SteampunX –
Episode Three: The Railroad Underground
by
Benjamin Jacobson
Copyright 2011 Benjamin Jacobson
Smashwords Edition
Previously in SteampunX:
Teenage twins, Funk and Puck, from the Ten Hundred Nations discover poachers hunting the Birch Stag automaton. Risking their lives, they run to inform the machine’s creator, Thunder, about the trespass of this “Buffalo Man.” The poachers follow and a battle ensues leaving Funk without his hand and all but one of the poachers dead. Before their deaths the poachers revealed their origin as the Marquisdom of Chartres in New France. In response, Thunder and the twins, Puck and the newly renamed Red Hand, embark on a mission into New France to discover the truth behind their actions, find the missing poacher, “Crane,” and avert a war between the two nations.
The crew arrives in New France at the time of a cotillion and an uprising. The Marquis denies involvement with the “Buffalo Man” and asks Thunder’s assistance in harvesting his new dangerous crop, coca. Thunder refuses, but stays for the cotillion to gather information. Meanwhile, Gustave, a house slave, and Jean, a field slave, plot a coup. When the party begins so does the massacre. In exchange for his life the Marquis reveals the truth behind the “Buffalo Man,” insisting that the Ten Hundred Nations have been attacking New France. Thunder convinces Gustave to spare the Marquis’s life and the newly freed slaves, Thunder, Red Hand , Puck and Isabelle, the Marquis’s captured daughter, head for the freedman state of Liberia.
Puck
Puck knew they were coming, the stumblers. They dropped spoor like an injured animal. The forest was dense with their trail. Every time her group crossed its own path, which was often as they attempted to conceal themselves from capture by the Neufrancaise, the other tracks would sit densely upon their own. She knew they were coming, but she didn’t tell anyone.
Her brother, Red Hand, had found his own distraction with the prisoner, Isabelle, the Marchioness of Chartres. The girl, still clad in her party dress, never ventured beyond twenty yards of him. She hadn't even bothered to attempt escape. Red Hand generally had no time for the games of girls, yet as he showed his usual stone face, he stayed always within sight of the girl.
Isabelle’s former handmaiden, May, committed worse crimes, in Puck's eyes. May had taken roughly to freedom. She tagged along after the Marchioness as the Marchioness tagged along after Red Hand. She offered assistance to Isabelle frequently to navigate a shallow stream or an overgrown path. Puck tried to put herself in May's place. The girl had been under the thumb of a pretentious child for all her life. Suddenly May had the advantage, for not only was she free, but Isabelle was her prisoner. Puck could only imagine the type of torture and humiliation that she might dole out in May’s place. May submitted. She was either a far better person than Puck or far worse.
Thunder offered less amusement. In the best of times, his mind wandered. Over this journey his mind seemed absent altogether. He followed the chaotic paths of the impromptu tribe without comment or complaint. He assisted with foraging when necessary then returned to his dreamwalk through the forest. He had few conversations and said little of consequence. Puck had not forgiven her brother or Thunder for “saving” her from the uprising. She still felt the jolt of thunder through her body that had knocked her unconscious. She remembered that pain when she considered telling him of the stumblers.
Gustave and Jean, the de facto leaders of this rebellion, provided Puck with her only amusement. Most adults Puck had known lived the reed's life, bending gracefully to the whim of the wind and stranding straight when trouble had passed. These two were rocks, banging into each other. They spoke French, but when they swore, which was often, they swore in Esperanto, much to her amusement.
To watch the spit fly from their mouths and the words bounce off the trees and echo in the night gave her a thrill. She thought if she watched long enough one or the other would snap and words would turn to fists. It's not that she craved the violence. Her adventures so far had been limited and thrilling danger sparked from these arguments. Only holding her secret gave her the same thrill. She nurtured these little dangers as newborn pups, hoping one day to unleash wolves.
Wolves are not easily tamed.
The strangers struck quickly. Puck had no time to alert the group. She barely had time to scramble up a tree before the stumblers came. She had expected them to be slow. Their tracks indicated clumsy imprecision, but they arrived in force. They'd chosen the night of the new moon, so only the light of the stars illuminated their attack, the stars and occasional gunfire.
She watched the stumblers fall upon Gustave and Jean. Jean, the man mountain, fought off a few with punches that landed like avalanches, plowing the shadows to the ground. He protected Gustave, who in turn drew his blade. Before he could swing once it fell to the ground. Glimpsing Gustave she saw him dumbstruck. This was not the idea of the warrior that had circulated the group since the uprising. His reputation was that of a fierce, unrelenting fighter, but he simply stood. Still Jean's fists were enough to subdue most of the attackers. Puck lost the action in the dark and dust. A scream came from some distance behind.
Puck spun and grabbed at tree branches to adjust her perspective. She watched Red Hand fight clumsily with his left hand. He hadn't the size or strength of Jean and being down one limb easily tipped the scales in the stumblers favor. The shadowed men subsumed the much younger fighter and before Puck could react her brother had vanished. It shook her to her senses. She tumble-flipped to the ground and grabbed the skinning knife from her belt, the only weapon Thunder would allow her.
Surrounded by darkness and shadows she braced herself for attack, but none came. She'd landed in the middle of battle and still couldn't find the fight.
