Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "Cut!" The shout rang out across the ruins. "The girl's in the shot."

  "Bloody hell!" Carvel pivoted in place, shading his eyes against the sun, peering up the ruined Mayan pyramid's slope at the young girl scrambling along its decrepit surface. He didn't know if it was typical for these 'film' projects or not, but this had to be, by far, the least professional production he'd ever had the displeasure of taking part in. "Robinson, control your wretched offspring!"

  The film crew's overweight director lifted his glasses and wiped the sheen of sweat from his ruddy face. "Don't put yourself out, Mr. White. We'll take up again from the start of your anecdote."

  The girl's father, the crew's guide, ran a hand through the back of his shaggy dark hair. Where the crew's jungle khakis were so new that they were practically still starched, his own outfit was faded and streaked with the mud of dozens of previous expeditions. "Sorry about that, Mr. Girnwood."

  "Just keep her off the set, Henry," the director said.

  "Penny!" The man cupped his hands, calling up the ruins to his daughter. "Get down here!"

  The girl looked up from her explorations, the copper sheen of her hair's cascading curls catching the light of the setting sun. She gave a brief wave before starting down the pyramid's crumbling face, her feet easily and naturally finding secure footing despite the seeming careless rate of her descent. While not so crass as to wish a fall upon her, Carvel resolved that if she did take a tumble she'd have no one to blame but herself.

  "Let's take a break," Girnwood said, turning to his young production assistant. "Fifteen minutes, Jerry. We'll shoot the scene, and that should be enough to justify our travel budget to the investors, and we can get the hell out of the jungle and spend the rest of the weekend on holiday in Mérida. Then it's back to Exeter to film the school scenes."

  Penny jumped the last few feet to land near her father, a cloud of dust raising from her boots.

  "Ladies do not jump, Penelope." Carvel sniffed disapprovingly. It wasn't proper for the young girl be along in the first place. The jungle was, as he understood it, a dangerous place.

  "I'm not a lady," Penny said.

  "I should say not!"

  The little monster stuck out her tongue. "And my name is Penny!"

  "Come along, you ragamuffin," her father said. "Apologise to Mr. White."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. White." She even sounded sincere, the old actor was impressed.

  "As well you should be!" Carvel unbuttoned his jacket -- a minor concession to the heat and humidity. "This wretched jungle is bad enough as is, with its monkeys and highwaymen. The sooner we move on, the better."

  "I want to be a monkey. Can I be a monkey, father?"

  "You're monkey enough as is, poppet. Let's have no more troubles, dear. The film people need to finish doing their jobs, and then we can leave."

  Penny scowled. "Leave? We just got here. I want to explore the pyramid. They're not like the ones in Egypt -- you can get inside them and everything!"

  "It's a difference in purpose. The ones here were temples, not tombs."

  "Do they have magic powers?"

  Her father laughed. "What?"

  "Kalil said that the pyramids at Giza had magical powers. Because of their shapes. They could make razors sharper and magnets... magnetter!"

  "I don't think that's quite true." He glanced back over his shoulder. "It looks like Mr. Girnwood is trapped in the ivy again. Stay away from the front of the pyramid where they're filming."

  "Yes, father."

  ***

  Technically Penny was very near the front of the Mayan pyramid, but there were several feet of stone between her and the cameras so she didn't think it counted. She'd never been to the Central American jungles before, and didn't want to waste an opportunity to do a little exploring before they left. She didn't much care for the film people and their movie, particularly the actor-man Mr. White. They were noisy, scaring all the animals away, prone to complaining, and had packed far too much for a simple expedition. Most disappointing was the limited duration of the trip they'd hired her father to guide -- a short walk into the rainforest, a few hours at the ruin, then a short hike back to civilisation.

  It hardly seemed worth the trouble, but what could one expect? They weren't adventurers like she and father were.

