THE QUESTIOANBLE TALES:
A STEAMPUNK TRIO
by
Michael Seeley
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Michael Seeley on Smashwords
The Questionable Tales:
A Steampunk Trio
Copyright 2011 by Michael Seeley
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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Table of Contents
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The Questionable Tales:
A Steampunk Trio
"The damndest part of it all, Winston, is that I believe I know him! Indeed, the resemblance is so striking!"
The exclamation was followed by a fist striking metal, a sound which hovered within the metallic room. Then, a portly gentleman extended a calming, nearly imperceptible smile toward the agitated speaker. Furthermore, lumbering forward, the heavy man began to pace back and forth, his tweed suit clinging to his back amid the heat of their surroundings. The recipient of Winston's grin was younger, taller, and normally utterly composed. Yet, on this particular occasion, Owen Ward felt drained emotionally. Indeed, the Irishman found his every breath catching in his throat. An unknowing observer might delegate this trepidation to downright fear, but a friend like Winston Ainsworth understood that whatever his faults, Ward did not fear; he did not fear death; he did not fear injury.
Over the years, Ainsworth had often bemoaned the perilous predicaments into which his companion dragged them. Through them all, Ward had remained stoic, unflinching. Now, however, it seemed that his friend's stalwart nature had lost itself amid the clouds. Glancing out the window of the airship, Ainsworth noted the fading sun. "Owen, they'll be time for hypothesizing and planning later. It's getting late, and, well... I'm rather famished all things considered."
Ward's eyes returned from their distant and unfocused gazing and aligned themselves pointedly upon Ainsworth's corpulent face. "Ha!" he exclaimed simply and good-naturedly. Laughing further, it seemed to Ward that his friend was always wasting away from apparent starvation. At times it remained an annoyance, but Ainsworth had been one of those companions who always came through, regardless of fear or reservations. For that, Ward was certainly willing to forgo the man's excessive eating habits. Besides, thought Ward warmly, the man can shoot quite well.
Exiting their relatively spacious stateroom, the men began ambling toward the airship's bar. The establishment was seedier than the dirigible's great dining room, but Ward occasionally enjoyed the shadier locales of life; tonight, a shroud of cigar-smoke and a touch of port would be a wonderful accompaniment to dinner. Given Ainsworth's hunger, Ward thought the man would appreciate the copious mounds of beef offered inside the Steamed Cloud.
As they passed each of the hallway's ports, Ward could not resist looking. From childhood, the man had continually been obsessed with air-travel. His love of the expanses and the dazzlingly alluring colors had never left him; consequently, the Irishman made it a point to travel by airship whenever the possibility arose. This vessel, the Questionable had been christened in '57. Indeed, two decades later, the airship was only a little younger than Ward himself, but the entire nature of the Questionable drew a laugh from his lips every time the man considered it.
Back in the '50s, the notion of the airship was still in its fundamental stage. In fact, Her Majesty's military branch of the Martial Air Core had only just been formed. Indeed, the MAC had possessed less than a dozen airships when a powerful group of investors gathered together and presented an idea to Government. While dirigibles allowed for military transport, reconnaissance, and bombing capabilities, the possibility of widespread economic use for airships had not been considered. These investors offered to fund a project in which airships were unleashed into the private sphere. Their scheme involved a fleet of government-regulated airships plying the sky-routes around the world. Instead of simply launching this plan with their own funding, the investors desired a government-imposed monopoly. As such, their investments would yield immense economic returns, and greed flowed from the group like winding river. However, their plan for monopolization quickly flopped when the government deemed the project's worth as "questionable" and refused to back the venture. Undaunted, the investors decided that launching the first private airship would yield more revenue than nothing, so the Questionable was fashioned and opened for service.
The term "smashing success" would be a drastic understatement.
The vessel, able to carry nearly three-hundred passengers, soon became the most popular topic in Great Britain. Passages were booked months in advance because of the dirigible's popularity. Citizens flocked from miles around to catch a glimpse of the majestic vessel whenever the Questionable's route took her overhead of some region of the Empire.
It soon became evident to the military that a giant and profitable blunder had taken place. The Questionable's success was soon copied as well. Civilian airships began to appear everywhere. Indeed, the influx of tourists, capital, and trade goods delivered by the flying fleet was staggering. To better regulate this activity, the Queen Victoria had implemented a set of new, organizational requirements for civilian airships. As a result of this, the Civilian Air Corps was formed. For her part, the Questionable's company never lost steam, so to speak. The inventive investors continually found ways to garner more interest in their particular airship. Even today, two decades after her christening, the Questionable was still booked to capacity long in advance of her voyages. Bars, fancy restaurants, theatrical shows, gambling houses, and other entertainments were available for the airship's clientele, and Owen Ward had traveled aboard the Questionable several times as she traversed the globe, striding among the clouds to the various regions of the Empire.
On this particular occasion, the Irishman and his friend were returning from the Cape Colony en route to Dublin. Although mundane investments had taken them to Africa initially, the two had managed to enjoy their business trip immensely; the lengthy excursion allowed for the pair to reminisce about past adventures and plan for future ones. Awaking from his revelry at the sound of a loud gurgling suspiciously coming from the direction of Winston's stomach, Ward ruefully realized that the most immediate adventure involved dinner.
Yet, even with the distraction of a looming, enjoyable meal, Ward could not escape his current predicament. If his suspicion was indeed correct, the consequences would be grave. However, little alternative remained. The man's hand had been forced, and he would act as became a gentleman. For, in truth, Ward was of the upper crust. Raised amid the hills of Ireland, he had come to enjoy the rights, privileges, and responsibilities of the upper class. Singularly, one uncompromising responsibility was the absolute necessity to answer for insults. As such, Ward would act, regardless of his hypothesis' veracity.
