the temple’s courtyard. Dressed in orange robes, Master Chew listened to skylarks’ songs from the east. As Wong approached him, the old master presented him with a sword. With an outstretched hand, Master Chew directed him toward a wooden dummy dressed in an iron breastplate.

  “Use the sword to cut the armor.”

  Gritting his teeth, Wong slashed at the armor, each strike sending a shock up his arm as the blade glanced off. He hacked until his arm grew slow and heavy.

  “Enough,” Master Chew said, taking back the sword. “The edge is too wide to pierce the armor. Wild reckless action only dulls it.”

  The master held out the sword, letting sunlight glint off the blade. “A sword’s tip allows the weapon to direct the attack to a point.”

  Master Chew drove the tip of the sword through the armor.

  “Where thoughtless broad attack fails, the focused attack cuts a path to victory.” The master handed Wong the sword, and the image blasted into a brilliant light, swirling and spilling over with power.

  Wong pushed the light into his stomach, allowing it to radiate through his body. He let the waves of energy wash over him until they became one steady pulse of power. Wong’s eyes sprang open.

  He flew into the air, hanging suspended over the workers. Leading with his hammer, Wong came down, driving the first spike straight through the tie.

  Wong cartwheeled down the track. With every revolution his hammer blasted a spike into the timbers, picking up speed as he went.

  Halfway down the track, the bronze machine continued systematically hammering spikes with mechanical efficiency. It stopped and stared as Wong spun past him, driving in the last three spikes on the track.

  Behind them, the workers exploded into cheers. They mobbed Wong, applauding and thumping him on the back.

  “Well, Coppersmith,” Tanner grinned, “it looks like you owe me a hundred dollars.”

  Frowning, Coppersmith handed over a wad of folded bills.

  Quivering, Astondo’s eyes flared as the money changed hands.

  Pointing to the bronze giant, Wong said, “Might be better than any man, maybe even better than any Chinaman, but not better than a railroad man,” and plucked his winnings out of Tanner’s grasp. With that, the other workers erupted into applause.

  Steam blasted from Astondo’s ears. It raised its mallet high into the air.

  Coppersmith held up his hands. “Astondo! Stop!”

  “Alright now,” Tanner said, drawing his pistol. “Don’t make another move.”

  The machine advanced as Tanner fired, bullets ricocheting off of its metal skin. Astondo swung down.

  “Oh, horse-feathers,” Tanner gulped.
/>   Before the mallet stuck, Wong pushed the rail boss behind Coppersmith’s wagon.

  Through the dust, Coppersmith blocked the machine and held up his hands. “Halt, I say!”

  Astondo flattened its inventor to the ground in a single strike. Around it, workers screamed, scattering in all directions. The metal monster lifted its mallet; gooey strands of Coppersmith dangled from the end.

  Its head swiveled around, scanning the area. Screams caught the machine’s attention and it stomped off, crashing past Coppersmith’s wagon and over to the men’s tents.

  “Well, go on!” Tanner hollered at Wong. “Get him!”

  “Forty-sixty.”

  “What? Why, you yellow bastard!”

  Astondo kicked a horse over the train cars.

  “And the rest of the day off for all the men,” Wong said.

  Tanner slapped two more fives in Wong’s hand. “Fine.”

  Wong ran after Astondo as it smashed through the camp, scattering men and horses. It used its claw to overturn carts and its mallet to flatten any unlucky workers who came within striking distance.

  Flipping into the air, Wong landed on the machine’s shoulders. He found a handhold on the collar and held tight as the bronze monster tromped through screaming workers.

  Wong slammed the ridge of his hand into Astondo’s neck. It made an impressive clang, but hurt his hand more than the machine. Using its claw, Astondo plucked Wong from its back and flung him toward the ground.

