The Questionable Tales: A Steampunk Quintet

by Michael Seeley

  * * * * *

   

  Weeks passed as the preparations commenced. The Council printed pamphlets displaying Marx's ideals; these were distributed in secret to all the factory workers. Perhaps the danger of betrayal lurked, but Amit and the Council seemed content, so Marx's fears were put to rest. The revolution would be relatively simple to enact - at least in theory. As the Council possessed contacts in nearly every factory, a working force of revolutionaries waited for a call. Marx and Amit frequented the Council many more times in the succeeding weeks, and Marx came to understand the vast power of such an organization. While they possessed no money and no political offices, these men were truly kings in their own right. Indeed, the people of Calcutta and other cities relied upon their judgment; they commanded a clandestine army.

  Marx simply hoped the courage of the revolutionaries would stand up to the rifles of British troops.

  Rubbing his newly shaved cheek, the author arose from his sleeping mat and entered Amit's common room. Not only had the workers of India been secretly mobilized, but Marx had adopted a new culture. He had shaven; his beard, once full and prosperous, was now trimmed, leaving his cheeks exposed. Additionally, he had abandoned his Western wardrobe in favor of the native dress. Furthermore, he had removed his trunks from the Questionable and transferred them into Amit's small home.

  For her part, the airship had been touring India. Using Calcutta as a resupply base, the Questionable sailed around the jungles, providing the wealthy with more entertainment. As fate would have it though, the airship would play a pivotal role in the coming uprising. While a relatively limited fleet of airships frequented the Raj, fortune had offered the revolutionaries her good will; the Questionable was currently the only sizable, inter-continental airship in the Raj. Furthermore, the next was not scheduled to dock for two months. Simply put, that placed the Questionable as the only airship able to communicate with outside help in a reasonable timeframe. If she could be captured by the rebels, the workers would gain incredibly valuable time while the government in London was still unaware of the situation. Therefore, the Council has assigned a significant number of troops to board and seize her when the time arose.

  Staring into the newly risen sun, Marx was breathing quickly, as the time, the time for uprising and change, had indeed come. Amit stretched as he entered the common room as well. "Sahib. Today is the day of fate; are we prepared?" Still grinning his toothless smile, Marx's friend reached over and patted him warmly on the back. For his part, Marx simply nodded, smiling in return. "The time has indeed come, Amit. Today, we will see a new world dawning. A new world for India will arise today - your independent homeland." Without another word, the old man pocketed a pistol and handed a similar weapon to his companion. Together, they stepped out into the sun. Turning onto the dusty street, they marched towards their assigned factory.

  A worker-led revolution, by necessity, was begun by workers. Because of this, the Council's operatives had secreted weapons in the major factories of the city, and at the appointed time, production was to stop, and the revolution was to commence. Each operative had selected loyal friends to count upon during the uprising. All told, every factory possessed hundreds of soldiers, each a starving student or a destitute laborer. Together, along with the Council and their extensive contacts, the initiative would be taken. Keeping that initiative would be more difficult. While many of the Council's soldiers possessed some amount of military training, the same could not be said for all of the revolution's soldiers. Thus, it was imperative that a strong position be established as quickly as possible.

  Again among the streets, the pair looked for their factory and the operative they were assigned to meet. Their tasks for the uprising were simple; as older men, their age and experience would be looked to by the younger workers. As such, each man was to provide stalwart support and curb any brutality or excesses by the revolting workers. The Council was adamant that the revolution, while entirely forceful, would be conducted with a distinct respect for human life.

  Eventually, the pair found their way to the factory, and as a clock-tower nearby struck eight, the mass of workers filed into the building. Amid the stream of humanity, Amit and Marx were easily missed. Simply following in the paths of the laborers, they entered the dark, rank-smelling halls of the factory. A textile producer, the building was continually hot, and hundreds of bodies pressed together, waiting to take their places on the production line. Eventually, a whistle sounded from somewhere, and the workers silently drudged into position, disappearing into the anonymity of their work.

  Amit and Marx, pulled aside by their contact, simply stood in the alcove they were directed towards. Then the contact left, promising to return shortly. Marx experienced a few moments of outright terror as factory supervisors passed nearby; thankfully, each was too engrossed in his work to notice the two men standing there. After a perceived eternity, the operative returned. He nodded to Amit but spoke to Marx.

  "Sahib," he whispered forcibly, and glancing at his watch, previously synchronized with the other revolutionaries, continued. "It is now time. In three minutes, I will blow the whistle, and the workers on the line will produce their weapons. Then, all production of this factory will cease. Next, we will enter the factory's office and arrest the manager. Once everything is secured, I will report to the Council while you two maintain the order here. Are we agreed?" Each man had been over the plan numerous times and was well aware of the particulars. Other groups would be enacting similar plans, and even now, a band of revolutionaries would be capturing the vital Questionable.

