Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection

by Michael Coorlim

  "Can you manage?" Aldora asked.

  "It gets easier when we're moving."

  The ornithopter rose unsteadily into the sky, dipping off of the roof but not losing too much altitude. Aldora stared at the sky ahead as they circled back towards the Bosporus. If Safiyya's strength flagged, if the strain of the three passengers was too much for the machine, it would go crashing into the swift waters below.

  "We have company," Rowe said.

  Aldora looked back. Three more craft rose from the palace grounds.

  "More ornithopters," she said. "And they're catching up to us!"

  "The guards' craft," Safiyya said. "With our weight, there's no way we can outrun them. And they're armed."

  "Here," Rowe pulled a rifle out of the back, handing it to the gentlewoman. "You know how to use this?"

  "Of course," Aldora said. "It's an Enfield."

  "Then use it."

  Aldora leaned sideways out of the craft's frame, tilting it alarmingly. "Sorry."

  "Just shoot them!"

  She took a careful aim at the closest vessel, eventually settling on the pilot as a target of opportunity. The crack of the rifle was deafening in the small space, and Aldora was rewarded by the sight of the ornithopter's wings drooping. Moments later it fell from the sky like a stone, and she pulled the rifle's bolt back, chambering the next round. The chamber and magazine had been altered for a smaller round than the Enfields she was used to, but it was sufficient for the task at hand.

  She shifted slightly, hanging a bit further out, knees hooked around the 'thopter's side rail.

  From this vantage she could see that the guards' vehicles had a gatling mount on their undersides, and the closest one's chamber had begun to spin. Knowing that the heavy-duty rounds would tear through their own vessel like tissue paper, she willed herself calm, took careful aim at where she gauged the gun's magazine to be, tightened her grip, and fired.

  The resulting explosion's shock-wave rocked the ornithopter and she would have fallen from it had Safiyya not reached out and steadied her leg.

  "Thank you," she said, heaving herself back in and pulling back on the rifle's bolt. The third vehicle veered off, returning towards Cemal's estate.

  "No stomach for it, that one," Rowe said.

  Aldora declined to comment, handing the rifle back to him.

  ***

  The public uproar over what became known as "the Yavuzade Letter" was riotous. The European powers demanded a full investigation and return of their citizenry. Most of the Young Turk leadership agreed, but a significant portion -- mostly Turkish nationalists -- chose to side with Cemal Bey, airship captain hero of the revolution, when he feigned ignorance of what he called slander. A trial was held, with much evidence provided for the consumption of the public in Istanbul and abroad, but the real decisions were made in small rooms by men empowered in such matters by their own governments.

  It went on for weeks, and while she was not privy to the true negotiations, Aldora stayed in the British Embassy and repeatedly refused offers of passage home. Safiyya had been taken into custody upon turning herself over to authorities, and the Englishwoman was determined to see things out, for her friend's sake if nothing else. Beyond being asked for a written statement, Aldora was left to her own devices, her good name kept out of the official records.

  On the fifth day members of the city police just so happened to find the kidnapped foreigners, alive and unharmed but unaware of the mastermind behind the plot, and Aldora knew that some deal had been brokered with Cemal.

  The Bey himself was free to come and go on his own recognisance. Despite the allegations, the Turkish papers were careful to clarify that he was working with the investigation to clear his name.

  ***

  She spoke to him only once, boldly slipping into his carriage when it had stopped at an intersection.

  "Why?" was all she asked.

  Cemal had levelled his gaze at her, betraying no surprise over her sudden appearance, no guilt or shame in his eyes. "Why?"

  "You led me on. You used me. You used Safiyya. You owe me an explanation."

  "The days of empires are behind us, Miss Fiske. The world isn't small enough to accommodate them. Change is in the air, and its name is Nationalism. A large multi-ethnic Ottoman cannot long stand, but with my actions... we will see a strong Turkey emerge from its ashes."

  "That's not what I asked."

  "Why you?"

  "Why me."