Ainsworth bustled ahead of his companion, apparently forgetting his friend's troubles in light of his own hunger. Chuckling to himself, Ward followed in the portly man's wake. They sauntered along the paneled and steel-reinforced hallways for some time until the passage finally came to the dirigible's great hall. The great hall housed the gambling house, the Steamed Cloud bar, and Chez Mattieu, the vessel's classier eatery. Truly, the great hall was a feat of engineering in itself. It was the largest open space on the vessel. This, of course, excluded the massive interior of the balloons that gave the Questionable her flight. Indeed, the great hall was spacious and constantly busy. It served as the central hub of the ship, and many passengers gathered within its expanse to watch the crowd or find other entertainments in which to pass the time. Finally, Ainsworth noticed Ward wasn't keeping pace, and he turned around to see what the lagging was about.
As Ward lengthened his stride to match pace with Winston, the larger man spoke. "Seems a mite bit busier tonight than last," he offered casually. Ward grunted in agreement but made no vocal reply. Instead, he continued his visual search of the great hall, his eyes dancing from face to face. His glance tracked each mustache's cut as he sought a glimpse of the hauntingly familiar face. Finally, as he had suspected, he glimpsed the man sitting amid one of the various games of chance occurring in the gambling section of the great hall. That was where the two had met, and Ward had been fairly confident that his opponent would return to his cards; indeed, he had not been mistaken.
Winston continued unawares. "Yes, but hopefully the busyness shan't delay our meal. You mentioned that the Steamed Cloud would be most accept-" Ward cut him off with a raised hand. Then, the Irishman whispered pointedly, "Our cur has returned this evening." The color drained from Ainsworth's face as he glanced around the room in agitation. Finally, he too caught sight of the man at the gambling tables. "Well, nothing for that; it seems we'll simply need to watch him and avoid interaction until his seconds arrive. Now Owen, please, let us eat; there's been far too many interruptions this evening. ...oh for pity's sake!" The last exclamation was offered in exasperation as another interruption to Ainsworth's meal presented itself.
Two nobly clad men were approaching Ward and Ainsworth purposefully. One possessed a prosthetic arm whose gears could easily be heard and the mechanical limb swayed in affected life-like movement. The brassy color of his arm contrasted darkly with his scarlet suit. His companion was a short, broad-shouldered fellow sporting Opticior goggles designed to improve vision. Ward had seen similar models several times, but, glancing at the lenses' machinery, Ward guessed that only the highly wealthy could afford the version this man had donned. Indeed, it seemed their mysterious antagonist possessed wealthy companions.
"Which of you is one Winston Ainsworth?" spoke the scarlet-clad leader after glancing at a personal calling card.
"I am he."
"Indeed. You have mentioned that you're quite willing to act as Mr. Ward's second. Does this remain accurate?"
"Indeed it does, sir. Furthermore, at this point, I'd ask for several minutes of your time to discuss particulars," Winston spoke formally.
This time, the goggled fellow spoke up. "This is why Mr. Fletcher has sent us." Instantly, Ward took in a sudden, sharp breath of air. Ignoring the disturbance, the shorter man continued. "If your friend would excuse us, such matters can easily be determined." Nodding pointedly at Ward, the two men strode off, expecting Ainsworth to follow. After exchanging a few keen words with Ward, the man complied, despite his hunger.
Fletcher.
The name changed everything, and yet, it could not affect anything. What had occurred was already the past. Truly, the insult almost seemed a blur, and yet, it was only one night past.
The previous evening, Ward and Ainsworth had adjourned from Chez Mattieu, nourished and slightly tipsy, having consumed a little more Grecian wine than might have been appropriate. Instead of retiring to their stateroom, as was probably advisable, the two instead wandered over toward the gambling tables. Once there, the pair had sat among several other patrons. Laughing boisterously, Ward had begun to bet on cards. The variant of chance, poker, had been imported from America, and its novelty was just enough to be wildly engaging. As such, Ward began placing rather large bets. Surprisingly, his luck held, and the man began collecting even larger winnings.
The night's fortune did not hold however, as a haggard, yet finely dressed man entered the game. Immediately, Ward had sensed something was wrong, despite his tipsy and adrenaline-induced stupor. Something was decidedly familiar about the newcomer. His face possessed an almost effeminate, curving quality that Ward knew inch by inch, almost as if he had traced the man's jaw in a portrait. Yet, even as he was studying the newcomer, Ward was in turn being examined.
After three or four more hands, the familiar faced fellow laid down his losing hand and stood. Ward expected him to walk away, his familiarity fading with his flight. On the contrary, the man walked decidedly around the table and stood, forebodingly, over Ward's chair. Glancing up, and despite his inhibitions, Owen could easily glimpse the vehemence present in the man's glowing orbs.
"I don't suppose the Irish have gotten over their irrepressible need to cheat, have they then?" The man spoke bitterly, each word a clipped insult. Indeed, his tone dripped bile.
Ward was too shocked to respond, but the challenge needed a rebuttal as others around the table began to look suspiciously in Owen's direction. Breathing quietly but wrathfully, the Irishman stood. "How dare you?" he hissed, his lips tightly pressed together.
His newfound opponent only shrugged and silently indicated Ward's pile of winnings.
"Bastard," spat Owen.
The next moment was a blur of movement, but Ward later recalled that Fletcher had struck him across the cheek. Such a blow was utterly unforgivable. Indeed, society dictated that any such physical contact called for blood, and quickly. As such, the two men had left, inflamed, and promises were made for imminent satisfaction. Tempers had been so heated that names had not even been exchanged. Rationally, Ainsworth had quietly talked with a friend accompanying Fletcher. This man, possessing a prosthetic arm, proved to be Fletcher's selected second. Thus, the two friends of the combatants had arranged for a future meeting.
Now, as Ainsworth walked away with the scarlet-suited figure, Owen again felt himself drowning in a cloud of trepidation. For he had finally recognized the resemblance.
Fletcher: a man whom he must save.
Fletcher: a man whose very actions had sentenced himself to death.
The contrast was maddening, but truly, there remained no escape from the quandary. Society made no exceptions; a duel would occur.
