Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology (5 page)

 “Then what do you mean to do with them?”

“The war is finally over in the States. There is no one left to fight.”

“So bad as that?”

“They have had terrible—obscene—loss of life. The Gatling guns, the rail cannon. The airship bombings devastated the cities—tens of thousands of civilians buried in the rubble, burned alive with the incendiaries. Washington was leveled. Richmond, Philadelphia—even New York. What matters now is survival, not who retains control.”

“And so?”

“The provisional government is desperate to stave off invasion by the British. They need to recover quickly. We donated this lot to help rebuild the infrastructure. We have others for farms and factories and such. We will not be displacing workers, but providing a desperately needed workforce.”

“Not as soldiers?”

“After
Father
?”

Rowland ducked his head, abashed. I moderated my tone. “The Americans have gone off wholesale mechanized murder for the moment . . . We will rebuild the right way, on sunlight dynamos and wind-power, perhaps harness the energy of flowing water, or even tap into the earth’s internal furnace. If we could do in the New Alliance what we have done here . . . the possibilities are endless.”

“And what of England?”

I snorted. “The Empire upon which the sun never sets?
The
Great Industrial Power? Do you truly think they will listen to anything I have to say? The madness is self-perpetuating. Industry and coal, coal and industry. They are in lock step and nothing will dislodge the men who profit by it.”

“Except, perhaps, a devastating war.”

“Heaven forbid.”

We again fell silent, but I could feel Rowland mulling over more than his kill-devil.

 “What is it?” Rowland looked up, startled. “What is it you need to say to me that you will not?”

“It’s not my place to say.”

“And yet, you have come all this way to say it. In six years, you have not once made the passage, but now, here you are.”

“You never returned home. You never came to see us.”

“I am shackled to this island.”

“No one is that indispensable. You have men enough to deal with the sugar business. Rottstieger runs himself ragged trying to manage things because you insist on living here. You could accomplish so much more from London.”

“The business does not shackle me. The matter is more personal. I would rather not discuss it.”

“You mean Bertha.”

I carefully set down my pen and blotted the ledger, then stuffed everything into the courier pouch. I locked the safe, switched off both lights, and opened the door for my brother.

“You cannot just ignore me, Fairfax.”

“What would you have me reply, Rowland? You have said nothing.”

“I would have you assure me all is well between you and Bertha. I am concerned for her—for you both.”

“
Bertha
, is it?”

“What else would you have me call my sister-in-law?”

“Whom you have never once laid eyes on.” I peered at him in the darkness. His face, despite the distant light, revealed more than I cared to understand. “I cannot see how that is any of your concern.” I moved down the stairs, then stopped and turned to him. “In point of fact, I have stayed away from London specifically to keep it private, and yet, here you are,
intruding
.”

“It
is
my concern when I see you destroying yourself, Fairfax. I scarcely know you any longer.”

I snorted at the irony. “You have never known me,
Rochester
. You, dearest brother, have never gotten past taunting me with that lesser name at school. I have been Fairfax to you since I was eight years old, I have always hated it, and you have never, ever, attempted to leave off. You make me a stranger, so you have no right to advise me.”

I tromped down the stairs, but Rowland remained where he stood. “Just tell me why Bertha is so terrified of you.”

“And how could you possibly know that?”

“She told me.”

“She told you. You have been
corresponding
with
my wife
?”

“She wrote to me pleading for help. You have turned everyone against her—even her own family. She has no one else to turn to. I am her only friend in the world.”

“Indeed. And how long, pray, has this tender exchange been taking place?”

Rowland flinched. I huffed my derision and turned away. Rowland came trailing after me as I circled the hangar, securing doors, testing anchor lines. “What are you doing?”

“A storm is coming.” I reached the power box and levered-up the handle. The hangar flooded with brilliant light. Rowland winced at the assault, then fairly jumped back at the sight of my automatons looming over him. They looked even more sinister illuminated, I suppose, despite my best efforts to humanize them—or perhaps because of it.

I wheeled on him, my army of mechanical men menacing behind me. “How long, Rowland? How long ago did you begin writing? Before you lost Yvette?”

Rowland swallowed hard. “A year . . . a year before she . . .”

Blazes. He looked even worse with the lights on. I doubted he had slept in the six months since Yvette had gone. The anger dribbled through my fingers. Poor, stupid Rowland. Had he been the picture of health, I would have roundly resented his presumption. As it was . . . poor, thickheaded, warm-hearted Rowland.

I opened the chest panel of the first auto-enhanced mechanoid. A flip of the appropriate switches and its eyes lit. Another series of twists, pushes, and toggles, and the thing sprang to life and marched toward the door. I ignored it and went to work on the others.

“What are you . . . what are they doing?”

“They secure the compound, put up the storm shutters, clear the decks, batten the hatches. Menial things easily programmed into the crystal board. The men locked down your airship as soon as you disembarked.” I shrugged and gestured at the barometer. “A storm comes.”

Rowland absorbed himself in the weather station as I continued activating the line of my man-droids. “So, tell me. Of what does my dearest wife accuse me, eh? How have I offended my tender hothouse orchid? That paragon of virtue?”

Rowland turned to me, his shoulders squared. “She says you are no longer the man she married—”

“Indeed. I should hope not.”

“—that you have spies watch her every move. She says you keep her imprisoned. You allow her to see no one. You deny her any friends. She has to smuggle out her letters. You have become a tyrant—power-crazed—since . . .”

“Since?”

“Since you . . . animated your metal men with evil spirits.” He sounded progressively more sheepish and shamed as the words tumbled from his mouth. I said nothing but waited for him to continue. “She fears for her life, Fairfax. Everything she writes has the ring of truth to it.”

