Cogs in Time Anthology (The Steamworks Series) (5 page)

Finally, the passage opened into a great room with an amazingly tall ceiling, which revealed how far underground they had delved. Pen took the chalk from his shirt pocket and quickly marked the wall with an arrow to show the way back out. He looked up the passage and could only see a faint glow of light, an indication of the outside but not the light directly. Standing in the center of the room, Pen unhooked another, larger lantern from the back of Hitch’s pack and lit it as well. The great room came to life, seeming to breathe the light into itself.  

“Well, would you look at that?” Pen exclaimed, walking closer to the wall with the smaller lantern. Spanning across each wall were murals, telling the story of whom the temple was dedicated to. Both men were silent. The only sound was the soft hiss of steam circulating through Hitch’s prosthetics and the clicking of their gears and sprockets. 

The mural told the story of a man, whom they recognized from the carving outside, flying above a primitive village on the back of gigantic fiery bird. The villagers were upon their knees in supplication, struck in fearful awe. In the next scene, the gigantic bird had crashed into the earth, bent and crumpled. The native inhabitants surrounded its corpse and mourned its death. On the third wall, the godlike visitor was seated in a place of honor. He had become their king. On the fourth and final mural, the villagers were once again in mourning. Their extraterrestrial king had passed away. He was depicted rising back to the heavens in a glowing aura, his spirit returning to the stars from which he had come.

“They worshipped him as a god, a god-king like a pharaoh.” Pen whispered in reverent voice, knowing that not only were they in an ancient place of worship, but a burial chamber. “This is his tomb.”

“We know it’s not King Pacal. The carving of the Palenque astronaut was the lid to his sarcophagus.”

“So who is buried here?” Pen questioned. Hitch agreed with a nod. “We are just going to have to find out, this way.” He marked the hallway leading away from the sanctuary with another arrow and disappeared into the black.

* * *

Pen and Hitch followed the passageway that seemed to wander throughout the underground without reason, crawling through and slipping past caved in areas and bottlenecks, briefly exploring several smaller rooms as they discovered them. Pen had to resist the urge to note every artifact, every detail, but he kept his focus, made note of their locations on his notation terminal, and continued onward.

“Pen…” Hitch called with short breath, setting his overburdened pack on the ground. “Pen, we have to go back. I am running out of steam.”

The exhaustion on his friend’s face was evident, but Pen understood that his phrase had a double meaning. The water tank that fueled his prosthetics was running low. If they did not return to the surface soon, Pen would be carrying him out. 

“Just a little further, I promise.” Pen pleaded.

Hitch wiped his brow on his sleeve and nodded. He wanted to know what was behind the next turn just as badly as Pen did, but not so badly that he was willing to maroon himself in an underground complex of questionable stability.

“Twenty minutes, and then I am going back with the lantern...” Hitch drew the proverbial line. “With or without you.”

“Alright, twenty minutes.” Pen conceded, knowing he could at least stall him for forty- five.

Pen raced down the passage at a frenzied pace, ignoring a couple more small rooms and leaving Hitch in the dust. The burial chamber
had
to be close. He hoped it was at the end of the main passage and not leading off from a room he had already passed. The lantern swung back and forth in front of him as he sprinted, the flame flickering despite his efforts to keep it steady.

At the end of the
hallway, he skidded to a stop, nearly tripping over his own feet. It was a dead end. Pen stood in shock, panting for breath in the stifling humidity. He set the lantern down and stared, pushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead again, wadding his fingers in it.

What if it is simply another temple and not a tomb at all?
What if it is all just a myth and I have come all this way just to return with some dusty pieces of pottery and some photographs?

The discovery itself was an accomplishment to be proud of, but it was not what he sought. He starved for truth, for an explanation of what had brought man out of the Stone Age. He was not prepared to believe that structures as amazing as Puma Punku had been constructed with copper chisels and stone hammers. No! There has to be more. It has to be here.