All appetite gone, Ward abruptly turned and left the grand hall. Instead of retreating back toward the stateroom, the man wandered the halls, his eyes reflecting the dull brass and iridescent silver adorning the walls. Out of various viewports, the sun continued its slow descent. For their part, the clouds rose up like waves, engulfing the burning orb in their caressing grasp. Desiring to glimpse the magnificent spectacle unfold, the man wandered toward the observation deck that graced the rear of the airship. Descending several flights of stairs, Ward finally came to the circular room. Its walls were sheer glass and several comfortable chairs had been placed in the room. Tranquility was embodied within the room's clutches, and many a passenger had willingly been taken in by the observation deck's allure.
Collapsing into the chair, Owen allowed himself to unwind. His friend Winston knew exactly how the Irishman proposed for the duel to take place. Furthermore, as he was the challenged, the terms of the duel were left to his discretion. Knowing this, Ward sunk deeper into the chair relaxing as fate began to take its course. On the celestial stage, the sun finally lost its titanic battle; sagging downward, the burning sustainer of life bowed to the encasing wisps and sunk below the horizon. Ward's eyes drooped heavily, and finally, the man lost his own battle to the night.
The morning found Winston shaking him awake, a nervous expression clouding the larger man's countenance. "Good morning friend," he spoke happily, his voice belying his face.
Ward shifted amid the chair's folds and stretched. On the horizon, the sun was only just breaking into dawn; the time had come.
"Thank you Winston; I had hoped you would know where to find me."
"Never easier, Owen, given your patterns." It was a fact well acknowledged that Ward escaped to the beauties of nature whenever something troubled him.
"Everything accounted for, then?" asked Ward. Winston nodded minimally in return. Then, together and silently, the pair exited the observation deck.
Passing through the silent and deserted halls amid the dawn, the pair met only the crew of the Questionable. Stopping by their stateroom briefly, Ward changed his attire, washed his face, drank a small glass of brandy, and snatched up a walking cane. Then, striding back into the hallway, the men steered toward the great hall. Reaching the open expanse, neither of the pair was surprised to glimpse three others waiting for their arrival. Fletcher, the man with the mechanical arm, and the goggled fellow all lingered in the hall. Ainsworth placed a hand on Ward's shoulder, halting him. Next, the friend assumed the official air of the second. He walked forward alone and greeted Fletcher's friends. Pleasantries over, the men retreated to their respected sides of the hall.
The hall itself had been cleared of any obtrusive furniture. Thus, the marble tiled area which rested in the center remained clear. Indeed, it seemed the airship's designers had specifically planned for affairs of honor. The marbled ground was ideal for a duel, and permission for the occasion had been surprisingly easy to obtain from the Questionable's captain; Ainsworth encountered no difficulties in that respect.
Ward began to unclasp his jacket. The pale grey leather slipped easily from his shoulders, the coat's long tails dripping toward the ground like a fallen tear. Furthermore, Ward undid the top button of his white under-shirt. Finally, he rolled the sleeves of the ornate garment. All of these measures were conducted to ease the seconds' task in glimpsing forthcoming blood. Across the great hall, Fletcher was mirroring his own movements. Finally, the two combatants strode forward to meet each other on the field of honor. Passing Ainsworth, Ward retrieved his cane and grasped his friend's arm in solidarity.
Next, he withdrew a hidden rapier from the cane's innocent facade. The blade was elegant, perfectly balanced, and finely honed by a German craftsman; truly, it was a graceful tool of life and death. Fletcher possessed a similar weapon, a further indication of his opulent social standing. Indeed, the two men were equal- gentlemen of honor and skill. Finally, the two men locked eyes and stepped onto the frigid, uncaring marble tiles.
Outside, the sun crested the veiled sea of clouds.
Inside, the thrum of the dirigible's engines churned the air.
Two hearts beat in unison, and silvered steel crossed within a brass world.
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Much later, Owen sat heavily again on the observation deck, a pen in hand, a paper present, and a soul grieving. Gathered around waited Ainsworth and Fletcher's two friends. Silence reigned; it seemed that not even spilled blood could quell the dishonorable affair.
Yet, like a crystal dropping, a voice broke the silence, shattering the glass of solemnity. "You know, Ward," spoke the goggled second angrily, "You might have let him kill you instead, given your relationship."
Sighing heavily, Ward admitted that the thought had indeed crossed his mind. "Sad part is, though... I love her too much." He paused again. "I love my own life too much as well." Then, grasping all the power of his being, he lifted the pen, a weight far heavier than his crimsoned rapier, and wrote:
Dearest Ariadne,
Love, I've good and bad tidings to share. You've rarely spoken of Charles, your lost and wandering brother. What you do say is saddened by his fall into gambling and drink, but your affection is still apparent.
Fortuitously, I appear to have found this prodigal son.
Tragically, as fate would have it, I was also forced to kill him...
"You do love me, don't you dear?" spoke James quietly, his voice playfully lilting as his fingers traced the nape of his wife's neck. Stretching languidly, Adele rose, brushing aside her lover's fingers. Turning, she regarded him upon the settee. "That is not the point; nor is it up for discussion. The real question, James, is why you've grown obsessed over the thing?"
James nodded, contemplating the question. He started to speak, but the metallic thrum of the airship around them caused him to pause. The couple was traveling aboard the Questionable, the finest airship under the Victoria's flag. After a summer cruise around continental Europe, the dirigible was finally making its way towards London, the home-port. Turning, James distractedly regarded the brassy room surrounding them. Cogs gently revolved as the wall clock struck eleven, while the rivets circling the narrow window-port rattled as a particularly strong gust of wind struck the Questionable's hull.
"James." Adele spoke, not unkindly. The man tended to lose track of his surroundings. Although she considered him highly intelligent, he had a sometimes irritable tendency to trail off while conversing. Jerking, he returned to the present and looked at her once more.