  The torch crackled and spat in her hand as she crept through the stone corridors under the ruin. This was more like it. This was the sort of thing she loved most about her life. Most girls her age would be enrolled in some stuffy private day school, or sent to a work house, but she got to travel the world, visiting exotic places, seeing amazing sights. When she grew up she wanted to be just like her father.

  No, she'd never heard of a famous girl explorer, but there had to be a first one, right?

  Her fingertips traced the ancient carvings set into the walls as she walked along. They didn't look like the ones she'd seen in Egypt, all painted on. These were carved into the stone, square, set in very precise columns.

  She stopped, noticing that a section had a slightly different texture, a minor variation in the grain of the carved limestone. While in the same general style as the rest of the designs, there were subtle differences. Penny couldn't really put a name to it, but the figures seemed more... precise. Regular. The limestone was rough, less worn by the passage of millennium.

  Penny very nearly gasped as one of the figures, that of a man sitting on a throne, shifted slightly under her fingertips. She touched it again, and found the figure to be on a pivot. The two figures alongside it -- a warrior with a spear, and a woman with a jug on her head -- proved likewise movable. She listened, ear to the stone, as she turned the central figures. Clicks. Clearly clicks -- they formed some kind of stone combination lock.

  Her father would have been concerned to have known, but she'd learnt to crack safes from her friend Kalil in Istanbul. There was nothing improper or criminal about it -- they were just bored children, hiding in a safe-house while her father dealt with the assassins stalking them -- but it passed the time and was a pretty neat trick.

  Images of lost Mayan gold filled Penny's head as she turned each of the three figures, an almost inaudible shift in the 'clicks' telling her when she had them in the right position. As the third figure settled into place a section of the wall pivoted inward, exposing a hidden package.

  "That's prime," Penny said.

  The girl glanced back down the way she'd come. Her father had given her standing orders to come fetch him whenever she'd discovered a secret anything, but for all she knew they were still in the middle of filming -- she felt bad enough about interrupting their work earlier, and had no great desire to do so again by popping out of the front entrance unexpectedly. Besides, there was no harm in taking a quick peek, was there?

  ***

  "I've decided that we're not to have children," Aldora said.

  Alton Bartleby, her fiancé, almost dropped his racket mid-serve.

  "Fault," his business partner James said without looking up from his work. The engineer was sitting on the lawn alongside the court, jeweller's loupe in his eye, toolkit out, working on his tennis racket with a small screwdriver.

  "That's hardly fair," Bartleby said, swinging his own racket aimlessly as he retrieved the ball. "Spouting nonsense to throw me off my game."

  "It's not nonsense, it's a simple truth that I've come to understand. We will not be having children."

  Aldora was impeccably dressed for lawn tennis in her full-bodiced flannel skirt, its hem just above her ankles, matching sailor's hat perched on her head. She constantly rode the edge of fashion in an effortless sort of way, the same way that she navigated the whirls and eddies of London's social rapids with an instinctive grace. The fact that she came from one of the city's great families gave her a considerable advantage, but her ability to navigate it was pure Aldora.

  "And I don't suppose I have a say in this?"

  Bartleby tossed his ball up again, swinging his racket to the right in a soft s
lice serve. The ball arced towards the opposite corner of his fiancée's half of the court.

  Aldora sidestepped and let the ball bounce before returning it with a forehand swing.

  "If Mr. Wainwright can devise a womb for you to carry a child in--"

  "No." James said.

  In contrast to the expensive leisurewear that his companions wore, the inventor was dressed in utilitarian working-class attire. His cotton trousers were grass-stained, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows to spare it from the grease smeared along his hands and forearms.

  "There's gossip enough on the length of our engagement as-is," Bartleby said, taking the few steps it took to knock the ball back. "I can only imagine the rumours if we don't produce suitable offspring."

  A few brisk steps brought Aldora almost to the net, intercepting the volley. The ball shot to the ground and Bartleby made a lunge, but the bounce carried it well beyond the arc of his swing.

