Just then, the cabin door slid open, unlocked and pried from its latch by an automaton arm, with such a striking whoosh, the worn wood rubbing, the friction sounding a vibrant staccato. There I stood, rather held myself up, my hand clenched to the curtains for dear life; The Strongman sat frozen, feet off the ground, his arms reaching for that bottle, forever lost to time. Like statues amusingly sculpted for laughs, our poses held, but our attentions turned to the door.
As we recognized the one at the door as an ordinary Trans Metros CondunctorMaton, we resumed more natural and comfortable positions. The ConductorMaton rolled into the cabin and sprung to life. Each ConductorMaton is designed from the waist up to look like that of a man, albeit one made of a brass and copper skin with clockwork guts and steam pressure for blood. They all wear little brass conductor hats and have large copper mustaches which conceal little holes punched into a circular design from where the raspy tin voice emanates from. From the waist down were sets of wheels that allowed the automaton to move primarily back and forth, as well as a third wheel which helped the automaton turn around. I hypothesized a design of perhaps another set of small wheels at the base which could not be seen that allowed for more graceful turns, but alas, ConductorMatons did not move without bumping into something. Essentially, these particular automatons looked and moved like fancy inebriated men standing in rubbish bins.
Of course we had to have taken refuge in The ConductorMaton controlled car. I may have even let out a groan of a distaste, disgust, disdain, or just a fluctuating combination of the trio. A close cousin to The MetroMaton, The ConductorMaton was another fine project by the Clockwork Foundation to ease the lives of the public. Your average ConductorMaton is number one in public complaints to The Ministry of Communications.
The ConductorMaton provides, aside from the obvious ticket service, cigars, seavenly, cocktails, and the like. They were therefore useful to a degree, but more of a nuisance than anything.
“Tickets. Tickets, please.” It sounded in a tinny, yet deep and grinding, metallic voice. “If you do not currently hold tickets, you can, for a small fee, purchase tickets from me, ConductorMaton, your friendly automaton of the railways.”
“Two please.” I said as I reached into my pants pocket for a few coins.
“Please insert coins.” The ConductorMaton sounded a bell from up on his chest, a coin slot beneath it. I slid the three coins into the slot, pulled the proper lever, and the muffled sound of a quick succession of typewriter hammers emanated from within. Two tickets presented themselves below. I took them, handed one to The Strongman, and took a seat.
“Trans Metros Rail Lines, RailWorks, and SteamWorks would like to” something garbled, but I would presume the word is Thank, “you for traveling with us this fine day,” it proudly exclaimed (seemingly, anyway) as if we had a choice whose rail lines we were to use. The word monopoly came to mind.
This particular ConductorMaton was a little out of commission, worn in the right places from repetitive movement day in and day out, he continued, “May I interest you in something from our relaxation line?” A compartment revealed itself on the automaton’s abdomen which held a bevvy of pleasures.
The Strongman sprung to, “Right-o, I would, my gentlematon; right-o indeed.” He mimicked a gentleman of coin and fine leisure as he leaned forward in his seat and picked out a cigar and a few cocktails. He threw the cigar between his chompers as he fished a few coins from his pants pockets and inserted them into the automaton with his worked-over, grubby fingers. The train jolted and he dropped his last coin on the floor. The Strongman grabbed the coin out of the pool of vodka and inserted it into the maton. The train jolted another slight bit. He bit the end off the cigar and spit it into his palm.
“You got a light, clunky?” The Strongman asked the automaton.
“Certainly, sir.” The ConductorMaton raised his arm and from his ring finger produced a flame. The train jolted once more. The Strongman leaned in to light his stogy and he puffed away. The train jolted again, the flame nearly getting in The Strongman’s face, he grabbed the automaton’s arm trying to steady it, but instead managed to snap it right off. Another jolt, this time a terribly violent one, sent the flaming automaton arm fumbling from The Strongman’s fingers and into the puddle of booze which instantly ignited, sending the cabin into flames.