  "You were a means to an end. It was nothing personal."

  Her voice was utter calm. "Nothing personal."

  "No."

  It took all her willpower not to spit in the man's face. She slipped out of his carriage, and into the city.

  ***

  On the final day of the trial Aldora donned her coat, laced up her boots, wore her best hat, grabbed her parasol, and chartered a carriage to take her to the courthouse. In the Embassy lobby she was met by a slightly built older gentleman -- perhaps sixty -- with carefully groomed hair, a trimmed Van Dyke beard, and an exquisitely tailored suit.

  "Hello, father," she said.

  "Aldora." His tone was outwardly pleasant.

  "I was on my way to the courthouse." Her voice did not falter. "Did you come all the way across the world to escort me?"

  "Why do you bother? You know how this all ends."

  "How, perhaps. What I don't know is why."

  "Yes you do." He leaned sideways against the door-frame. "The powers of Europe get another claim on the Balkans. The Empire is spared the indignity of one of its heroes being exposed a monster. Condemned criminals will be blamed, and the people's need for closure will be satiated by their blood. It's the same as it ever was."

  "And Safiyya? She was just a tool in this. Will she be vindicated as well, or is she another sheep upon the altar of public blood-lust?"

  Her father made a sour face. "Come, Aldora. Young Penelope is waiting for you back in England, as is your gentleman fiancé."

  "It isn't enough."

  "You feel wronged, I know. You want revenge?"

  "I want justice."

  "Justice." Her father seemed to be rolling the word over in his mouth, as if tasting an unusual morsel. "Justice. Hrm. I cannot give you justice, my daughter. I may be able to offer you some completion."

  "What do you mean?"

  He pulled his pocket watch out of his trouser pocket, glanced at it, then at his daughter. "Come. Let's go to this courthouse then, and maybe you'll understand when you see."

  "Thank you, father."

  "We'll take the long route, though. You and I both know the trial itself is show. Your closure will come afterwards."

  "How?"

  "Just look in the man's eyes, child. Watch them when he's close enough. You'll learn all you need to know when he meets your gaze."

  ***

  The trial was letting out as father and daughter arrived in their carriage. The steps of the courthouse were crowded with journalists and the curious, all the way to Cemal's waiting carriage. Seeing it was a sure sign that he was found innocent of wrongdoing. Aldora knew that it would be so, but the proof was still a powerful blow.

  Her father sat at a cafe table some yards away from the crowd. "This will be quite close enough, I should think."

  "We'd be closer near his carriage."

  "This will be near enough."

  "And how am I to see his eyes from here? I'd never make it through the crowd."

  Her father ordered a coffee from the nearby waiter. "Oh, look, he's coming out."

  Ignoring her father's calm, Aldora stood and craned her neck, trying to get a look at Cemal as his bodyguards attempted to clear a path through the crowd. She moved to get a closer look, only to be stopped by her father's aged but iron-firm grip around her wrist.

  "Let me go--"

  "Patience, Aldora. A lady never rushes for an appointment--"

  "--she waits for the appointment to come to her," Aldora finished, standing and watching from a
distance.

  Cemal had stopped to address the crowd, speaking loudly in Turkish.

  "My people," her father translated, studying the cafe's menu. "Many of you are unsure as to my guilt or innocence. This lawful trial, presided over by wise and powerful men, is my vindication. I harbour no ill will towards my accusers, but will stop at nothing to ferret out the monarchists behind this plot to set the Empire against--"

  "Hain!" There was a sudden commotion as a cloaked figure pushed her way out of the crowd with a scream. The cloak fell back as she evaded Cemal's startled guards, and Aldora recognised Safiyya as surely as she recognised the glint of the curved dagger in the woman's hand.

  "Hain!" she shouted again, leaping past Cemal's last defences to plunge her knife into the startled man's chest, again and again. "Hiçbir erkek bana kullanacak! Bir daha asla!"

  "Betrayer," her father translated conversationally, releasing his grip on his daughter's wrist. "No man will ever use me. Never again."