Pen stared at the roughly stacked wall, the stones irregular and taken straight from the surrounding landscape. It was out of place in the precisely crafted edifice. A level could be laid against almost any surface and it would still be true, despite eons of earth settling. This wall was hastily constructed, unplanned. It had not been built with the rest of the structure. It had come later. He quickly began to pull the stones away from the top of the wall, dropping them to his feet. The noise rolled like thunder down the hallway, rushing through the darkness behind him. Faster and faster, Pen deconstructed the barrier between himself and the wisdom that had brought him halfway around the world.

“Hitch! Get down here! Hurry up!” Pen screamed, grasping and dropping the stones as quickly as he could lay hand to them.

Unbeknownst to Pen, Hitch was already well on his way to investigate the source of the clamor that had blasted up passage, a narrow beam of light illuminating the way from his head lamp. With every click of his geared knee and ankle, with every puff of steam, he knew he was getting and closer to being stranded. He hoped that Pen was uninjured, that he had simply knocked something over or clumsily destroyed some priceless relic, and was not trapped beneath a ton of collapsed tunnel or half under a fallen support column. His water tank was dangerously close to being empty. If his prosthetics stopped working, it could take him a day just to drag himself out of the temple and the closest settlement was over twenty miles away. There was no one waiting to save them, no emergency team stationed at the front of the temple. If Pen was seriously injured, he would most certainly die before rescue arrived, before Hitch could even tell them he was hurt. 

“Pen!” Hitch shouted just as the crumbling wall came into view of his dim light. The darkness beyond what remained of the false wall looked as thick as molasses and had swallowed his friend whole. “Pen, are you hurt?”

No response. Hitch could hear his breath and the gears of his leg and arm turning. His heartbeat was in his ears.

“Hitch, you have to see this…” Pen said calmly, almost as though he had not heard him shouting.

Hitch carefully stepped over the rubble and into the burial chamber of an ancient ruler, an ancient god. The walls were as carefully constructed as the rest of the complex, smooth and exact, stacked so carefully it was difficult to see where one block ended and the next began. In the four corners, the supplies for the king’s journey to the afterlife had been stacked high and deep. Baskets that had once been filled with food supplies held mostly dust; jars for wine had long evaporated away. Statues, offerings of gold trinkets and jewelry, anything that his people had valued, had been laid to rest with him. But most importantly, a large metal capsule sat in the center of the room, covered in a thick layer of dust. By the dents and streaks on its surface, it had obviously been used and not simply liberated from the craft for burial purposes. Its deployed parachutes where stretched behind it ceremoniously like a bride’s train. Pen stared at it from a distance, his arms limp at his sides, too awestruck to proceed.

“Their god did not arrive on the back of a giant bird; it was a spacecraft. They just didn’t know how to depict it so future generations would understand.” Pen whispered, walking slowly to the capsule. He took off his shirt and used it to wipe the dust away from the hatch windshield. He held the lantern aloft to shed light inside the compartment. The meticulously placed and adorned remains of their king was inside, cradled in the capsule for his journey. “He ejected, the craft was destroyed, and he was stranded on earth. They thought he was a god, so they made him their king.”

Hitch scrutinized the outside of the capsule until he found the release mechanism and gently opened the hatch. The odor of centuries old death and wilted flowers rushed their nostrils. They covered their mouths and noses with their shirts and dared to look closer. The king had been dressed in the suit he had worn on his descent, but instead of the helmet, he wore a large, intricate gold crown, which was surrounded by decayed foliage. A necklace comprised of several individual strings of jade and gold beads adorned his neck. The large pendant that hung from it had been engraved in the unmistakable design of a constellation, his place of origin.

“It’s Canis Major.” Hitch pointed out.

Pen agreed and dared to look closer into the capsule, climbing onto the structure to place his hands on the navigation controls.

Hitch nearly grabbed him by the waist and pulled him down like an unruly child. “What are you doing?”