We both panicked. We jumped from our seats as the cabin roared with a violent blaze which caught to the booze-soaked curtains. The ConductorMaton rolled backwards a little bit, rocked side to side and, for whatever reason, rolled directly forward into said flames. Perhaps this ConductorMaton had felt he just had enough. The damn thing burst into flames as we scrambled to escape the terrible oven. I could feel the intense heat on my toes. At first it was that glow of a fireplace’s warmth on feet fresh in from a cold day. Within a moment that feeling turned to sheer hell. The fire caught to the seat upholstery and then to the walls. We both escaped the cabin, our shoes having soaked in plenty of alcohol, were aflame. We each ran in opposite directions down the length of the train car and back, knocking and kicking fire from our feet to other parts of the car. Realizing the error of my ways, I tried stamping out the little embers on the carpet. The Strongman, at his end of the car, decided to simply use his calloused hands to put out the flames on his feet by brushing the flames away.
Out rolled The ConductorMaton, like a clockwork, steamdriven machine from the depths of hell, covered in flames, his grinding voice stuck on a single tone, as if from his anguish, he was screaming in monotone. He rolled out from our cabin, programmed to roll on to the next cabin, leaving a trail of charred carpets and cindering walls. He entered the next cabin and immediately exited. Onto the next. He was destroying everything in his path. Flames ripped through the train car at an alarming rate. I checked the cabins near me and they were all empty, quite fortunately. Fire raged down the hallway; I couldn’t even see to The Strongman. I would have to go up and over the top of the train car to get back to him.
I made my way from the train car via the way we originally came in. I remembered correctly, there was one more passenger car and a freight car, plus a caboose. The passenger car was empty, for certain, as I checked the rooms. The freight car and the caboose I didn’t have time to worry about. I made my way back to the flaming car and climbed my way up to the roof. I hesitated and used the moment to contemplate the structurally compromised speeding train car I was about to run across.
The Strongman’s head popped up from the other end of the car. He gave me a wave, “Hey, Doc!”
I stood there atop the train car, knees slightly bent, arms out to my sides to maintain balance. I waved my umbrella back to him and a smile in return, “If it’s not one thing, it’s another!” The train jolted and I nearly lost my balance. The flames within a few cabins grew to such intensity that their windows popped and shattered from their moldings. Fire began to grow upwards from the open windows, now. Smoke blew past my face causing my eyes to water.
“Doc! I gotta disconnect this car from the rest of the train!” He shouted to me.
I gave him a thumbs up to avoid shouting and tapped the floor with the toe of my shoe, a little harder and a press for firmness. I ran across the top of that speeding train with my arms outstretched to my sides in big, giant, goofy steps.
Not one of my proudest adventuring moments, but who was there to see me? Perhaps a sheep herder off in the distance saw my antics atop the train that day and had a fine chuckle. I guess I could live with that. I ungraciously galloped across the train like a rabid goose set to attack as I could feel the roof collapse in behind me. Every time my toe pushed away from the roof, I could feel it fall away. Each step I made was that of less power. When it finally caught up, I was taken off guard and began to fall backwards before The Strongman grabbed my by my collars and hoisted me out from flames ready to engulf me. He pulled me down to safety and disconnected the burning car. It began to slip away ever so slowly as the fire eviscerated the train cars at a feverishly v
icious rate.
He helped me to my feet from the back platform of the safe train car. I dusted myself off. We entered the train car to a crowd of spectators: a few conductors, real, living conductors, that is; some travelers and commuters; the bar tender and one sole ConductorMaton.
The Strongman took a few puffs of his cigar, “All I asked for was a light,” he explained to the onlookers as he took a puff. Leave it to Trans Metros to sell the cheapest cigars available, the smell was nauseating.