She let out a jubilant warble, like a sparrow taking flight. That did it. The blackness closed in around her. Her ears pricked up the sound of crashing footsteps and broken branches. She waved her blade in the air before her.
Crack! A familiar spark and crackle lit the night. The stumbler's face illuminated for a split second, but the after image stayed in her eye. It was a black face, scarred beyond humanity. Wires and tubes hung from the throat and jaw as if the head were a freshly picked potato. Ill-used flesh had been removed and returned haphazardly to fill in gaps. The whites of the eyes dominated the irises each of which stared off in its own direction.
She almost screamed. A second crack spared her that embarrassment. The figure vanished in the new flash replaced by Thunder sparking off the bolts of lightning. The effect scattered the stumblers like leaves to the wind. His after-image stood strong in her mind. She thanked the spirits his mind had awoken before the stumbling nightmares took them both.
*
Thunder
The first sunrise he hadn't slept through in weeks shed light on Thunder’s missing companion. He waved silently to Gustave, who acknowledged him only with his eyes. He approached the man with caution. Since the ambush they had not been able to locate any of the party. The darkness didn't help. Neither did the need for silence and stealth to evade further attacks. He and Puck had been tiptoeing through the forest in ever widening circles in the dim hope of finding one group and not the other. To see Gustave alive gave Thunder hope that more might have survived.
"You are safe." Thunder said.
"No, but I am alive."
"Have you seen the others?"
"I have a small group hidden up ahead in a large outcropping of rock. Seven so far."
Thunder nodded. Then asked the question he didn't want to ask. "Any bodies?"
"None."
Thunder clapped his hand on Gustave shoulder, "That is good."
"No. I've seen them now. I know what happened ... what's happening. He does not kill the bodies. He kills the souls."
"Who does?"
"The Marquis. The Devil. Give him whatever name you wish. He's stripped men’s souls. He threshes their flesh and addles their minds. Do you know who attacked us last night?" Gustave's voice took on a frantic tone.
"The Marquis's men."
"No!" Gustave knocked Thunder's arm off his shoulder. "My men. My people and not those lost long ago, the other parties. They've been captured, perverted to better serve the needs of their Master. We are alone. We are helpless. Our escape is a ruse, just another leash with a longer run, but a tighter choke. He tugs on it now as the air of freedom burns in my lungs. He pulls the leash and I am tamed." Gustave spit the words out, but his flaccid body wilted with the effort.
Puck jumped in front of him. "Who do you have? At the rocks. Who do you have?"
"Who don't I have, you mean? May, Reynold, Leopold, Amelie, Stephan, Katherine, and Nan. These are the survivors, the ones who live for now. Your brother is not with them."
It was Puck's turn to wilt, but like any of her moods it lasted only momentarily. "We will find them. We will rescue them. There are no bodies. They are alive. Let's get them. I can track the stumblers. They don't hide their path. They tromp through the forests like stray horses. Their tracks are clear. We can take back our people."
Thunder said, "Would that your senses were as keen last night."
Puck jerked away at the rebuke. Thunder knew the truth in that moment. The girl had suspected an ambush and yet let her brother get taken. Even in the most serious of circumstances she had a child's mind. Perhaps he had shielded her too long from the world.
Thunder said, "We will go. We will save your brother, or avenge him. We must go soon, but not now. We have no plan and no rest. We'll meet with the others and confer. We will sleep and set out at twilight." Puck agreed or at least acquiesced to Thunder's plan.
It took only minutes to find the huddled mass of shaken humanity that Gustave had left in the woods. Thunder attempted to speak to them, but the monsters in the night had broken their trust of strangers, even strangers that traveled with them. When they refused to respond Gustave took charge. They spoke quickly in heavily accented French. Thunder, the fatigue of the night overtaking him, could barely follow the discussion, until finally he stopped trying.
Gustave turned to Thunder when the argument had ceased. "They will continue on to Liberia. I've given them the best directions I can. No more backtracking or evasion, just a straight shot to the mountains. I will pray for their safety."
"You will go with them?" Thunder posed it as both a question and a suggestion.
"No. They do not trust me or like me. I have never been a leader to them. It was always Jean who they followed. He humored my counsel, but he knew, like they do. I cannot be trusted. They are right to think it. Look where I have led them. I don't deserve Liberia."
"You will give up your freedom?" Thunder asked.
"No. I will do what I've always done I will fight to deserve it or die in the effort. I have made them a promise. I will rescue Jean. I will return with him to Liberia or I will not return at all."
*
Red Hand
Red Hand awoke to an abyss. He could feel only the press of humanity all around him. Some of the bodies wiggled back, others remained motionless. The stench of sweat and decay danced in his nostrils. He tried to rise, but found his body unresponsive. He tried to see, but realized his eyes wouldn't open. A sudden bump brought the rest of the world back to his mind. Life did exist beyond the pile. On this little evidence he pressed his body back into service. It didn't respond. He didn't hurt. He didn't feel anything, except nausea.
When the canvas was removed he realized it had been there. He welcomed the sky, still dark. The night had not yet passed or more than a day had. A black arm fell across his face hiding everything. He felt a rough hand reach across his belly and the unseen body lifted away. The same rough hands returned. He had enough sensation to feel their presence, but not their force as he too emerged from the pile. The figure cradled him, but Red Hand could not turn to see his face. Being helpless and pressed against the man's warm chest awakened old memories, of his childhood and his mother. She used to hold him like this, to nurse him and nurture him. She'd brought him into the world and shown him the wonder of it and then left. Now here he was cradled again, for the last time. He wondered if her spirit gathered near. Preparing to welcome him.