"Sorry, love. I think "obsessed" is rather a strong word for it. As a work of art, it is truly spectacular. Cupid and Psyche is... well, it's simply heavenly, that's all, and I desire to own it." Kneeling, Adele patted his knee as she stared into his eyes.
Again, not unkindly, the woman cajoled him. "And how exactly would the two of us, poor enough as we are, be able to afford such a painting?" James refused to answer as his mind again began to wander.
What made the Questionable so enticing, at least in part, was its constant commitment to offer entertainment to the passengers aboard. Although it sported numerous, spacious observation decks, the titanic vessel also provided other means of distraction. Wonderfully luxurious restaurants, fine gambling tables, and theatrical shows were a part of this. In addition, the airship often displayed art exhibitions within their polished gallery. For Adele, these displays were particularly enticing. A talented artist, she simply loved to wander the gallery, studying each piece's minute details; while her husband occasionally lost track of conversations, Adele forgot the notion of time as she ardently examined another artist's medium. Every work was finely crafted and done by highly prolific artists of the era. For instance, the painting James spoke of, Cupid and Psyche, had been finely crafted by Jacques-Louis David nearly a century before. His brushstrokes were regarded as genius among the art world, and originals of his work were nearly priceless. Thus, Adele found it troubling that James should have taken such a fancy to the work of late.
He had visited the gallery with her the previous week. Walking along, they had passed by the work. Adele continued walking; she had seen the work and studied it several times over the course of the airship's journey. After a moment, though, she turned back to see James, standing agape in front of the painting. It was as if time had frozen; he did not even breath, stillness etched across his entire frame.
"Dear?" she had questioned. He did not even blink; he hadn't heard her. Walking back towards the man, Adele touched his shoulder. James leapt in surprise, and his flaming eyes tracked to her. "What?" he snapped, rage evident in his dripping voice.
Adele had stepped back in shock; James was a kind man, and temper rarely entered his tone. Certainly a painting did not cause such anger. "Dear, why have you stopped? Do you like the work?" She chuckled then, attempting to regain her composure and ignore his harsh word. "You seem rather enthralled."
James had not spoken then, but simply turning, he led her away, further into the gallery. Since then, the man had seemed distant, and his conversation continually returned to the painting. Now, Adele again regarded him upon the settee. "We don't have enough money to buy the work's frame, let alone the painting." James nodded; she was right of course. Even their presence aboard the airship came from a fortuitous chain of events. The Questionable was indeed a highly popular vessel. As such, the owners could easily drive their prices up, and as successful businessmen, the holders of the dirigible managed their ship well. The Questionable was booked for passage months in advance, and tickets were exorbitantly expensive; the vessel was marketed specifically to the higher classes. For Adele and James, both orphans from penniless families, purchasing tickets would have been unthinkable. She, a struggling artist and he, a lowly bank clerk, had little enough money for food, let alone expensive tours by airship. But James had won an incredible raffle contest at work. The winners were to enjoy a tour aboard the ship. Adele being self-employed and James' wages, as stipulated in the contest, being paid for in his absence, the two were overjoyed. Packing their meager possessions ,they presented themselves at the airship and had since been enjoying a summer of sightseeing together, all expenses paid.
"Of course, you're right Adele. The painting just impressed me, that's all." The woman did not correct him. The impression the work had made upon her husband was startling. Indeed, "impression" was not the right term; it was all James had focused on over the last week. The man rose then, and beckoned his love to follow. She did.
"Let's find some food, shall we?" Although still troubled by the painting's hold on the man, Adele was hungry. So, she followed James into the passage and down the hall. As they walked, he gently traced the walls' brass panels, absentmindedly. For her part, Adele contemplated him and wondered if he was still thinking about the painting.
Finally, the two passed into the great hall of the airship. While the Questionable, a leviathan in size, hosted many passengers, the great hall was the crowning glory of the vessel. High-ceilinged, spacious, and ornately decorated, the hall was a feat of engineering. It housed several restaurants, the gambling tables, a stage for theatrics, and an open area for mingling and conversing. The fact that the entire ship's spacious rooms, including the massive great hall, were floating in the sky was truly staggering. Adele still found herself questioning the sanity of such a feat.
Impervious to such thoughts, James strode forward into the open space. More observational, Adele again took in her surroundings. The great hall was packed with denizens, and, being of the upper classes, the latest fashions were being displayed all around. Many sported the brassy goggles that were replacing spectacles. Shades of brown and silver were almost exclusively used, and everyone's dress took on an industrial feel. Men with canes strutted through the crowds, their impression of their own importance clearly visible. Adele felt shabby in her own worn and plain attire; the clothes of James, a simple scarlet jacket, also paled in comparison to the outfits she glimpsed. In truth though, Adele loved the man, and neither wealth, nor fancy clothing, nor the latest gadget would improve that affection.
Indeed, the woman wondered if her love was echoed around her. Did other women love their men, regardless of material possessions? Since the world had shifted to steam-power, leading to the rapid technological advancement all now experienced, society had become even more materialistic. Women begged their husbands for automaton contraptions that would "improve and simplify their lives." Adele often grew tired of the constant societal push for more wealth and material goods. She was poor, it was true. But the couple's poverty did not prevent love, and, banding together against their struggles, each had come to rely upon the other.
James turned back to regard the woman. "Adele, what takes your fancy this evening?" A radiant smile had creased his face, and although Adele could not tell if it was forced or genuine, its presence pleased her immensely. She paused, considering. The various eateries of the great hall all had their own merits. "Dear, what about the Horizon?"
Aptly named, the Horizon was characterized by its position on the great hall's perimeter. The tables of that restaurant faced an almost continuous glass port. Whenever conversation lagged, diners could simply turn their heads and gaze out into the gorgeous sky and glimpse the horizon beckoning. It was a semi-formal establishment, and the dress code did not impede the pair. Besides, Adele had stopped caring about the condescending glances she received from the Questionable's high-society ladies.