  The crowd screamed and seemed to fall away from the spectacle even as his guards surged forward to restrain her, too late to save their charge.

  Aldora rushed past the fleeing crowd towards the steps in time to see police and bodyguards hauling the valet away from the wreckage of a once beautiful man, his face and chest cut to ribbons by a scorned woman's dagger. She didn't look into his eyes as he lay there, bleeding and still. She looked instead into Safiyya's wide rage-filled ones instead.

  And saw her reflection.

  MARCH OF THE COGSMEN

  Chapter 1

  Alton Bartleby's pleasant midday haze was intruded upon when his companion and partner James gave him a good hard shake.

  "Bartleby. We're here."

  "Here here." Alton started. Was it time for the toast already? He raised his snifter, brandy sloshing about within. "Here's to the groom."

  He took a long slow sip. "Wait. I'm the groom."

  "Not yet you're not. I mean to say that we've arrived. In Hillshire."

  Alton turned his head, noting that, apparently, they were still in the train's club car. Oh, bother, that meant he still had the whole bloody wedding to get through, didn't it?

  James slid out of the booth, ducking to retrieve their bags from under the table.

  Alton noticed a few drops of red on their table, and, being a detective, instantly knew that the they were not blood. No, they came from the bottle of German Kabinett that he remembered having ordered shortly after they'd left London. Recollection wasn't an easy task. He'd had at least two drinks prior: a glass of the cook's sherry back at the house, and a quick nip of sharp Scottish whiskey from his waistcoat flask while waiting to board at the Waterloo Bridge Station.

  He felt proud to have solved that mystery. But where had this glass of brandy come from? His investigations were interrupted when James gave him another nudge.

  "It's time to get off of the train, Bartleby."

  "Industry cannot be delayed." He pushed out of the booth, steadying himself with a hand on his partner's broad shoulder.

  "Are you sure you're ready to go? Don't want another drink to steady your nerves, do you?"

  "James, dear boy, were my nerves any steadier I'd be a corpse."

  "You'll not be far from one once Aldora sees the state you're in."

  "Oh, pish tosh. The wedding's not for hours, and I'll have sobered up by then."

  James guided Bartleby towards the exit. "Overestimations of your metabolic process aside, you've still got to weather the pre-wedding social."

  "Are you my Best Man or an ambulatory itinerary?"

  "Don't get pettish."

  The steps down to the platform proved themselves particularly troublesome, and Bartleby found himself forced to rely on the stability of a nearby conductor for support.

  "I say, sir!" The conductor seemed less than pleased.

  "No, it's perfectly all right," Alton said. He pushed himself off of the conductor, almost sending the man sprawling, and spun to get a grip on the side of the car. "Oh god, the platform's spinning."

  He forced himself to stop and collect his bearings. It was much easier to stand once he'd gotten the matter of 'up' and 'down' sorted.

  "It wouldn't have to be very large, not if it had a replaceable roll tape." James said, apropos of nothing.

  "What roll tape?"

  "The itinerary automaton. I see it as standing... perhaps a foot tall?"

  "You're going to be designing this in your head all through the wedding, aren't you?"

  "You needn't concern yourself." James guided Bartleby away from the edge of the platform, slipping his own bag into his hands. "I take my responsibilities as your Best Man seriously, Bartleby."

  "I suppose one of us had better take the matter seriously. The moon on the ocean was dimmed by a ripple, affording a chequered delight--"

  James stopped and turned towards him. "What are you... is that supposed to be singing?"

  "The gay jolly tars passed a word for the tipple, and the toast -- for 'twas Saturday night--"

  "I ask because normally your voice is quite pleasant."

  Other passengers had slowed in passing, and Bartleby indulged them by dropping his bag and spreading his arms wide. "Some sweetheart or wife he loved as his life each drank, and wished he could hail her..."

  James stooped to pick up the dropped bag. "Oh, brilliant, Bartleby. We've been here not yet one minute and already you've got the local constabulary upon us."