His back hit the table hard and though it didn't hurt, he knew it should have. His head lolled involuntarily to one side. He took stock of his surroundings. They had brought him inside. The room was a large stable. Different stalls had been set up, each with their own table. Red Hand had limited experience, but he did have a recollection of similar site, the wizard's longhouse. His phantom fingers twitched at the thought and it was more sensation than he'd felt since waking. He pressed on the memory, comparing what was there to his new environment: Tables, certainly, though Thunder's had all been buried deep under metal and wood scraps, instruments of various kinds, though again, the distinction lie in the type as Thunder's had been mostly electrical in nature and these looked cobbled together from pneumatics, clockwork, and steam engines, finally there were the tools. Not the fine crafting instruments that had been in the only lab he'd had any experience in, but brutal and rough blades and awls, coated with dried blood.
He saw her and his heart skipped, only the second sensation to pierce his numb shell. He couldn't say why. Isabelle was just a whiter version of his sister, a tag-a-long, a nuisance. Yet he warmed in her presence and his hand tingled. He attempted earnestly to understand her gibberish, more than he had for any Columbian he'd met in the past. He kept her in his sight since the night of the cotillion and now here she was again. Of course, this time was different. There she stood, her tattered party dress replaced with the more modest dress of a Columbian farm girl. She looked down mostly and spoke to the men that he could not turn his head to see. For one brief moment she glanced in his direction and then just as quickly disappeared.
In her place appeared the immobile body of a large black man. Red Hand recognized him as Jean, one of the leaders of the rebellion. Straps appeared from the table to hold the large man in place. Red Hand realized whatever medicine they had given him, that kept him still, would wear off, or why strap him down. He tried again to move with no luck.
Jean lay motionless and Red Hand watched as a hand probed his body. It measured and pinched and pressed. Its intent was unclear until the blade appeared. Jean bucked against his straps as the edge bit flesh. The tool wrote a string of blood across his legs and arms.
Red Hand tried to look away, but didn't have the power. He lacked even the strength to blink. His eyes watered and he felt the sting of their dryness. The pain faded as he witnessed the vivisection of Jean.
The hand wielded a metal needle thinner than a cactus spine. Repeatedly the device plunged into and through the flesh of the unconscious noir. A hard ball formed in Red Hand's gut as he realized that whatever they were doing to Jean was just a precursor to what would soon happen to him. Eventually Jean's body fell still. Red Hand could still pick out the shape, but the details disappeared into a mound of meat and blood, like a butcher's table.
The machinery arrived on a wheeled cart. Something like a metallic cow's udder hung from a central poll, tentacular teats extending down to the surface of the cart. The hands reached into the mess of gore and tissue and pulled out some organ tethered to the body through stringy viscera.
The view changed so quickly Red Hand thought he had woken from a dream. Then he recognized the gas lamps he had seen on his arrival. Someone had turned his head, so he could only see the ceiling and the stars through the cracks therein. The face came in, pale to the point of sickness.
"You're a special one, yes?" He grinned. The hue of his teeth matched the skin. "It looks as though someone's already been here." Red Hand couldn't feel his severed limb lift, but his phantom fingers folded into a fist.
"This cut is wonderful. So smooth. So precise. Real artistry." He lifted a ragged blade, stained with rust and dried blood. "I've never been that careful or patient." The knife shook. "See that. I'm so eager to see what I can do to you. I can't control it."
"They never let me work on whites. This is a great treat."
Red Hand felt no pain on the first cuts. Only when they got to the deep tissue did he scream and convulse. The agony eclipsed the relief of moving again. As his heart pounded the numbness returned, until the abyss swallowed him once more.
*
Gustave
Was rebellion not enough? Hadn't he given all for his people? Years of servitude, but they didn't understand. The beasts of labor envy the domesticated puppy. He had the warm bed, the nice clothes. He slept at the foot of the master. He rarely endured the lick of the whip. He wasn't wild anymore. He'd been tamed.
Gustave crouched behind a cottonwood. Drops of rain ran down his blade and to the ground. His eyes froze on the barn. The scout, a boy, had called it the Factory. They turn men into monsters. The boy said that before Gustave slit his throat. He'd killed the child; he'd found the wild. The native, Thunder, had said nothing, but he had taken the girl away before the murder. He'd fought so long to be considered human, to be worth something. The fight itself had taken that away. He'd become a monster now, no factory needed. He was savage, just as the Marquis would have called him, a filthy noir. Unburdened by humanity, what could he do to save a good man?
No one walked the perimeter. No one had entered or left since their arrival. There had been no noise except the occasional scream which was barrier enough to keep strangers at bay. Thunder had joined him again, as had the girl. He watched them as they surveyed the Factory's opposite side. A nod from the native signaled their advance.
Gustave approached the door slowly, sending wide eyes over the territory looking for disturbances. The rattle of rain on leaves muted the landscape. No tracks showed in the mud. By the time he reached the door he'd ceased stalking. He tightened his grip on the handle of his Beau Oui Knife. Standing in front of the door, he thought that he might slash it or kick it in. He realized the stupidity of it. He needed to save his strength. Flesh was hard enough to pierce, why waste effort on wooden doors?