"Wonderful," cried James as he steered her towards the Horizon. Although the great hall was spacious, relatively, dining was communal. As such, James and Adele were seated with a collection of reasonably-well dressed, amiable diners. Introduction were passed around, and the couple settled into a fine evening.
Several courses into the meal, James turned to Adele. Their fellow diners were currently engaging in a discussion of the Raj's latest economic downturn and how it would affect London's markets; the conversation interested James and his wife very little. Leaning towards her ear, he whispered, "My dear, I'm afraid I must excuse myself for a moment. Can you manage?" Adele chuckled. "I do believe I'll be quite fine, James. Hurry back, though."
Nodding his thanks, her husband stood, politely excused himself to the other guests, and hurriedly walked away. Adele thought nothing of the incident and turned to the other guests, determined to be included in their conversation. Through a witty segue, she managed to steer the talk towards the airship's recent tour. Asking which cities her fellow diners found most interesting led to several funny and lengthy anecdotes from a portly gentleman. His mustache and goggled bowler hat twitched in excitement as he laughed at his own folly amid the winding streets of Budapest; catching his excitement, Adele began to truly enjoy the meal.
Then, suddenly, a loud crash, followed by a shout rang out through the great hall. Despite the noise of the many passengers in the room, the sounds carried distinctly, and all paused to see what the commotion was about. Suddenly, Adele glimpsed several men running. Each wore a crew uniform, and it was obvious that they were part of Questionable's peacekeeping detail. Curious, Adele excused herself and followed the men. A nervous, gut feeling had developed within her; the crewmen had been running in the direction of the gallery.
She moved quickly and was soon out of the great hall. Directly adjacent was the gallery, and from the sounds inside, Adele's fears were realized. Rushing in, the woman found a maelstrom of fighting bodies, horrified spectators, and the crewmen attempting to break up a fight. With disappointment, Adele noticed James' scarlet jacket among the fray. Finally, the peacekeeping crew dragged the three combatants apart. Sure enough, Adele's husband was among the offending party.
"What's the meaning of this?" shouted a burly crewmen, apparently a ship's officer.
The other brawlers, also dressed in the airship uniform, instantly turned and indicated James. One spoke. "This man is the cause, sir. My brother and I were simply preparing to remove the painting. We're assigned to maintenance, and the gallery has collected new pieces for the ship's next tour, so the stock will be rotated. This piece is to be switched out." He pointed at David's Cupid and Psyche and then continued. "Next thing we know, this lunatic storms up and lashes out a nasty punch on Will's face."
Will spoke up then. "Yes, sir, he did. I was minding my own business and then, out of the blue, I'm attacked. But the White brothers stick together, so Charlie punched him back and threw him to the floor. Of course, that caused the loud clatter, and then you boys showed up."
The crewman nodded and turned to James, angrily. "Well man, is it true?" he barked. James was silent and didn't appear to register the question or even understand the situation. With annoyance, Adele saw that his gaze was squarely upon the cursed painting; he wasn't even paying attention to the group. Sighing, she stepped forward.
"Excuse me, sir," she stammered. "He's my husband, and of late, he's been rather ill. Something has set his nervous system off, and he hasn't been normal for several days. We're terribly sorry. Perhaps I'll just bring him back to our quarters. We'll be debarking in London tomorrow, and I'm sure our doctor will be able to help."
The crewman barked a laugh. "Oh, indeed? Unbelievable. Your lunatic husband attacks two other men for no purpose, and I'm supposed to chide him and send him to his room without supper? No offense miss, but we'll be keeping him for the night. You can pick up your problem at the brig tomorrow afternoon." Two crewmen approached James wearily; he was still studying the painting, oblivious to the situation. Suddenly, they grabbed him, and although he didn't struggle, he again seemed not to care about anything but Cupid and Psyche. As they led him off towards the brig, the officer turned again to Will, the attacked man. "My sincere apologies Mr. White. This won't happen again."
The other man nodded angrily. "I should hope not; I come aboard this vessel for a decent wage and get attacked while doing my job!" Will huffed and turned to leave. For her part, Adele tried to apologize to the workers, but they sneered and rudely walked away before she could speak. The woman felt her heart clench; what was wrong with James?
From the gallery, she simply wandered. Walking up and down passages, the woman let her feet carry her as they would. On the outside, she seemed a normal passenger. Within her soul, however, Adele grew tormented. It was a painting, wasn't it? The man she loved, normally rational and intelligent, had become obsessed or possessed with a piece of colored canvas. The bizarre turn of events troubled her. Finally, her wandering brought her to the library. In addition to the gallery, the Questionable possessed a fine collection of literary works as well. With a burst of thought, Adele rushed into the library.
Although poor, the woman had developed a love for the written word at early age, and she devoured any literary work she could find. So, Adele knew her way around a library, and she quickly found the reference section. Pulling down a cumbersome, dusty Encyclopedia, she heaved the book towards a thick, oaken table and sat down. Next, she flipped through the tome, finally coming to the entry she sought.
Placing her finger along the lines, she began to read quietly aloud to herself. "'Cupid is the Roman god of desire, erotic love, and attraction. Son of Venus, the god is renowned for his love-inspiring arrows. Eventually, he came to marry Psyche, a mortal. Accidently pricking himself with an arrow, the god desired her more than any other. Thus, the Cupid and Psyche myth has come to represent an irresistible attraction to an unattainable love; images of the myth often display mortal longing for immortality and the powerful love the gods possess. See 'Roman Gods' for more mythological information.'"
Snapping the book shut, Adele bent her head and closed her eyes. Did the connection mean something? The work mentioned a powerful desire for impossible love. Was it significant? Replacing the book, she left the library and returned to her quarters. The room felt lonely as she slipped into their bed. Perhaps the morning would bring sanity; perhaps all would become normal again.
As the Questionable returned to her home city, Adele drifted to sleep. Outside, silent birds raced the flying ship as the clouds of midnight descended upon the horizon like dripping tears. Finally though, the orb of life broke through the gloom as dawn embraced her world. Below the airship, London loomed, and the passengers of the vessel prepared to disembark.