  "That was the purpose of this long engagement." Aldora caught the ball as Bartleby threw it to her. "After the marriage we maintain that we're making the attempt for several years. When nothing comes of it, we simply say that we've become too aged to consider it a safe option."

  She tossed the ball into the air, then smashed it overhand in a flat serve that skimmed the top of the net. "We'll get some pity for our childless state, but not an undue amount."

  "Well." Bartleby returned the serve ably. "We've got Xin Yan. On paper, at least, she's your adoptive daughter."

  "On paper," James repeated from the sidelines, snapping his wrist to close the racket he'd been working on.

  Not quite a year ago Bartleby and James had been commissioned as consulting detectives to stop a monstrous killer haunting East London. James had discovered young Xin Yan at the site of one of the Scissorman's crime scenes, the sole survivor of the depredations that had taken her family. The engineer didn't take to most people, preferring the solitude of his workroom, but the Chinese girl had grown on him quickly. It wasn't proper that he, a bachelor, be given sole guardianship of a child, so on Bartleby's urging Aldora had taken the girl into her household.

  "Let's leave it on paper." Aldora popped the ball back into the air. "Xin Yan is a sweet girl, but the lifestyle I've chosen is not compatible with childcare. Having her as our ward will satisfy our social obligations without the need for our own offspring."

  The ball arced, almost skimming the net as it plummeted just on Bartleby's side of the court.

  "You will hear no objections from me. Game point."

  James took the racket from Bartleby's hand and replaced it with the one he'd been working on.

  "What's this?" Bartleby asked.

  "It's better."

  "Better?" He gave it a practice swing.

  "Elastic coils absorb the kinetic energy from the ball's initial impact and release it on the second contact."

  "That hardly seems sporting," Bartleby said.

  "I've no objection." Aldora tossed the ball up into the air and caught it again. "When you're ready?"

  James walked back off the court, while Bartleby once again took up a defencive posture. "Ready."

  Aldora lobbed an easy serve towards her fiancé.

  Bartleby returned it confidently. "There's a slight hum..."

  "It's supposed to do that," James said.

  Aldora let the ball bounce, then returned it back towards Alton.

  "Here goes--" Bartleby smashed his racket into the ball as it neared him, the strings making an audible twang. The racket's head seemed to blur for just a moment, and the ball shot off like a rocket, narrowly missing Aldora's head and punching a hole in the garden's topiary.

  "Well done, Mr. Wainwright," Aldora said, clapping slowly.

  "Should it not have done that?"

  "No, James," Bartleby said. "It should not have done that."

  ***

  "What's with the change of heart?" Bartleby asked, escorting Aldora back towards her house. "Regarding offspring, I mean. It wasn't an objection you'd raised before."

  "It wasn't a matter we'd discussed before."

  "No, but I assumed--"

  "Disappointed I shan't be bearing your child, Alton?"

  "No," he said. "It's just that we had a plan--"

  "Plans change, but the core of our arrangement remains." Aldora glanced up at the sky. "A marriage of convenience that does not interfere with the lifestyles we've chosen."

  "We should get around to setting a date, I suppose."

  "I fancy a September wedding." Aldora closed her eyes, enjoying the breeze. "That gives us almost a year."

  "That suits my needs." Alton pointed towards the house. "You've a visitor."

  A carriage had parked in the drive, its coachman waiting idly in his seat.

  "I do hope it's not a solicitor," Aldora said, "here on business because James' racket has lead to a decapitation."

  "Be nice."

  "I am perfectly civil."

  The Fiske's butler met them at the door, posture stiff, shoulders back.

  "A messenger awaits you in the hall, Miss," he bowed towards Aldora. "Bearing a certified letter."

  "Thank you, Davidson," Aldora handed the man her tennis bonnet. "Inform him that I shall be along presently, after I've had the chance to freshen up."

  "Yes, Miss Fiske."

  "Go keep the man company, Alton."

  "It would be my pleasure," Bartleby grinned. "We'll be in the parlour. Bring us a few drinks, eh, Davidson?"