He reached across and grabbed the opening that stood in for a handle. He pulled quickly and raised his blade, prepared to slaughter anyone who tried to pass through the doorway. No one came. A second later, the far door opened and Thunder stood silhouetted in the passage. Silence except for the muted sound of raindrops bouncing off the wooden roof. Almost as mirror images Gustave and Thunder entered the cavernous hall. They cautiously made their way toward each other, shooting glances to the left and right to cover every nook. The stench of death strengthened the deeper in they went. Animalian carcasses sat flayed on tables. Tubes, chains and nozzles of every description shot out in awkward directions. As they approached the middle, Thunder dropped his gaze and ran toward one of the tables. The lost boy lay upon it.
"Onekwenhtara Ohsnonhse?" he said, breaking the silence. At this cue the girl hopped through the doorway and straight for her brother.
"Onekwenhtara Ohsnonhse?" he said again, this time grabbing the boy's shoulders.
His sister pounced on this invitation to touch. She began to pinch and slap her brother. She spoke the native tongue, which Gustave didn't understand, but he heard her teasing tone. Thunder brushed the girl’s hands off her brother and placed his ear to the boy's chest.
"He still lives." Thunder said.
Gustave looked over the body and noticed the boy's right hand. When last he'd seen it, there had been just a stump. Now from the elbow shot a bizarre contraption. It reminded him of the internal workings of the threshers he'd seen installed in the fields of the Marquis, except miniaturized. Thunder too had noticed this unnatural addition to the boy's anatomy. The native lifted the device and watched the upper arm rise. Someone had attached the machine to the man. Except for this no other scar appeared on his body.
As Thunder held the device it began to move. Only then did Gustave recognize it as a hand, a hand made of wire and brass, but a hand nonetheless. The fingers, for that's what they now appeared to be, wiggled. Thunder placed the mechanical arm down. The fingers continued to twitch after release.
"What is that?" Gustave asked, but no one answered except the boy himself, whose head tossed to the side as a groan escaped his lips.
Once again the girl inserted herself between Thunder and her brother. They spoke more in the native tongue and as they spoke the boy's voice became stronger. Soon he lifted to his elbows and then he noticed the arm.
He took it well, Gustave thought. He stared at it with no expression. Watching this new hand as an infant might watch his own. He moved the fingers in a variation of sequences. Gustave realized there were only three. Red Hand rotated the forearm which spun like a wheel, missing the stop mark and coming back around so that again the finger's bent forward. The boy had a hand now unlike any others, a marvel, but Gustave had only one thought in his mind.
"Where is Jean?" The boy looked up at Gustave noticing him for the first time. He thought he saw his expression darken for just a moment, before he pointed to an adjacent table. Only then did Gustave realize that these weren't animals’ carcasses, but people. The thought sickened him, but he'd seen enough death lately not to show it. He rushed over to the table to which the boy had pointed.
It had been Jean, his figure unmistakable, even though half his face hid behind an iron plate. Fresh scar tissue with stitches running throughout it gave way here and there to a shaft of metal or finely etched gear. It was as though someone had fed a locomotive to a cow and then turned it inside out. He felt for a heartbeat, but failed to locate the heart at all. From his corner eye he saw the natives help their lost brother to his feet and out the door, leaving him to grieve for a brother that wouldn't be coming back.
For a few moments the grief ran pure, a sore ache for a friend lost. Then the anger arrived. Jean had taken Gustave to Hell with him. They were both hell bound, no doubt. They'd sacrificed their souls for the freedom of their people and they had enough blood on their hands to make the devil hungry. Yet, they'd had a chance for freedom in this life, for liberty, for Liberia. Jean's death had stolen that from Gustave. He gripped his hands into fists and beat on the chest of the silent noir. He screamed an uncontrollable, violent cry at the injustices that had chained him from birth.
The chest beat back. A piston pumped out of the torso with a loud thump, startling Gustave. A rush of steam shot from the shoulders. The piston pumped again disappearing back into the chest cavity. Out again and in again, out again, in again. Each stroke slowly gained speed until reaching a steady, constant rhythm. True thunder sounded and lightning lit up the large room through all the cracks in the ceiling and walls. Jean's body rose unnaturally at the waist. His eyes opened but remained unfocused. He stood supporting himself with a steel shaft that had replaced one arm.
"What have they done to you?" Gustave asked, but still he gripped his knife.
The monster, for that is all this could be, ran his unfocused eyes across the room, not taking particular note of any thing or person. Every movement brought a new, unfamiliar sound of scratching steel.
"Jean?" Gustave asked. With the word the monster snapped into action. The large shaft swung up and across, like a horizontal pendulum, crashing into Gustave's side. He heard his ribs crack and then his head hit the ground. He had only a moment to roll before the shaft fell again. A clumsy assault snapped the edge off the table and ricocheted to the ground. An explosion of wooden shrapnel sprayed Gustave's face. He flinched and covered his eyes. He heard the gears spinning as the metal arm retracted. The slow movement gave Gustave time to recover his knife. As the massive weapon ticked upward, preparing for another fall, a thousand thoughts shot through Gustave's mind.