We explained our plight to the crowd with few questions, though the oddest coming from The ConductorMaton who asked if George made it. Upon realizing that George was indeed The ConductorMaton in our debacle, I told this ConductorMaton, that, No, sadly George did not make it, but he did fight bravely. And if not for that brave automaton of service, I might not be alive to tell his story. Though, it was something in its tinny facsimile of a voice that sounded a tone off when it asked. Perhaps I was just projecting some sense of emotion onto the clockwork scrapheap on wheels. Perhaps I was slipping into utter delirium. I was rooting for delirium on this one. Had I just consoled a stupid automaton? Indeed I had and quite foolish I felt.
The Engineer of the nimbulator thanked us for saving the rest of the train. We were ushered to a new cabin, upgraded from our modest cabin which caught aflame to something a little more posh for the remainder of our ride. There was still a fair ways to travel and doing so in comfort would be splendid.
I removed my monocle and slipped it into the breast pocket of my shirt. The cabin was far roomier that the last. While quite lovely, I pulled the curtains shut and slipped down into a comfortable lull. Nothing else, was all I could muster to think. Just for a while. Just long enough to sleep. And sleep I did.
27
I awoke to the warm, dry climate. I could feel the hot sun emanating from the edge of the window curtain. My nostrils were bone dry as a I took a deep breath in. My mouth was craving even a droplet of water.
Through the center of a modest storefront town named Natalia Metro Minor and towards the massive rock in the desert that was Fenterwig Station. All of this named after explorer Natalia Fenterwig, mind you. Natalia Metro Minor, into Fenterwig Station, which leads into Inner Fenterwig, Inner Fenterwig being the massive cave system within Fenterwig Flat Rock, the large mountain with its evenly flattened roof, just over the horizon from The Chasm.
Our nimbulator rolled into the station by mid-morning. We stepped off the train into a sweltering heat. Upon the heat floated the ambient sounds of travel and commerce. Fenterwig Station was bustling, mostly with refugees who were indeed fortunate enough to have escaped The Chasm before RailWorks shut down service. The station seemed a madhouse. Aside from the travelers lost from home, there were plenty of stalls selling local delicacies and fresh produce, it was a crowded and packed market. A few rather seedy vendors were selling machine parts, small contraptions, gadgets, and gizmos of various tinkerature, makeratude, and design. Others sold clothing. There were indeed a fair amount of water vendors, as well.
We stood on the platform amongst the crowd. I looked at the faces hoping to find someone perhaps looking as perplexed as me. That brief glance of recognition like some sort of vague paraphenomenon between the eyes of two beings connecting them in an instant of a moment.
“These people,” The Strongman looked the crowd over, “they all from The Chasm, you think?”
“Most of them, yes, more than likely,” I said as I continued to examine the crowd.
“So, what now, Doc?” The Strongman surveyed the area. He stood taller than most heads there, save for the random Gorillian or maldeviant in the mix.
“I suppose we find our contact unless our contact finds us first.” How we were ever to find someone, or they find us, with this level of pandemonium was beyond my reasoning. The notes I was given instructed that when I arrive, I wait on the platform of the station. I thought my contact might have been a stall vendor, until I reconsidered upon the thought that my contact may well in fact be a pilot for one of the professional taxi carriage services.
We moved around a fair bit. As other nimbulators took on more and more luggage and passengers for departures elsewhere, the crowd seemed to disperse. We moved through a sea of people: travelers, beggars, salesmen. It was a social pollution beyond limits. The outdoor market square that lead from the station platform gathered a healthy crowd, as well. In the center, a grand fountain terribly out-serviced by age and lack of upkeep, perhaps turned off for a length of time now to conserve water. We decided to walk ahead, from the platform up the five or six steps that lead to the market. It seemed cander fruit was plenty in season. The sickly sweet smell was overpowering.
There was a group of Gorillians butchering and selling meats from various desert creatures, from the casagarian whooper to the jestina buffalo. I could smell skunk yak lingering in the air, mixing with the cander fruit odor. It was a potent mix, curious to the nose and inviting before becoming distasteful on the palette.