  Landing on his feet, Wong rolled away as Astondo roared out a spray of blistering steam that melted two cowering workers. With a yell, Wong flew at the giant, slamming its torso with his fists and feet. The metal monster glared at him with glowing amber eyes and casually swatted him away.

  Wong crashed in the dirt. Blood trickled from his lips as his eyes rolled back to whites.

  When he opened them again, Wong was holding Zhu Yan in his arms, her belly swollen like the harvest moon that floated above them.

  “It’s only a few years,” Wong whispered. “Our actions must be focused, like the tip of a blade, so that we can carve a future for our family.”

  He kissed her head. “It’s a small sacrifice.”

  Zhu Yan leaned back, her eyes wet. “You only have to close your eyes, and I will be with you.”

  The memory ended as Astondo knocked over a dynamite wagon, rocking the camp with a mushroom cloud of fire and smoke. Wong staggered to his feet and surveyed the demolished camp. “Tanner!”

  From behind an overturned service car, the rail boss peeked out. “I thought you was squished into strawberry preserves!”

  Wong picked up a discarded hammer. “Get some spikes,” he said as he wiped blood from his face.

  Together, they followed the path of destruction to the rear of the supply line, where they found Astondo flattening a horse and rider into the dust. They crouched behind a smoldering chuck wagon as the metal monster scanned the devastation.

  Astondo turned and saw them. Steam whistling from its ears, it charged.

  “Spike!” Wong shouted as he jumped high into the air.

  Tanner flung the spike at Astondo. It tumbled toward the monster’s face, end over end.

  Twisting in the air, Wong reared back with the hammer. Just as the tip of the spike touched Astondo’s forehead, Wong struck, driving the spike deep into the machine.

  Sparks flashed as smoke drifted from the wound. With a groan, Astondo teetered and slammed to the ground.

  It twitched, then lay still as the light faded from its eyes.

  Wong Heng Li gathered his things while the men celebrated. Shrugging off their cheers, he returned to his spot in the spring sun and lowered his hat over his eyes.

  Soon, he was dreaming of home.

  * * * * *

  Frank Larnerd is an undergraduate student at WVSU, where he received multiple awards for fiction and non-fiction. His first anthology as editor, “Hills of Fire: Bare-Knuckle Yarns of Appalachia” will be released in the fall of 2012 from Woodland Press. He lives in Putnam County, West Virginia.

  Flying Devils

  Derwin Mak

  Soong Kanghua walked along the shoreline of Kunming Lake in the grounds of the Summer Palace. Servants and officials bowed to him as he passed. He was the Assistant Minister of Finance in the Ministry of War.

  He approached the Marble Boat. He disliked the pavilion, which was shaped like a European paddle steamer. The Imperial Family had built it with funds meant for the construction of a modern navy. Soong was powerless to stop the embezzlement. Like many things of the Qing Dynasty, it was beautiful but useless.

  The Minister of War awaited him in the Marble Boat. Soong bowed to the Minister, a general of the first rank.

  “Your Excellency, what may I do for you?” Soong asked.

  “I wish you to investigate some rumors about General Zhou Desheng,” the Minister said. “Do you know him?”

  “Not well,” Soong replied. “I know that he commands several forts in Guangxi Province, and he watches the French on the Vietnam side of the border. Has he been a problem?”

  “I have heard that he is levying an unauthorized tax on the local population. Investigate this allegation. Examine his accounting records to determine the source of his funds.”

  Yet another warlord is extorting money from the locals, Soong thought. Why treat this one differently?

  The Minister handed a scroll to Soong. “This is my authorization for you to execute Zhou if you find any evidence of wrongdoing. No trial is required.”

  The latest power struggle among generals, Soong realized.

  “If you need to execute him, you will receive ten thousand yuan to compensate you for the inconvenience,” the Minister added.

  “Your Excellency is most kind.”

  “One hundred Manchu Bannermen will escort you. Zhou keeps only fifty men at his headquarters, so you will outnumber him two to one.”