What a lifetime of whippings had failed to do had now been accomplished through herbs and steel. Jean had finally become the obedient slave, acting out the will of some unseen master without pause, thought or regret. They had never broken the man's spirit, so they stole it and replaced it with a steam engine. This monster standing before him wasn't just a slave; It was the embodiment of slavery itself that raised its cruel bludgeon and prepared to end his life in one final blow. A man stripped of humanity turned into a machine. How fitting a death it would be then to die by its unfeeling arm? Perhaps fate had caught up with him after all. Perhaps justice allowed Jean to be his killer.
The hammer fell.
Gustave opened his eyes, surprised to see that he had dodged the attack. No matter how hard slavery pushed back at him, Gustave long to live and to live free.
Again the arm retracted, ticking its way up from the floor. Gustave didn't hesitate this time. He got to his knees and plunged his knife into the heart of the beast. The chest was too well protected and the blade glanced off. The thing that had been Jean reacted slowly to the assault. Its glassy eyes barely registered its now moving target. What it had gained in mass, it had lost in speed and intellect. Gustave had a rare second chance and he would not waste it.
He plunged his knife into the remains of Jean's face. He pushed hard to get through the skull and palate. Blood and oil poured down his hands. He twisted the blade.
The monster collapsed backward onto the floor. The gears continued to spin and the piston kept pumping, but the train was nothing without a conductor.
This machine wasn't Jean. It had stolen his body and replaced his rebellious soul with obedience. Gustave hadn’t killed Jean; He'd just freed another slave.
*
Red Hand
The pace quickened on this new journey to Liberia. The need for obfuscation and backtracking had vanished with the hope of a happy ending. The four party members, Gustave, Thunder, Red Hand and Puck all fell quiet under their individual burdens. Meals were eaten infrequently and in silence. They all shared only one purpose: to end this journey as quickly as possible. Forests and hills gave way to mountains and fields. They avoided all civilized areas taking instead to the wilderness where the native's skills provided all the food and shelter necessary. On the first trip they'd often found towns or settlements in which to settle down for a night and get comfort and news. Gustave had known the signs of how to locate these stops on the journey. Now he offered no such advice, settling instead on taking what the natives could provide him.
Red Hand didn't bother to ask the man about his reluctance. He still took second to Thunder on this mission, a mission he'd long since forgotten the reason for. He'd lost it in the fevered and tortured dreams of the Factory. Any thought of Gustave took his mind back to the man-mountain Jean and how he'd been flayed alive in front of him.
Red Hand's fate had been different. Over the course of this journey he frequently looked down to his new arm. He marveled at its construction, its precision, its strength. The Neufrancaise had taken away his hand and now they'd replaced with something new and perhaps better. He puzzled over this. Life rarely seemed to break down an even middle, no matter how much he wanted it to.
Red Hand sought out Thunder as the landscape revealed they'd reentered the territory of the Ten Hundred Nations, though far to the west of where their kinsmen might be found.
"We have escaped New France." Red Hand said.
"Yes." Thunder replied.
"Is it time to return then? To our village?"
"No." Even in this conversation they did not stop walking. Moving ever onward.
"Why not?"
"You have forgotten our mission." Thunder's sharp tone revealed his anger and fatigue.
"It was not to free the slaves. Nor help this man?" Red Hand gestured at Gustave but because they spoke their native tongue he took no heed.
"You are correct. Our mission was to find the purpose of the attacks on our village, to find out why I had been targeted. We have the answer."
"What is the answer?"
"The answer is on your arm and in that Factory. The Neufrancaise are stealing the bodies of men and replacing them with metal. They’re stealing their souls and replacing them with nothing. They are creating soldiers that are hard to kill and harder to coerce. It is an army. You don't recognize it, but in that arm are pieces of the Birch Stag. They've taken my medicine and turned it toward war. They've taken the first steps on this journey and they won't be turned back."
"All the more reason to return then."
"No. If the Neufrancaise can create that arm and turn a man into a monster, then we cannot stand before them. You are correct that our mission is over. We learned what we came to find out, but knowledge is only the first step. It is only a matter of time before New France crosses our borders. When they do we will need all the help we can get. We are no longer looking for information. Now we are preparing for war."
The answer stilled Red Hand. He did not talk again for the rest of that day.
"There it is." Gustave pointed up to a nearby hilltop. Twilight arrived just in time to allow the lights of the hidden settlement to show clear. For the first moment in the long journey they all stopped together and looked their destination nearly in hand. The sight gave them new energy and the night passed quicker than any they had previously spent. By morning they approached the foot of the mountain.
A sharp crack and an explosion of dirt stopped their progress, a bullet fired from a hidden position. None of the travelers bothered to bolt or hide. They'd seen too much to run from warning shots.
A sentry appeared from behind a large rock, rifle in hand. He approached slowly. Clearly he feared them more than they him. He wore a workman's outfit and wide-brimmed hat.
"Who approaches?" he asked in Esperanto.
They had fallen so deeply into the silence of the journey that for a moment no one spoke. Finally Gustave stepped forward.
"Je suis Gustave de Chartres, a new freedman. I seek Liberia."
The sentry did not drop his guard, but looked immediately to the others. "And you?" he said.
Thunder stepped forward before Red Hand or Puck could speak.
"I am John Thunder. I represent the Ten Hundred Nations. I seek council with the King of Liberia on a matter of import to both our peoples." Thunder said.