Waking, Adele dressed and began packing the meager possessions that dotted the pair's quarters. Next, she selected James' best formal wear, a navy dinner-jacket laced with white trim. This done, she collected the suit and walked quickly towards the great hall. Once there, she sought directions towards the brig and received more than one confused or condescending look from a another passenger; why would anyone of social standing need to find such an unsavory place? Eventually, however, a kindly older gentleman pointed her in the right direction. Reaching the place, she was met in a small alcove by a crewman, lounging lazily in a chair and obviously guarding the prisoners. He stood as she approached.
"Excuse me?" she spoke politely.
"Miss, may I help you?" responded the guard, equally polite. Swallowing her embarrassment, Adele continued. "Yes, you see, my husband spent the evening here, and I was hoping to visit or get him released." The guard hesitated, appearing uncomfortable. "I can let you visit for a few minutes, but he cannot be released until this afternoon; we tend to hold troublemakers for an entire day, but since we're disembarking today, he can leave a bit early." As Adele thanked him, he reached for his keys and unlocked one of the three cell-doors visible in the hall.
James sat quietly, crossed-legged, upon his bunk. He looked up as she entered and smiled, a bit nastily. Adele walked straight towards him and grabbed him by the shoulders. "What is wrong with you?" she snapped.
His smile drooped, and he cringed at her tone. "It's been a long week?" he spoke, attempting to dissuade the situation through humor. Adele would have none of it. She shook him, hard. "James. This is not comical; you attempted to beat up two men last night! What were you thinking? Why did you attack them?"
"They were removing Cupid and Psyche," he spoke simply. The woman simply glared. James did not offer a better explanation but only sat in subdued silence. Eventually, the silence grew too uncomfortable, and given the impasse, Adele turned to another subject. "The disembarking gala is tonight," she offered. Her tone then changed. "We will be there," she commanded. "And nothing abnormal will occur from you, will it?"
Next, the woman handed her husband his suit. "You will be wearing this, and I will pick you up here promptly at 7:00 for the gala. Our possessions are packed; we will leave right afterwards. Hopefully, some fresh air and a return to normality will do you good." She paused, and her next words grew filled with concern. "You're truly worrying me, love. I wish you'd forget that cursed painting." For his part, James nodded with each of her commands and pecked her on the lips as his wife rose and left.
The rest of the day passed quickly for Adele. Having packed their belongings, she spent her time gazing out of the various observation decks and enjoying a leisurely dinner among the other passengers of the great hall. The meal was accentuated by bustling crewmen, each hurrying to complete a task in preparation for the evening's gala. Finally, the woman returned to her quarters and changed. Next, she called a valet. Along with several burly porters, he proceeded to carry their possessions away, assuring Adele that they would be delivered to the couple's London home. She paid him and thanked the man for this service.
Taking a final look at their quarters, Adele took in a long breath. Then, she stepped out into the corridor, locked the door, set off towards the brig. Passing the great hall, she heard the music of the chamber orchestra as the dancing opened. Indeed, she passed dozens of passengers, finely dressed, sashaying towards the gala. Although she would be late, Adele hoped to avoid any additional attention and simply enjoy the evening; after James' gallery brawl, extra spectacle was certainly unwanted.
Reaching the brig, she saw with trepidation that no one stood guard. Rushing forward, the woman tapped rather loudly upon James' cell-door. No one answered and similar raps received similar silence from the other cell-doors; the brig was completely empty. Puzzled, Adele frowned. Surely James would have returned to their quarters upon being released. Then, her eyes flashed with anger as she spun around and started quickly towards the gallery.
Rushing through the airship's brassy halls, Adele panted angrily. Surely the man wouldn't be in there. Surely he was waiting for her at their quarters. Brushing past passengers, she came to gallery hall, which, surprisingly, was empty. Even the lights of the gallery were off. Yet, no barred doors prevented entry to the room; the idea of art theft among such genteel passengers was insulting. Despite the dark, the woman bustled inside.
The gallery's arched wall curved around as she walked through the silent, foreboding, and dark statues and paintings. Yet, a faint glimmer of light glowed ahead. A sickening feeling drove her forward. Finally, she came to Cupid and Psyche, lit by a small candle held in the hand of James. Shockingly, his other hand grasped a knife.
Adele gasped in surprise as the man suddenly spun around. "Adele," he spoke gently. "James!" she hissed, whispering despite the certainty that they were alone. "What are you doing?" the woman asked, a scared breathiness entering her voice. James sighed, turned back towards the painting and lifted the knife. He rested it against the painting's perimeter, inside the frame and against the canvas. Taking a firmer grip, he prepared to slice the canvas, separating the work from its heavy frame. "Stop!" Adele cried into the darkness as her lover's hand moved to slice.
Surprisingly, he did. Then he looked at her, and a greedy, lusty, haunting look filled his eyes. "Adele," the man whispered gently. Given his actions and tortured eyes, the calm tone shocked her. "Adele," he repeated. "I have watched content, beautiful, and rich society for the last three months. ...And I have come to hate life. You slave over breathtaking artwork and fetch a pittance for it. I clerk for a banker and will never be as content as he is. The men I see aboard the Questionable sleep at night knowing how they will pay for the next meal; they are certain that their children will one day attend fine schools and grow rich themselves. I - we, Adele - know nothing of that lifestyle. ...But Cupid and Psyche provides that knowledge." By now, the tortured glimpse of his eyes shone like a fire, burning hotter than the candle in his palm. Adele shrank into herself; this greed had never shown within her love before.
He continued. "Psyche was enflamed with love for a god. She desired and lusted for something fate would never allow her to grasp. A powerful, sensual attraction drove the mortal into harrowing tasks and impossible deeds to gain immortal love. And yet, the unattainable became tangible. Psyche found love and changed fate." He sighed heavily, a sound like a great wind on the sea, at once hopeful and pitiably defeated.