“And you have come to rescue her from her terrible fate, of course.”

“I came to stop you from doing something rash. You conceal strange doings here. America will fall to this hell-spawned army you amass, and after that—what? England? Europe?”

“And you see my ‘fleet’ of airships—all six of them—my improvements on other men’s mediocrity, my
empire
housed in three hangars and an office, all the makings of world domination.”

“And the manufactories in Kingston and Montego Bay? They say you built a city of them.”

“Ah. The dreaded sugar mills. The distilleries.”

“If that is what they are.”

“Do you
hear
yourself, Rowland?” His silent sincerity spoke for him and I mended my tone. “People fear what they cannot understand. Because my manufactories resemble nothing they have ever seen, then they must not be what I claim. Because I choose this unlikely place, they think I have something to conceal.”

“Like your drinking and your temper? I never imagined you would beat your wife.”

I sighed. He imagined a great deal. “What will it take to convince you of my innocence?”

“Show me what you keep under lock and key—what you allow no one else to see.”

“Not tonight, nor tomorrow neither. A storm is coming.”

“What has that to do with anything?”

I snorted and wagged my head.

“Let me see her,” he amended. “Let me speak with her. Let me see for myself that you treat her as a husband ought.”

“That I can do. Has she seen you?”

“Pardon?”

“Does she know what you look like? Would she recognize you?” Blood rushed to Rowland’s cheeks and his eyes slid away from mine. “Ah. My brother and my wife have exchanged Daguerreotypes. How touching.”

“You never brought her to us.”

“So, goodness itself, she introduced herself. One must have family bonding. Let me see it.”

He seemed startled that I would expect him to have it on his person but produced it from his breast pocket just the same. I reached for it, but he snatched it back and clutched it to his breast. I glared at him, held out my hand, silently demanding compliance. His hand visibly shook as he forced himself to relinquish it.

I had to free him of its hold on him . . . if I could. I struck a match and set it alight.

“Here now! What are you doing?!” He attempted to wrest it from me, his agitation growing the more the flames licked at the image, but I held it out of his reach. Frantic, he screeched invectives. He reminded me of a little boy attempting to get his toy from a bully. When it burned beyond redemption, I dropped it into a dustbin.

He stared at it while it turned to ash. He visibly shook and clutched his arms about himself. Tears streamed down his face. “Why did you do that, Fairfax? How could you do that? You have no idea what that meant to me.”

I put my arm around his shoulder. “Indeed, Rowland. I fear I do.”

As the last cinder faded away, he seemed to come round to himself. The color crept back into his cheeks. I yet held him. He eyed me, surprised, then scrubbed the tears from his face. “What—”

“You’ll feel better by and by. Perhaps you already do.”

He sniffled and swallowed hard, dragged his sleeve across his nose. He laughed anemically and stepped away. He could not raise his gaze to mine.

Distraction seemed in order. I escorted him into the different workshops, explained a project or two, showed him the designs of my new winged airship. With time, his equilibrium seemed restored and I took him into the tack room. I found a likely pair of worn coveralls. Rowland eyed them skeptically as I shoved them at him.

“What for?”

“To properly meet the flower of my existence, my only purpose for living.”

“You do little for your case to speak of her with such bitterness.”

“I have a case, do I?”

“She means to sue for divorce. She claims your indiscretions have become too difficult to bear. You spurn her bed for housemaids and peasant girls.”

“The epitome of feminine delicacy has discussed with my brother our conjugal relationship. Indeed, I am impressed.” I slammed down the lever and the lights winked out. As I strode toward the door, Rowland eyed my automatons suspiciously, once again all ranked perfectly against the wall.

My mechanized velocipede hummed as we sped toward town. Rowland kept his shrieks of terror to himself, although he dug his fingers into my shoulders, clinging for dear life behind me. I had no time for niceties. I raced the clock and the storm.

A heavy brume clung to the atmosphere and darkened the night to pitch. At Kingston Bay, ranks of tall sailing ships and steamers cast off from the quays, heading for the better odds of open sea.

On a certain wharf, I pushed open the door to a seedy alehouse tucked between two warehouses. A giant of a man standing behind the bar looked up as we came in, met my eye, and nodded. Dark and ill-lit, I led Rowland to a table in the blackest corner. I ensured he had a clear view of the room as he sat, and the room had a clear view of him.

The barkeep approached. His neck and arms bare, his shirt thin, the muscles of his broad shoulders glinted from the sheen left by the torrid murk. On the right, instead of the bone and sinew of his arm, leather, copper, steel, and Herr Professor’s latest experiment with titanium glinted in the firelight against his coal-black skin.

“Evening, Julian.”

“Ebenin’, Cap’n. Ye be let.”

“I came as soon as I could.” The man eyed my brother warily. “A friend.”

“O’ course, Cap’n.”

“How are we this evening?”

“Bidness, she booms dees night. Sh’ad tree lines ahready—”

“Three lines of what?” Rowland demanded.

“De cocaine. Be ye daft, mon?”

Rowland continued to stare.

“I believe I told you of my experiments in prostheses for amputees?” I explained. “Julian, brave man, allowed me to test a few theories on him.”

Julian flexed his elbow, wrist, and fingers proudly, to the soft whir and snick of gears and pulleys in motion. “’Tis quite dee ting. T’almost makes me glad me gots caught een dee crushah.”

“Almost,” I agreed. Rowland grimaced.

“Sev me life, dee Cap’n deeds. ‘T’would ’ave bleeded to def ’eef not for ’eem.”

Rowland eyed me. “Julian and I are old friends,” I explained. “We have much in common.” Julian snorted. I turned again to my host. “The usual, Julian, if you would.”