  "But the standing toast that pleased the most, was 'The wind that blows, the ship that goes and the lass that loves a sailor!"

  Alton began a slow spin as he sang, his outstretched hand knocking the custodian helmet off the head of a young man in a dark blue outfit. The buttons and chains of his uniform gleamed brass in a way the bridegroom hadn't seen since his days at Dartmouth.

  The constable displayed admirable dexterity in catching his helmet before it hit the ground. "Sir, public drunkenness is prohibited within Hillshire--"

  "Begging your pardon, constable," James said.

  "Yes, sorry," Alton said. "About your helmet. But if you had fastened the chin-strap--"

  "Yes, we're both just quite sorry. My associate here is just exuberant--"

  "Exuberance within limits is perfectly acceptable," the constable said. "But it's clear that your man here--"

  Alton took a step back and regarded the man through one squinted eye. "Though I suppose that beard of yours provides chin-strap enough--"

  James was quick to cut him off. "Yes, you see, normally my partner here is quite reserved, but it's the man's wedding day, and--"

  "Wedding?" The constable asked. "You wouldn't be here for the Fiske wedding, would you?"

  "Alton Bartleby, at your service!" He dropped into a bow, foot sliding back, hand extended for the shaking.

  "Are you acquainted with the bride's family?" James asked.

  "Quite well acquainted. Mr. Fiske owns most of the township, and in fact pays my salary."

  Bartleby kept his unacknowledged hand out slightly longer than was comfortable, then let it drop.

  "Mr. Bartleby?"

  Bartleby turned sharply, spotting a man in livery waiting with his hands behind his back. "Charles, is it? Mr. Fiske's footman? We met at Aldora's townhouse last year. You were delivering a letter, I believe."

  Charles gave a barely perceptible nod. "Your excellent memory honours me, Mr. Bartleby."

  "Names and faces are just about my only talent."

  "Humility ill suits you," James said.

  Bartleby waved him off, wrist flapping.

  "If you would care to accompany me, I've a car waiting to drive you to the estate," Charles said. "Unless there is a matter of public interest here, Constable Fuller?"

  "No issue at hand. Just endeavour to keep the public singing to a minimum, Mr. Bartleby."

  "I shall make a most serious attempt."

  "Very well, sir." Charles took the travelling bags from James. "If you would be so kind as to accompany me to t
he motor-car--"

  "You've a motor-car?" James asked.

  "Yes, Mr. Wainwright."

  "Bartleby, they've got a motor-car."

  "So I heard."

  "How exciting."

  "Exciting? Didn't you used to design them for some American company?"

  "Just the engines, and that was ages ago. I imagine that they've come quite a ways in the past decade. No doubt there have been developments. Developments, Bartleby."

  "I'm sure there have been." Bartleby watched his partner with amusement.

  The pair followed the footman from the train platform to the street, where the motor-car waited. It was long and sleek, with a smooth charcoal body. It reminded Bartleby of a torpedo.

  "Oh, look! Four wheels." James stopped by the side of the chassis, running his hands along the trim "Tell me, Charles, this motor-car -- does it run on petrol or steam? Or is it galvanic?"

  "Galvanic I believe, sir. Mr. Fiske charges it from a generator in the car port."

  "Oh, that's much more interesting than petrol." James crossed to the front and flipped up the engine's covering.

  Bartleby flipped it back down as he passed by on his way to the opposite side. "We've a social to attend, James."

  "Oh, right, yes, of course. Might I ride alongside you, Charles? I'm intrigued by its means of operation."

  "If it should please you, sir."

  "It's perfectly all right with me," Bartleby said, even though nobody had asked. He climbed into the rear and stretched out, pulling his hat down over his face.

  ***

  "Company town, the constable mentioned?" James asked from the front seat.

  "Yes, sir. The town and its environs are largely owned by Mr. Fiske, and exist to support his business concerns. Most of the town's populace work in the foundry, the rest in shops and services catering to those workers."