“This is what we have been looking for, evidence of extraterrestrial technology. This is how he got here, Hitch.” He said, wrapping his shaking hands around the steering controls. The heat of Pen’s hands warmed the handles and after centuries, and only a moment, the instrument panel of the small craft flickered. It startled him and he quickly let go and leapt down.

“Go back!” Hitch urged. Cautiously, Pen returned and grasped the steering handles. After only a moment, the lights began to flicker again. “Don’t let go!”

As the craft began to hum and lightly tremble with long forgotten energy, Pen’s face was illuminated by the electronic glow of the capsule’s display. He looked to Hitch, smiling wide with amazement and accomplishment.

“This will change everything.”

Amanda Gatton

By Nina Stevens

As a little girl, she loved to watch her Daddy work on cars.
Wrench in hand and curses at the ready.
The smell of gasoline and oil, 
is Nostalgia's perfume for her.
As a woman, she loves the Creator's calling.
Golden gears and twinkling chrome make her feel steady.
The silky feel of metal against soft flesh,
is Desire's beckoning to her.

As an artist, she loves the Muse's closeness.
Vintage dreams and lofty aspirations that are too heady.
The suppleness of leather corseting lifting her spirit,
is Freedom's touch on her.

By
Wayne Carey

Harrison Pierce leaned back in his wicker chair, rested his boots on the wood railing of the veranda, sipped his Earl Grey, and watched the lone rider approach from across the wide stretch of savanna. Tall, stoic Murunga swung open the door to the bungalow and brought out fresh tea. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the horse and rider and the cloud of dust trailing them.

“British officer,” Murunga said, topping off Pierce's cup.
             

“Yes,” Pierce said. All he could see was the red tunic and white helmet, no details to suggest rather the rider was an officer or enlisted. His eyes weren’t as good as they used to be, but he wasn’t about to admit that. One lone soldier. Not a good sign. At least it wasn’t a regiment. “Wonder what he wants. Well, Murunga, better lay out an extra setting for lunch. I'm sure he'll be thirsty and famished after his ride.”

“Yes, Captain.” Murunga went back inside.

He returned to the veranda when the rider pulled his sweat-soaked mount to a halt in front of the bungalow. The horse hung its head down, breathing heavily, and nostrils flaring. The rider was indeed an officer, as indicated by the collar pips on his travel-stained, red jacket. He slid from the saddle in an aura of dust and pulled the tinted goggles down from his eyes, squinting into the shade of the veranda. His dirty face grinned.

“Harry! Good to see you. Is that tea? Could I bother you for a cup? Dreadfully thirsty, old chap.”

Pierce pulled his feet from the rail and stood up. “Well, this is a surprise. Murunga will take care of your horse, Reggie. Come on inside. Murunga's prepared some lunch.”

Murunga stepped down and extended his hand.

The visitor glanced up at the tall Maasai warrior, dressed in crisp khaki shirt and shorts, knee socks and polished shoes. He smiled and handed over the reins, nodding his thanks.

Pierce didn't expect anything less of Reginald Shepherd. Some fellows would have ignored Murunga's presence, dropped the reins, and walked past the Maasai as though he didn't exist, but Shepherd wasn't like that. One of the few who cared about the indigenous people her majesty ruled over, though he still did not believe they had the ability for self-rule.

Murunga walked the horse to the back of the bungalow to cool him down and water and feed him, where he could rest in the shade of the small stable behind the house with Pierce’s own horses.

Pierce opened the door to the bungalow's cool interior for his visitor.

Shepherd climbed the steps, pulled off his helmet, and shook Pierce's hand vigorously.

“So good to see you, Harry!”

“And you, Reggie! So, they've made you a colonel! Come in and wash that grit off you.”

Pierce led Shepherd to the washroom, where his visitor cleaned up in a bowl of fresh water still cool from being pumped into the porcelain pitcher by Murunga. Once refreshed, Shepherd joined Pierce at a tabled laid out with cold slices of Guineafowl, cheese, bread, fruits, fresh vegetables from the garden, and tea. Shepherd lifted the teacup and took a grateful sip.