  Having offered their confirmation, the three men moved towards the catwalk overlooking the production lines. While they received glances from curious supervisors and workers, their determined stances and expressions dissuaded intervention. Finally, reaching the catwalk, Marx looked down.

  Twenty feet below, humanity suffered.

  Men, women, and even child remained mindlessly at work. Minutes ticked by in a dehumanizing trance as the workers continually performed their menial tasks. Levers moved, cogs turned, steam swooped upwards, and Marx knew someone was earning copious amounts of capital. Yet, it was certainly not the masses that Marx saw before him. Their sweat and sorrow were never fully compensated. Indeed, many would be injured, die, or become prematurely aged through their work below. And all of them had nary a chance of ever gaining equality with their employers. Marx took this all in, and swore quietly to himself. The sight was sickening. Then, however, a satisfied grin creased his cracked lips. "A means to produce," he spoke gently. Repeating the phrase, he withdrew his pistol. His thoughts and theories were about to produce change. He, along with hundreds of others, were offering those suffering a chance, a means of survival. To live or die in the coming struggle did not matter; Marx was acting for a noble cause, and that was what truly made a difference. Their revolution was a means of production, and their product was change.

  The man's heart leapt within his chest as the full implications of his thoughts came to bear. Then, he checked his ammunition, and turned just in time to see the operative blow his whistle. Even amid the deafening noise of the production line, the shrill, piercing sound carried. Quickly, all workers shut down their machines; whistles were reserved for emergencies or special announcements. Next, they looked up expectantly. For their part, the factory's supervisors were shocked and seeing the plainly dressed Council operative about to address the crowd, anger even began to shade some faces.

  The operative called out to the workers in his native tongue, while Amit translated for Marx. "People of India! Do you suffer for nothing? No longer can the wealthy look down upon you, taking what little you own, enslaving you in their factories. No! The time for change is now. Take it! Take your life into your own hands! India will again be free!" His voice reached a booming crescendo, and even though he did not speak the language, Marx noticed that the orator's voice nearly broke with the passion it contained.

  Down below, t
he people slowly stirred. Upon the conclusion of the operative's speech, the implanted revolutionaries among the workers shouted cheers and withdrew weapons from their clothing. Next, supervisors started howling for a cessation to the newly formed craze. They were quickly dispatched, however, as the revolutionaries found their fervor; some were killed by exuberant rebels, but others were simply clubbed down into unconscious silence.

  Amit turned to Marx. "Your ideas! Your ideas are taking hold; the people are rising. Sahib, it is a revolution!" Marx nodded, overcome with the moment. Yet, he was not given time to rest. The operative was tugging on his sleeve, and together, the group ran towards the manager's office, wherein secretaries were apprehensively glancing out to see what the commotion was about.

  Marx's group was joined by other revolutionaries, and the group, ten strong, burst into the manager's headquarters en masse. Feeling empowered, Marx cried "Where is he?" Then, with a sense of profound irony, he glimpsed the man. While the manager did not step forward bravely, Marx could easily identify the man by his exquisitely tailored, expensive suit.

  "Ah, Mr. Rupert Dunsworth, business tycoon and enslaver of the masses. Welcome to the people's new factory," Marx spoke. The man stared, his jawing dropping in recognition, astonishment, and then fear; the emotions easily played out upon the man's face. "Karl," he stammered, almost incomprehensibly. "What... what are you doing?"

  Marx simply sneered; the man he had hated for months aboard the Questionable was solely responsible for the misery he had just witnessed embodied within the workers. Contempt welled up inside the author. "Dunsworth, you will surrender, and you will be allowed to live... for now. Your factory is the property of the revolution, and you will come to see that the entire city is, even now, entering into our control. Capitalism and the sheer hate, sorrow, and greed it brings, is over. We will have a new government, and the means of production will lie squarely with the people; gone are your days for wealthy tyranny."

  "Well, you see..." the man attempted to form a coherent sentence. Around him, secretaries and other underlings were hasting towards the door. Some seemed eager to join the revolution; others seemed just as eager to escape. "I cannot possibly... There is no option for which... uh." Dunsworth continued to stammer, but Marx began to notice a wild gleam in the man's eyes as well. "Dunsworth!" Marx cried. "As you value your life, don't even try it. Don't give me the satisfaction of killing -"

  A report rang out, and a searing pain enveloped Marx's arm. Then, an entire volley of shots echoed throughout the room. Still speaking, Marx had not noticed the man draw a small revolver from his waistcoat. Yet, looking over at the smoking, sickening corpse of what had once been Rupert Dunsworth, Marx believed he had received the better bargain.