"Now, uncountable years later, Cupid and Psyche again seek the impossible. I will not watch our children grow up impoverished. While the world revels in materialism, we wallow in squalor. A great artist painted this work; the painting is truly priceless." The candlelight flickered in their eyes as Adele and James contemplated each other. Finally, she understood his plan, and the man's moral descent was troubling her immensely.
"While the rich bastards dance, we will gain what fate denied us at birth. Our children will be wealthy, and fear will never plague our home again," he finished, spent. Again, the man raised his knife to sever the canvas. Adele grabbed his arm. He paused again and looked at her.
"No," she whispered, firm and resolute.
Betrayal flashed in his eyes. Shaking her head slowly, she repeated "No." Then, gently, she pried the knife from her lover's hand. "James. Psyche toiled for what we already own: love. I...don't...care about the wealth that other's lord over us. The quarters of a splendid airship or the cramped and chilled hovel of a London alley are the same to me, provided I am with you."
Grasping his hand firmly, she pulled him towards her. Amid the dark, the evil dark of choices surrounding them, Adele kissed her husband deeply, and a pulsation of life passed through her soft lips and filled his frame. When she pulled back, a renewed and calmed gentleness glinted in his eyes. Indeed, as she drew him close into a tight embrace, the man's body shook, a tight and terrible tension draining from his spirit. Rising, Adele rose and forcibly threw the hated knife into the darkness. Then, she pulled James to his feet as well, blew out the candle, and turned.
As the wealthy danced, the beloved Cupid and the impoverished Psyche walked through the darkness together and stepped into unequivocal light.
The heat and stench of an impoverished city wafted up from Calcutta as the airship, Questionable, came to its moorings. Now, the city was certainly not all poor. Indeed, British rule among the Raj had led to a burst of economic trading and the rise of a powerful middle class. However, these merchants were largely British and their prosperity was entirely absent from the lower classes that suffered the poverty of a capitalistic hegemony.
Little of these huddle masses drew the least bit of attention from the passengers and crew of the Questionable. Indeed, for fine society, indifference was often directed towards the poor. The Questionable was an airship designed for and operated by the wealthy. Several decades ago, it had been launched as an economic venture designed to exploit the new trade-lanes opening around the world. The rise of airships had certainly provided for some competition for the luxury liner, but what had first been labeled as a venture of "questionable" economic merit had managed to stay in business and even generate huge quantities of profit. Onboard the Questionable, various gambling halls, fine restaurants, entertaining theatrical shows, and viewing decks all invited the wealthy to enjoy travel by air.
So, as the Questionable lowered itself towards Calcutta's single airship dock, the peering, wealthy crowds at the observation decks were not looking for economic disparity. Rather, they were enjoying the tourism and new sights that were the Raj.
At least, most passengers remained interested in the sights.
A short, bearded little man shifted through the pressing crowds onboard the dirigible. The cramped spaces of the airship did not do well to ease his anxious nature, and he hoped to eventually find some peace, space, and an audience in India. Heaven knew he had waited long enough for such pleasures. Indeed, the torments of his political mind had ravaged him during the entire trip. He had booked passage aboard the Questionable only as a means to an end. Wealth, he despised. Or rather, he disliked the quality of wealth to remain with the wealthy. So, he did not join the passengers of the airship for a leisurely, expensive trip of sight-seeing. Rather, he bought passage for the expeditious reputation of the Questionable. Having to endure the haughty, uncaring nature of the upper-class passengers was simply an unavoidable, if pathetic, annoyance. So, the bearded man impatiently waited to be free of his numerous traveling companions.
"Karl!" a voice called from across the room. The bearded man looked up, shocked at hearing his name among the throng. "Karl!" the voice cried again. Finally, Karl located the caller and waited for the other man to approach him.
"Well, well! Good to see you out of your quarters once more," boomed the corpulent man as he reached Karl. For his part, Karl simply nodded. The other man had been a continual nuisance. But, a member of the upper classes, he felt himself to be wildly important, and as such, he attempted to shed his greatness upon others. In fact, the other man was a highly wealthy businessman; his trip to the Raj was both recreational and to check up on his many holdings in the area. The tycoon was responsible for one of the burgeoning chains of factories springing up in Calcutta. Continually jovial, Rupert Dunsworth was an unashamed Capitalist.
And Karl Marx hated him.
But, for the sake of appearing polite, he responded. "Indeed? I've been wandering the halls a bit these last few nights at least. Just because I-"
The big man cut him, interrupting as he was wont to do. "Well, all good there. Yes, I haven't had the best of sleep either. The damned jungle below made me anxious. Supposing we should be crashed; no one would live! I almost couldn't handle it, and my dear Priscilla nearly had a fit she was so scared. Do you imagine we'll be able to wander Calcutta soon?"
"Being as we've arrived, I'm sure they'll-"
"Right," interrupted Rupert again. "Certainly they will! No sense in keeping us all bottled up inside this airship. I will admit, though, that I've grown rather fond of the Questionable. She's sprightly and always gleaming. But you, Karl, you've been with us since England. What's your opinion of our little bird?"
Marx had indeed been traveling with the airship since the Questionable had docked in London. Shunned in Prussia and exiled from France, the man had long ago adopted London as his home. Now, however, his wife Jenny had died, and his own health had started to fail. Doctors urged him to seek a warmer climate. And the author had desired nothing better than to escape the powerful grasp of Europe. While his works had gained some success, the revolutions he so longed for had failed. The lower classes had not banded together; divisions had led to complete failure of their attempted uprisings. So, if the oppressed workers of that continent would not listen to his theories and implement them correctly, perhaps other lands would. Thus, the airship's arrival in London was most welcome. Furthermore, getting a seat on the normally-overbooked dirigible was very fortuitous. Abandoning his pensive thoughts, Marx returned to Dunsworth. "It has been a long trip. Lengthy but certainly worth it. I'm excited to meet with the workers here and discuss-"
Yet again, he was cut off. "Oh don't start with that political rubbish again," exclaimed Rupert. "If I must endure one more minute of your so-called "means of production", I'll throw you over the side of the ship!" His tone was hurtful, but a smile played upon his lips. Marx valiantly tried to remain calm, but the irksome, barbaric hulk in front of him was too much to endure. "Very well," he said simply. "Good day."