  "Very good, sir."

  Aldora joined the men in the waiting parlour, having changed into a light cotton dress with a high-boned collar accenting her neckline, a silk sash around her waist. Alton and her visitor, dressed in full servant's livery, rose as she entered.

  "Aldora, darling, I was just talking with Charles here--"

  "I am acquainted with Charles," Aldora spoke quietly, an unwelcome lurch in her stomach at the sight of the footman. She spared the pleasantries and stepped to his side. "I was told you had a message. Is it from my parents?"

  "Your parents?" Bartleby asked.

  "No, Miss Aldora," the ageing footman responded. A gloved hand extended, envelope in hand. "A certified letter arrived for you at your father's home this morning."

  Aldora took the envelope with a slight hesitation, eyes scanning the simple scrawling of her name, alone on its back. There was no return address, but the stamp used was international post. "Was this matter brought to my parents' attention?"

  "No, Miss," the footman said. "I believed it prudent to avoid burdening them with its arrival."

  "Thank you, Charles."

  "If I may take my leave--"

  "As you would."

  The footman bowed once to Bartleby and accompanied the Butler out of the parlour.

  Aldora examined the envelope carefully, one finger tracing its edges while Bartleby fidgeted with his hat.

  He spoke slowly. "Aldora, your parents--"

  "Most of my correspondents possess my current address." Aldora's thoughts were miles away and years in the past. "But those I've not been in contact with recently may mistakenly send missives to my parents' household."

  "I see."

  "If you would not be terribly insulted, Alton, I am not feeling overly social at the moment."

  "Of course, dear," he said, taking his surcoat from the butler. "I will be at the club should you require anything."

  "Have a good evening, Alton."

  Aldora stood by the parlour window, watching as her fiancé hailed a hansom cab. She stayed there for several minutes, thinking of the man whose signature she'd recognised, before carefully slicing open the top of the envelope with her pen-knife.

  ***

  "Gentlemen, the call of adventure is upon us."

  A chorus of approving harrumphes cascaded through the Gentlemen Explorer's Club's den. While the exclusive club did have a conference room, complete with a long table and chairs, its members were men of Action who did not much stand on the forma
lity of procedure. Instead they stood reading broadsheets or sat with glasses of brandy near the den's cosy fireplace, servants on hand to freshen drinks or snip cigar tips as needed. Many of them, including the club's secretary (currently addressing the collective), were military men.

  Colonel Isley had been retired almost a decade, but still dressed in uniform on a day to day basis. He'd returned from India to London several years ago, founding the club with a few other servicemen. It had since expanded to include men of all backgrounds who had a hunger that could only be satiated by adventure, and had managed to fund several such expeditions annually. "What we have before us is a rescue mission to the depths of Mexico's Lacandon Jungles in search of a missing motion picture company."

  "Motion picture?" Donaldson, the eldest member of the club leaned forward on his cane, eyes squinted and mouth puckered.

  "Cinema. You of course remember the outing in May? We saw the feature on naval shipyards."

  "Oh, yes," Donaldson said. "I dare say these cinema men are daft, then, looking for British ships in the jungles of New Spain. No wonder they're in need of rescue."

  "They were filming a biographical piece on the life of engineer Charles Babbage. Apparently he'd made a trip to the jungles some five decades ago, and they deemed it prudent to film along the trail he'd left." Colonel Isley turned to the mirror above the mantle with a snort, smoothing the tips of his imperial moustache. "They were a month overdue for their expected return, and it is feared that they met with a tragic end."

  "Is this... Lacandon Jungle... a dangerous place, then?" Donaldson asked the question with a ghoulish grin.

  "Dangers abound," the Colonel reported with a smile. "Several species of large cat prowl the area -- puma, jaguar, ocelot. And let us not forget the region's volatile politics... Diaz has modernised his nation, but many of his subjects see his policies as needlessly harsh, and the countryside is rife with highwaymen."