The sentry extended his gaze to the too young natives. Clearly he wouldn't rest without a full accounting. "These are my brother and sister." Thunder stopped short of giving their names. Though it was the tradition of the south, natives didn't give the names of others if it could be avoided. They were, after all, not theirs to give.
The sentry's steel gaze lingered on Red Hand, noticeably on his face on not his mechanical hand. Red Hand felt his hackles rise. He didn't like the way the sentry looked at him. He gripped his metal hand into a fist repeatedly, which drew the sentry's attention, but did nothing to ease his tension.
"This one is white." Disgust dripped from his mouth like drool from a hungry wolf.
Red Hand started at the accusation, raising his hand. The sentry, in turn, raised his rifle. Puck, who'd mostly been ignoring the conversation, pulled her knife. At that action, two more sentries appeared from their hiding places. Thunder stepped between Red Hand and the sentry.
"His skin may be fair, but he is a native since the day of his birth. I swear it." No one moved.
"No white man may touch foot in Liberia. No exceptions."
Red Hand noticed the sentry's skin was a shade lighter than his compatriots. He thought perhaps what the white man had touched might be of particular interest of this one. He calculated a fitting retort, but couldn't open his mouth before his sister interrupted him.
"Liberia. Ha! You're kidding yourself. This is the land of the Ten Hundred Nations. You have no authority here. Just holding that weapon you're opening yourself up to the punishment of the Clan Mothers. Before you start ordering people around you better check on whose land you're standing." The sentries raised their sights to their eyes.
Puck had chosen exactly the wrong words, as usual. She spoke truth. Liberia was an illegal nation. An attempt at a sovereign state by and for freed slaves. The nobility of the effort was commendable, but they had no sanction to take the land of the Nations. Even if they had sought such approval it would have been denied. The Nations could not risk violating their long-standing alliance with the Neufrancaise by encouraging the rebellion of their slaves. Still here in the mountains of the southwest stood the city-state of Liberia and the citizens of that country that would kill to protect it. Puck didn't understand political intricacies, but since taking his new name Red Hand had spent many nights listening to the conversation of the men around him. He knew that often truth had to be ignored as the world reshaped itself around it.
"I will stay here." Red Hand offered. Puck looked at him disgusted. She hated backing down as much as he did, but in this case he had no choice. The world was changing and he would have to be as malleable or be crushed beneath its weight.
"It is settled," said Thunder and because he said it, it was.
The sentries lowered their weapons. The first one pointed the three remaining travelers up an obscured trail and then followed behind as they ascended.
Red Hand moved back from the foothills, allowing the other sentries to disappear into the rocks. He found a stone and sat upon it. As he watched his companions climb he crushed rocks in his metal hand until they crumbled.
*
Thunder
Each step up the mountain sent a jolt of fire up Thunder's weary legs. He tried to focus on the terrain, admiring the beauty of the red dirt and sculptural rock formations. He'd almost forgotten how far he'd travelled; such was his mission that he could never pause. This land, though still part of the Nations, differed greatly from his home. He saw a preponderance of evergreens and shrubbery peppered throughout a rocky terrain. He missed his home. He missed his workshop. The contrast did its job. He couldn't feel the pain in his legs over the ache in his heart.
The trees gave way to stumps as they approached the Kingdom of Liberia. The title was solely aspirational. The settlement could barely be called a town. Camp might be a better term. Still as they trudged farther up the mountain more civilization of the Columbian-type appeared, a permanent structure among the tents or a cooking fire. In a way, Liberia hybridized the culture of the Neufrancaise with the Native. The noirs who wandered about conducting business wore a tattered, rough-cut version of French dress. The red dirt of the ground coated their bodies, so that it appeared they had grown straight from the soil. This was a hardworking town that had only the barest time for decoration. Only as they approached the home of the King did that distinction disappear for it was as grand and needlessly ornate as the Marquis's own manor.
The sentry who had followed closely behind them handed them over to the gate guards.
"What's your business with the King of Liberia?" asked the guard, whose uniform, a tailored suit of brilliant red, marked him as the senior officer.
"I am John Thunder ..."
"Blacks speak first." interrupted the red guard, notably choosing the Esperanto word for black.
Gustave stepped forward. "I am Gustave. I come from Chartres. How many from Chartres are here?"
The red guard looked at him suspiciously. "You are Gustave? Not Jean?"
Gustave blanched at the name of his fallen ally. "No. I am not Jean."
The red guard looked to his subordinate with shifting eyes. "Who are they?"
Gustave gestured back at Thunder and Puck. "These are natives from the Ten Hundred Nations. They assisted in our journey. They wish to speak to the King on another matter."
"Wait here," insisted the red guard with the practiced reticence of a functionary.
They did wait. As time passed and the wait became a rest, Thunder moved to the ground sitting cross-legged. Again he felt the pain of his legs, but this time only as the relief washed it away. Puck too, sat. Soon she laid and finally slept. Gustave continued to stand, walk and pace. His face showed his anguish. Thunder considered how little he knew of this man he'd now spent so much time with. Gustave was, as he'd first suspected, a good man pushed to the limits of his humanity. Thunder watched as puffs of red dirt flew up about Gustave's quickly moving feet. He thought about the war of which Gustave had told him. How it had been long and dirty and invisible. Thunder had seen that war explode and destroy the lives of souls of many. Thunder knew the truth.