“Okay, Reggie,” Pierce said, after they had begun eating. He wanted the impending doom to be over with, so he could get back to his dull life. “You didn't come all this way for tea. Not that I'm ungrateful for the company, but something tells me this isn't just a social call.”

“No, indeed,” Shepherd said around a mouth full of Guineafowl. “I've come to ask a favor.”

“I'm retired.” Pierce had been waiting for the request, and was ready with his stock answer.

“Psh! You're younger than I am. And you're the best explorer I know.”

“The modern world doesn't need an explorer. Not with airships that can go anywhere and with the Tesla portals. I read in the
Times
that Montagu is organizing an expedition to fly to Everest and drop a portal onto the peek, so it won't have to be climbed the traditional way. Now tell me, Reggie, what kind of exploration is that? Dropping portals into remote corners of the globe, so any fool can visit any part of the world in a matter of minutes.”

Shepherd shook his head. “Not the same.”

Pierce shoved his plate aside. “I know it isn't. It's cheating. Tell me, Reggie, where were you last night?”

“London.”

“And this morning?”

“Nairobi.”

“Through a Tesla portal, no doubt. Right, Reggie?”

“Of course, Harry. The Twentieth Century is dawning, only months away. Things are changing. The portals are safe and convenient. They aren't putting railways or shipping out of business, and they aren't forcing you into retirement. That's your own bloody choice.”

“And they also make it more convenient to hold onto the colonies, don’t they?”

“Of course. We can quell an uprising in minutes with reinforcements from half way around the world. We have to protect the crown’s interests, Harry. The portals are making that possible. Expansion and exploration are more convenient. Imagine stepping out of your house and into the jungles of South America, without wasting time and expense, or lives. Sure, an airship can drop a portal anywhere, but someone has to go through that portal first.”

“And any fool can do that. I'm not needed.”

Shepherd bit into a cube of cheese and grinned. “That's where you're wrong, Harry. I know you. You can't sit on your veranda the rest of your life. If there's a hill, you have to see what's on the other side. If there's a door, you have to open it. Go ahead and write another one of your memoirs, but sooner or later, you'll leave this house.”

Pierce glared at his old friend. “I’m tired of having my work used for the expansion of the empire. Either ours or someone else’s. I’m tired of opening up a new area of the world only to have some government come in and try to civilize it.”

“We’re subjects of the crown, Harry. Besides, Murunga doesn’t seem to resent being civilized.”

“The Maasai have their own culture, it’s just different from ours. Besides, he happens to like European culture, but that’s his choice. It’s a curiosity with him. I don’t force it on him. Any so-called primitive society is ripe for exploitation. If it’s not the British, it’s the Germans. Or Belgians. Or Russians. Even the Americans. I just will not be a part of it anymore.”

He and Shepherd had fought side by side in the Royal Army together and had been on expeditions together. Shepherd had made these arguments before, even before Tesla and his transportation portals became news and the rigid airships began emerging. He was holding something else back. Pierce felt his curiosity stirring. Shepherd knew him too well.

“What is it, Reggie? There’s something you aren’t telling me.”

“The Tesla portals need receivers.”

“I understand how they work. The Faraday coils, the electromagnetic current and all that. And receivers, like the wireless. So?”

“Yes. Like the wireless. Dial in a frequency, and you get a different receiver. My trip from London to Nairobi could have just as easily been London to New York with the turn of a knob. But our researchers have happened upon frequencies that aren't part of the normal range for known portals.”

Pierce shrugged. “Other countries have been building their own portals. Germany, Russia. They all want to keep hold of their own colonies.”

“True. The Czar and the Kaiser both want to expand their empires with the help of portals, where most other countries want to expand commerce and trade. We're trying to deal with that, but that isn't the issue. These frequencies are different. There are no portals at the other end of the signal. Just a receiver point.”