  "One more wealthy, dead bastard," spoke Amit, a grim smile splayed across his lips. Marx, in pain, and bleeding from the glancing shot to his arm, didn't speak. Instead, he turned and walked back into the maelstrom of the factory hall, disgusted with Dunsworth's foolishness.

  On the factory floor, control of the building rested firmly in the revolutionaries' hands. Success and triumph were etched upon every worker's face, and Marx was truly gratified to see the people gathering against their oppressors. Despite the searing pain, he smiled. Amit was close behind him, and as the Council operative approached them, each turned to receive the man's orders. "Marx," said the man, "you should get that wound dressed. Also, the Council needs a report; they're waiting at the fountains near the General Post Office." It made sense. To control the government missives, the post office would be a key target; gathering the leaders of the revolution there was also important.

  The operative continued. "Go to them, report, and find a dressing." Amit and Marx nodded in agreement and left as the contact returned to his business in establishing firm control over the factory.

  Striding into the sun-lit streets, the two friends glanced at each other and chuckled. "Are you all right, sahib?" Amit asked, a playful lilt in his voice. "I believe so, old man." Marx replied likewise.

  "It is good!" cried Amit, "For I feared your shooting might not be as biting as your theories; you lived anyway, friend sahib." Marx roared with laughter at his friend's gentle insult, an action therapeutic to his edgy nerves.

  Finally, the pair reached the fountains of the General Post Office. A celebratory mood hung about the building, and although they were stopped at several checkpoints, it was clear that the revolutionaries knew who Marx was; respect and awe were evident in the eyes of the workers who passed him by. Soon, however, the pair came upon the Council. Again, the men were sitting in a circle, and bowing low to them, Amit and Marx made their report.

  As with their factory and the General Post Office, the revolutionaries had met with vast success. British troops were routing, and the main lines of communication and supply were firmly in the workers' hands. Smiling, Amit and Marx glowed in the Council's praise for their work.

  Then, however, another man rushed up to join the group. He also bowed low, but his expression was grim. Offering his report, he was disappointed to tell that the Questionable had escaped. Indeed, nearly one hundred revolutionaries had been killed and thrown over the railings to the ground from the ship; the crew of the vessel were apparently well trained, and even now, the airship was sailing quickly away; no doubt, it would eventually inform London of the crisis. Pointing, the messenger even indicated where a fading, shining object flew through the distant air towards the horizon.

  "The enemy will come Sahib," spoke Amit darkly. Marx simply drew in breath. "The enemy is always present, friend. The wealthy will always try to reassert their control, and the world's destitute will always be fighting for freedom. That is for another day. Now, we will prepare. Now, we will hope. And now... we have change. For one night, India is free; for this evening, your India is independent."

  In response, Amit's toothless, gentle, hopeful laugh filled the quiet air as the Indian sun slowly dipped in salute towards the horizon.

   

  * * * * *

   

  Although savage warfare eventually engulfed the Indian subcontinent, The Great Workers' Struggle of 1884 led to peaceful, Communist self-rule in India. The British were thrown out, Capitalism was abolished, and all were allowed to live within the prosperity of equality. For his work, Karl Marx was lauded by the people, honored by the Council of Philosophers, and will forever be remembered as the Savior of India.

   

  # # #

  About the Author 

   

   

  At an early age, Michael Seeley found himself devouring tales of adventures in the past. He soon began sharing and shaping these stories; writing quickly followed. A lover of history and fantasy, Michael now writes to show the personal side of the past. His first series, Men of Eagles, offers new perspectives on the wars of the Napoleonic Age. His first novel, The Faith, chronicles an adventure of regicide on the eve of the tumultuous 1848 Revolutions. His second novel asks what might have happened if Napoleon had won the Battle of Waterloo. Michael has found inspiration from the winding alleyways of Paris, the tall forests of Norway, and the impressive Acropolis of Athens, but he currently resides in the Midwest, listening to the winds whisper across the prairie.

   

  Discover Other Titles by Michael Seeley:

   

  To End All Others: A Great War Trio -

   

  Men of Eagles: Men of Eagles Volume I -

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004LZ55GY

   

  Staying the Course: Men of Eagles Volume II -

  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B005FCUB84

   

  Contact Him Online at:

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/ViveLEmpereur

  His website: https://michaelseleey.blogspot.com/

 
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