  Soong looked at the scroll. “Your Excellency, if there is a possibility that Zhou will need, uh, military discipline, why send me instead of a military officer to investigate him?”

  “I cannot spare any competent officer on this mission,” the Minister said. “I need them all to concentrate on strengthening the military.”

  After China’s shameful loss to Japan, the Minister needed to show some commitment to the Self-Strengthening Movement. Sending a general to kill another general would be awkward at this time. An accountant would be a better assassin.

  Soong bowed. “I understand, sir. Thank you for entrusting me with this important mission.”

  As Soong left the Summer Palace, he watched some riflemen at target practice. They fired at a bulls-eye mounted in a rowboat in Kunming Lake. Nobody hit the target. Their officer, a low-ranking prince, simply shrugged.

  Chinese soldiers were useless. Unlike in the West, soldiering was a despised occupation if one was below the rank of general. Chinese soldiers did not show off their uniforms and medals to parents and girlfriends. Chinese men joined the army only for food and clothes. They gave their feeble loyalty to individual generals, not to their country.

  As a wealthy official, Soong lived in a large siheyuan. It was a traditional home, a walled compound with four buildings surrounding a courtyard. It was also the local office of the Hung League, named after the first Ming Emperor.

  Soong watched his thirty warriors in training. A Shaolin monk taught hand-to-hand combat to new recruits. In another corner, some men fought with dao swords. At a long table, the riflemen cleaned their guns. A color party carried a banner reading, “Down with the Qing and up with the Ming!”

  Training a secret society was dangerous in Beijing, a city full of soldiers and civil servants. Fortunately, Soong’s high rank and loyal service kept him from suspicion. Nobody had questioned the thousands of yuan that he had recorded as office supplies in the Ministry’s accounting records. The money actually went to feed, equip, and clothe the Hung League.

  Soong called for attention. The
men quietly gathered around him.

  “Some of you wonder what chance we have of defeating the foreign devils when the Imperial Army has failed,” Soong began. “Know that the Army has been corrupted by the Qing, a dynasty of weak Manchus. But we, through our martial and spiritual training, embody the true Han spirit. We are the heroes of The Water Margin. We are the wuxia. We will defeat the foreign devils.”

  When Soong arrived at General Zhou’s fort, he told the Bannermen to stay outside the walls.

  “Sir, should we not enter the fort?” asked Captain Arsai, the Bannermen’s commander.

  “No. I want to settle things peacefully,” Soong explained.

  At the fort’s gate, Zhou’s sentries eyed the Bannermen warily. Zhou’s sentries and Soong’s Bannermen were all Chinese soldiers, but they came from different worlds. The Bannermen wore Manchu-style blue shirts and baggy pants, with Mandarin hats for the officers and turbans for the lower ranks. Some carried swords and bows and arrows, and others carried rifles. In contrast, Zhou’s soldiers wore khaki European military tunics and peaked caps. Each carried a rifle.

  The sentries opened the gate, and Soong entered the fort, unarmed and alone.

  The fort was small, just slightly larger than Soong’s home in Beijing. Zhou had built the fort by adding four watch towers and additional masonry to an existing siheyuan. He had also built a gate in the wall that faced a lake, thus creating an opening to the shore.

  General Zhou greeted his visitor. “Assistant Minister Soong, welcome to my headquarters. Will you join me for tea?”

  “Yes, that would be nice,” Soong replied. They walked through the back gate and sat at a table by the shore.

  “This is a beautiful lake, is it not?” Zhou said. “It is so quiet and peaceful.”

  Someone yelled profanities and, “Release me! Release me! You cannot keep me here!”

  Soong saw a junk floating on the lake. A man was tied to its mast.

  “Who is that?” Soong asked.

  Zhou sipped his tea. “He is a worthless opium dealer whom I have arrested. That boat is his private yacht. It is pretty, is it not? It is unfortunate that it will be used in target practice.”