There is only one War. It is the same war wherever it is fought and it destroys all men and women who engage in it. This southern war, so long ignored by his people, would come now to take his life, his family, his nation. There would be no negotiation, no conciliation, and no appeasement. Gustave survived a broken man. Jean lost his soul. Countless others lost their lives.
Thunder looked to the sleeping girl who'd become his companion. He remembered her great spirit. It had become muted, silent. Had it broken already? Were his people so fragile, cradled by a hundred years of peace? He'd find out soon.
The red guard returned.
"Your request for an audience has been granted. The great King Doe of Liberia will see you. Prepare yourself." Thunder rose and woke Puck. Gustave lined up first and Thunder and Puck followed. The ornate doors opened from within. Two more red guards held the doors and their tongues. Silence and red dominated the long hall that led to a second set of doors and men. Nothing hung on the walls except a single portrait of an enthroned man. When the second set of doors opened that portrait came to life in the figure of Doe, King of Liberia.
They entered a gilded room. A dozen or so guards and assistants stood about in alcoves and beside walls, like a living statue garden. Before any of the travelers could speak a man came forward from behind the throne. "Presenting His Majesty, Doe. King of Liberia and all Blacks. He welcomes you into his presence and asks that you remember the proper respects when addressing his personage. You may address him as Your Majesty or King Doe. All servants of King Doe please show proper respects." With that all persons in the room dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in the King's direction, all but the three travelers. After a moment, Gustave fell to his knee. Puck started to follow, perhaps she had been broken, but Thunder seized her arm in time. Natives did not bow to other men, of any Nation.
The King gestured and all assembled rose.
"Gustave de Chartres, long have we awaited your return." The king spoke in a surprisingly high voice for such a large man. "We have heard of your exploits at Chartres. How you assisted the rebel Jean in ending the tyranny of the Marquis over our people. For this you deserve our commendation and a place in Liberia."
Thunder watched Gustave's face fall as all the tension left it. Tears welled in his eyes. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I have long dreamed of freedom, of Liberia."
"As all good men do." The king said. A practiced line. "Yet ..." Thunder watched as Gustave's body shocked stiff at the word. "We've heard other tales as well. That you failed to kill the enemy of our people, the Marquis de Chartres, when you had the opportunity, that you've consorted with whites since your escape and that you promised to return with the hero Jean or not at all. Yet here you are in our chamber. Where is Jean?"
"Dead."
"It comes to us to ask then, why have you not joined him in this? Was that not your promise to our people? Is it not true that the men of the Marquis murdered him? The very monster you refused to kill when given the chance. Did the Marquis offer you something to come here? Are you perhaps a spy for the Neufrancaise? These are question you cannot answer, but we must ask."
"I ... I"
"We told you not to answer. You've added insubordination to your crimes. We the Kingdom of Liberia cannot welcome you, but in deference to what aid you have given us, we will let you live. However, you may not cross the ground of Liberia again on penalty of death. We have no need of house slaves in this country. By royal decree you are no longer Liberian or black, since one cannot be one without the other."
Gustave fell to his knees and sobbed.
"Guards, remove him." Thunder watched as they dragged the broken bag of a man out of the room. He wanted to offer assistance, but his position wasn't such that he could risk it. Another way politics turn men into monsters.
"Now to you, Native. We apologize for the scene and that your choice of companion has been such a poor example of a black man. We welcome you as a representative of the Ten Hundred Nations. Liberia is friend to all nations that respect the black man. Furthermore, your personal reputation precedes you, Doctor John Thunder. How can the Kingdom of Liberia be of assistance to you and the Ten Hundred Nations?"
"Your Majesty," by the actions of the man, Thunder thought that some kind of deference might be necessary, yet he felt an unbidden anger rising as well. "I do not at this time speak for my people. I am one man and one man cannot speak for a Nation." He noticed the King flinch.
"However, I believe that a situation may be coming that endangers my Nation and yours. Are we free to speak?"
The king glanced around conspiratorially, "These are the most free men in Liberia. Whatever you have to tell us can be trusted in them."
"The Neufrancaise are on the verge of war with my people. Already they've raided our land, stolen our medicine and perverted it for their own needs. I cannot say how soon it may begin or even how my nation will choose to react, but I do know that we will need allies. The Neufrancaise are your longtime enemies, so what I ask is simple. If my people call for your support, will you come?"
The King sat back at this and rubbed his hand against his chin. The pause extended for some time before he spoke again.
"You are mistaken to say the Neufrancaise are our enemy. We hold no ill will toward the country. Most Liberians have called New France home at one time. It is true that the actions of some of their nobility violate our principles, but we do not wish war with them."
Thunder looked to the eyes of many of the most-free men. Clearly they disagreed, but Doe was a shrewd king. He wouldn’t commit his country to any action that he couldn’t control.
Thunder's voice lowered. "I do not ask that you attack the Neufrancaise only that if war comes you assist the efforts of the Ten Hundred Nations."
"We will make no such allegiances that are detrimental to our people." The king's impatience boiled in his words.
"It is natural for a young nation to fear its neighbors; however you may be wise to remember whose land we stand on."
That was enough to push the King past his diplomatic demeanor.