In a shady corner, one automaton cannibalized another malfunctioning automaton. It picked and pried gears from its mechanism box, hiding them away in a secret compartment of its own.
I noticed something terribly out of place. Two men in suits black as pitch, like pall bearers. Bowler hats atop their heads, black goggles upon their eyes, and native scarves covering the remainder of their faces. The desert-influenced style and design of the scarves were quite the contrast to their modern metro attire, but it worked to their purpose. GhostWurks had ventured out this far. The two agents were showing off an oculargraphical record of what I presumed was me. People would look at the picture and shake their heads and move on. GhostWurks agents weren’t above incompetency, though. Nearly everyone they were asking were locals, themselves, dressed in attire that covered their faces. For all they knew, they could have well been talking to us in disguise. Which gave me an idea, though one I would not be able to follow through with.
As The Strongman also took notice of the GhostWurks agents, his fists clenched, and I hurried him to the far wall of the market square where large potted plants decorated the area and shade seemed to be abundant. Drunkards and bums took refuge here, away from the hot sun. We were poorly hidden, but hidden nonetheless. I feared The Strongman doing something drastic. And bloody. Drastically bloody, even.
A moment sooner, we could have disguised ourselves in scarves, and found a better hiding place. Instead we stood at a wall peering out into the desert as we waited out the passing of the agents.
Through ornamental designs carved from the wall we could see beyond the station into the vast, flat desert. I made The Strongman take a good, long look out into the distance. Men of ill-repute found guilty of the most serious of crimes were punished by being sent to the deserts of Devilwind Minor, a popular marker being Judgment Rock. It was a punishment no orbisian man could endure and survive to tell about.
People would come from far around to the Desert Gallows at Judgment Rock. They traveled from far and wide to watch men die. And when the rope snapped taught, they still gasped.
If you weren’t so fortunate, you were just left chained at Judgment Rock. Left alone where you’d invariably meet an unfortunate end.
In the desert, dehydration set in quickly. Followed by sunstroke, you had little time left. Though, if you did escape and if you were lucky enough to find a water source, then you had to beat the clock on starvation setting in. Finding water was a blessing and a curse, in one. You were just prolonging the inevitable. Madness sets in and the skin, as well the brain, begins to blister. The hot sun overhead in a sky cloudless, but full of circling buzzards and desert gravends waiting to pick the eyes from your face and your flesh from your bones until they were picked clean and bleached white within an afternoon. This is what you had to look forward to after finding water and long after going mad. A slow, drawn out fight against the vicious elements of the desert.
I explained all of this to The Strongman in the goriest of details and added, “And t
hat’s where we will be meeting our deaths, lights dimmed, if you so dare go after those GhostWurks agents.”
He looked at me blankly, but he understood.
A woman’s voice spoke from behind us as we looked out to the desert, “Dr. Monocle, I presume.”
I turned to see a lovely young woman, well-tanned and looking comfortable like a local. Her hair was fashioned into thick locks and long, down to the middle of her back. She had freckles upon her dark skin, her eyes contrasting a pale blue.
“And The Strongman, so good to meet you,” she said with a beaming smile.
I looked up to The Strongman, he down at me. I was caught off guard.
“I am Sasha Greenwich, I’ve been awaiting your arrival.”
“Ah, yes. So pleased to meet you,” I shook her hand firmly, not what I was expecting, calloused and rough.
“My steamdriver awaits, we should get you to New Haverton before sundown.” She lead the way through Fenterwig Station. GhostWurks seemed to have vanished, but I kept a watchful eye.
I asked Sasha, “Has it been this chaotic for long?”
“It’s all starting to get out of hand, doctor. The people of Fenterwig think the war will be coming this way eventually. There is a terrible unrest growing.” She explained to me.
“Lived in Fenterwig long, have you?” I asked.
We walked the length of the platform towards a cave entrance to the large rock mass that was Inner Fenterwig.
Spectacular Moments of Wonder with Dr. Monocle: That Certain Gentleman Page 26