“How's that possible?”

Shepherd dug into a messenger pouch he had been carrying over his shoulder and pulled out a bundle of photographs. He pushed the stack across the tablecloth. The top picture was of a thick jungle.

“South America?” Pierce asked.

“No. Our people were able to dial in the frequency and travel through a portal to the point of origin, but without a portal on the other end, the first team couldn't make a return. A second team took a portal through for a return trip. The first team through took these photographs. The third picture shows how the frequency was transmitted.”

Pierce looked at the photograph. Still jungle, but with a tall metal pole buried in the ground that reached up into the sky, above the tree line.

“An aerial?”

“Exactly!” Shepherd said.

Pierce paged through more photographs. Something wasn't right. He had been in many jungles. Congo. Brazil. India. Sumatra. This was different. It was difficult to see details in the monochrome, but the plants were different. Similar, but species he had never seen before.
Flowers whose shapes resembled orchids, but none he knew. One photograph showed a number of arboreal creatures that looked more canine than simian.

Then he came to the photographs of a city. A tall, broad building that reminded him of Hindu ruins rising from the jungle growth that crumbled their stones. However, these were not ruins. The walls were smooth and strong. Pierce came to the last photograph, and then leafed through them again. The building was shown from a distance, with little detail.
A lost city?

“Our first expedition couldn't get close enough,” Shepherd said. “Apparently, one man climbed a tree and took those pictures. The jungle’s pretty thick. We're outfitting another to explore the city and discover who constructed the aerial. If they have portal technology, perhaps we can learn a thing or two.”

“This isn't right. I've never seen buildings like this. They aren't Hindu or Mayan. And these plants and animals. They don't make sense. Where on earth...”

Shepherd grinned. “Ah, but they aren't on Earth. That's the point, old friend. This is another planet, far from our sun. Our scientists confirmed that the sun is not our sun. It can sustain human life, but did humans build that structure? We don't know. So what do you think, Harry? Care for a little trip?”

Pierce stared down at the stack of photographs in his hands.
Another world. Mars? No, not from these pictures.
A bright sun and lush vegetation, that couldn’t be Mars. Venus? Hard to tell from black and white pictures, but the sky appeared clear of clouds. And Shepherd said they determined the sun was not our sun. This is a different solar system.
Pierce felt a thumping in his chest.
The chance to step through that portal and onto another planet, under another sun, to explore a place no one has ever been, no one had ever dreamed existed, to enter a city not inhabited by humans…

He tossed the photographs back at Shepherd. “Forget it.”

“Not interested in seeing a new planet?”

“Not interested in opening up a new colony for the empire to exploit.”

Shepherd tucked the photographs back into his pouch, but pulled another out. “I told the ministry you might not be interested. They wanted me to assure you that this is only to explore and discover new technology. They wanted me to show you this, a photograph of the first expedition.”

He slid the photograph across the table. Pierce picked it up and studied the group of men clustered together in the small clearing in the jungle, the thick metal pole of the aerial behind them. Their helmets were off, tucked under arms, to expose grinning faces. Tough, experienced soldiers ready for an adventure. One face he recognized.

“Sam?” he said.

“Your brother led the first expedition. He’s captain, now, did you know.”

“You have him, you certainly don’t need me.” His brother was a true patriot, ready to expand and exploit in the name of the crown.

A gloominess in Shepherd’s face made Pierce’s anger dissolve.

“The first expedition disappeared. The second team that set up the portal for the return trip never found them. Just their abandoned equipment, like the camera with these photographs, but not a trace of the men.”

* * * *

Pierce stood on the deck of the airship's control room, taking in the panoramic view of the English countryside through the rows of windows running the length of the cabin, feeling the gentle rocking of the craft and the vibrations under his feet from the engines that turned the maneuvering propellers. The hundred foot long craft had been built by the American company, Fletcher Industries, and bore the name
Independence
.