The monarch rose as he yelled. "Do not presume to tell me how to run this kingdom nor to threaten me with your armies. You stand in the Kingdom of Liberia!" His men bristled at the words and raised their guards. Whatever doubt they may have felt about the words of their king did not extend to the kingdom itself.
Thunder maintained a calm tone. "What you may wish is not the same as what is so. The war is coming. When war comes there is only one question that must be answered by each of us. Who are your friends?"
Now the King calmed, but his anger burned ever hotter in his words. "The blacks of Anowarakowa have no friends. Do not come into our Kingdom and ask our assistance when you have watched us suffer for a hundred years at the hands of your allies. What you call a friend is a convenience. Liberia is a place for freedmen. We are free from your fickle friendship."
Thunder had no retort. What Doe said was true. Thunder was looking for friends because he needed them, not because he had anything to offer. He wanted to bolster his people with the Liberian's strengths, to use them and their connection within New France as a tool for the defense of his country. But men were not made to be tools. That was the folly of the French and he would not repeat it.
"Your Majesty," Thunder bowed his head just enough to show his remorse. "You are correct. I cannot offer you the friendship of the Ten Hundred Nations. We've done nothing to earn your friendship in return. A turned-eye is not an outstretched hand. I withdraw my request." At this the King sat.
"I only hope that when the time does come, the Ten Hundred Nations can be worthy of your friendship."
*
Puck
Puck ate heartily at the table of the King. The rich food came from the French tradition that slipped smoothly past the lips but sat heavy in the stomach. Thunder chose more carefully, so that as they headed back down the mountain, he walked at a brisk pace, yet Puck had to continually hold onto her gut to keep from giving back the feast.
The guards accompanied them down the hidden paths, though having been up them once they were no longer hidden from Puck. She could find a path in any wilderness. She wished it was as easy with people.
Since the raid she'd barely spoken. She'd played games with the lives of her companions and she'd lost. She didn't know how to feel about it. Her first reaction to the danger, the excitement, and the adventure was pure joy.
Nature and time had the ability to grind the rough edges off of life. She didn't want to be a rounded stone on the bottom of the river bed, watching the water go by. She cherished the interruptions, the unexpected. Her death might come early, but at least her life would leave a mark on the world. Except...
Except her life didn't belong to her. She shared it with her community, her friends, her family, her brother. When she invited chaos in she brought it likewise to those around her. Had she been responsible for Jean's death? It felt that way. Was she life's rough edge, wearing down those around her to insignificance?
They came upon Gustave at those same boulders that marked the border of Liberia. He sat on a rock as rounded down as him.
Puck had attempted stoicism, mimicking Thunder and Red Hand. She tried to keep herself out of the way of others, but her spirit desired otherwise.
"Gustave!" she screamed it as if meeting an old childhood friend. Gustave raised his head. She ran toward him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The man blanched as she hung around him like a piece of oversized jewelry, then after a moment his arms wrapped around her. The gesture was at first polite and then more intimate. Puck couldn't remember a conversation she'd had with the man, but she'd watched him fight for his friend and cry for his loss and be exiled from his dreams. She could pretend that they were separate, as the adults so often did, but it was a lie. They had lived together. They had fought together. Their spirits were one.
After the hug, she looked to Thunder whose blank face gave no indication of the correctness of her actions. It would be up to her then, to figure out what was right.
"You are coming with us." she said to Gustave.
"I ... I ... where are you going?" his speech was as broken as his body.
"I have no idea," said Puck. She turned to Thunder, "Where are we going?"
"We are headed for Aztexico. It is not far. Liberia has denied us help, but a war is coming and we will need allies. The Aztex have the strongest military on Anowarakowa. We must secure their assistance."
"Come along then," Puck said to Gustave.
He looked to Thunder for permission.
"You are welcome to assist us. You have been a good friend, but this is not an easy path."
"It is the only path open to me." Gustave said. "I will come." Then after a pause, "thank you."
The three picked up where they had left off trudging into the forest. Not far in they found Red Hand roasting two hares over a small fire. Puck pranced to him, though she'd seen him just hours before. Her attempt at adulthood failed and she'd jumped fully into her old self.
"Brother!" she almost knocked him over with the force of her impact. "We're going to Aztexico, the land of strange spirits and fantastic pyramids, just like in the stories. Isn't it exciting?"
Red Hand responded with his now typical manner. "It is what must be done."
"Oh yeah, why? Why must it be done?" Puck challenged him with a smile.
"Because we have to ... because ... I thought you weren't talking to me." He said.
"You should be so lucky." She grabbed the hare off the spit and took a bite from the hind leg. She chewed hard on the gamey meat. It took effort to swallow, but settled her stomach on the way down.
The four sat around the fire as the sun set. Puck had dammed her mouth so long that she could no longer contain the force of nature within. She chattered endlessly about the profound and the profane until they all couldn't help but join in. By the time they bedded down they had a plan to send a message to the Nations and get into Aztexico before the snow came. Puck cuddled up to her brother and held his metal hand as they slept.
*
To: clan mothers
war is coming STOP new french treachery STOP marshal forces STOP guard borders STOP death walks with them STOP i seek aztex help STOP
-thunder of flint
###
Thunder, Puck, Red Hand and Gustave will return in...
SteampunX
Episode Four
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