For a split second, Marx registered shock on Rupert's face before the former turned and shuffled off through the crowd. The Questionable's debarking procedure was sure to take at least an hour more, and at present, Marx felt he could not endure unpleasant conversation. So, he escaped to his cramped quarters among the airship's residential corridors.
Ducking through the brass-lined doorway, he came to what had sufficed as an abode for the previous two months. Attempting to make the space more livable, the writer had hung tapestries of home. A German lake glistened amid a misty morning in one, while the smiling eyes of a mother beamed towards her little girl in another. Marx loved these poignant images of Prussia, and despite the cold reception his work had received there, he was still enamored with his homeland and its people. Plus, the tapestries were able to cover the room's mechanical appearance.
Ever since the industrialized, powerful nations of Europe had become enamored with steam-power, architecture and design had been radically shifted. Once, Marx had been able to see and love the curving angles of stone and the smooth polish of oiled wood. Now, however, metal was everywhere. Windows were lined with metal rivets; door handles were exclusively brass; furniture was always emblazoned with cogs. Essentially, the industrial world had come to dominate everything in society.
And there was the problem. In order to prosper in this new, modern world, countries must be industrialized. Gone were agrarian societies forever. And with the shift had come exploitation. What Dunsworth had been reluctant to hear was Marx's views on what he called the "means of production." Since the beginning of time, the wealthy had exploited their workers by owning the means to make money. Currently, it was the factories. The wealthy owned the factories, and the workers had to approach the wealthy for work. A simple equation, but it provided for a vicious cycle of abuse. However, Marx's ideas were radically different.
Instead of an upper-class-controlled economy, Marx hoped to establish a communal society in which everyone strived to help his brothers. However, his thoughts were not welcome in Europe; the wealthy had criticized him, and the poor had failed to rally around his goals. So, the theorist had found himself in India, looking for a new outlet, a new audience for change.
Angrily slapping the polished brass doorframe, Marx ardently desired that the new land would listen to him. Having read about the Raj's culture, customs, people, languages, and economy over the course of the entire trip, Marx knew what problems he was likely to encounter.
The Hindi society was, much like European culture, steeped in a hierarchy of power. Many of those at the bottom, born into their caste, refused to believe that they could advance. The gods had given them a lower status; if they lived their lives well, perhaps reincarnation would be kinder. Thus, little desire for advancement existed. For a political theorist devoted to the empowerment of the oppressed, the situation did not bode well. But, discontent was present as well. Nearly two decades previous, the great uprising of 1857 had been unleashed. While it failed and the malcontents had been brutally and effectively crushed, it was still telling. Could the Indian people rise again? Might a leader give them hope and bring about a new revolution?
Marx was willing to try. Having met with utter rejection in Europe, he was more than a little hopeful that his ideas would be accepted amid the jungles of the Raj. The crux of the matter would be to gain new converts to his theories. With the exploding industrialization of the colony, men were literally becoming enslaved to the wealthy by the hour. The Raj was full of factories seeking workers; shifts were lengthening, and some businessmen had even begun to run continual shifts. Once the day faded into night's shroud, new night-workers rushed in to continue the never-ending production. Textile production, furniture fabrication, and sawmill operations were common, and while highly lucrative for the owners, accidents from faulty machines and dangerous work environments were ghastly. Marx was determined to fix this as well.
All of these thoughts pooled and seeped through his sub-consciousness as the man lay down amidst the tangled sheets of his cot. The next few days promised to be a maelstrom of activity; he would sleep while the chance presented itself.
* * * * *
Exiting the dirigible, Marx was instantly awash with a crippling heat. Even though the day was nearing dusk, the sun beat down upon Calcutta mercilessly. For his part, Marx was certainly not accustomed to the warmth. Living amid the German forests and French fields had not prepared him for the jungle. Even his time aboard the Questionable had not been sufficient. Although the airship had been traveling through tropical regions for weeks, being on the ground was an altogether new and rather uncomfortable experience. Truth be told, the heat alone was exhausting.
"Fresh water, sahib?" The voice, speaking in accented English, caught him unawares, and Marx jumped with surprise. Glancing down, Marx glimpsed a mousy, grinning native. His smile was missing many teeth, but his eyes bore a loving light that belied his aged years. He was certainly older than Marx's not inconsiderable age. Marx, taking pity on him, reached for a few coins, but the native shook his head.
"For the water, nothing is needed. Sahib, this is a new land, and the sun has not welcomed you kindly. Perhaps I may instead." Again, the grin crossed the native's sun-dried face as he gingerly passed a wobbling goblet of water towards Marx. Touched, Marx accepted the cup and noticed that the man sat next to a giant pitcher, also containing water.
"May I ask what you do, friend?" Marx questioned kindly.
"Certainly!" cried the man. "First, "friend" suffices, but my name is Amit. "Timeless" it means, but my friend, sometimes I feel old despite the time." The quip rolled off Amit's tongue like a practiced poem; apparently, it was a longstanding joke, so Marx laughed politely. Then, he extended his hand. Amit, aware of Western customs, shook the offered palm.
"I'm called Karl Marx, and I come originally from Prussia. What did you say you are doing again?" Amit barked a laugh. "I did not say what I was doing, Karl Marx; you've asked twice now without answer. Is it not enough?" Marx was about to protest, but Amit amiably held up a hand. "No, no, friend. I joke. I am an old man rich in years and poor in wages. But, my son and his bride care for me, so I am not destitute. Far from it, I have the freedom to sit here and hear the news of the day. So, I sit. With my water and a smile, many new friends are made. Like you!" Again, the cheerful man laughed, his toothless smile filled with the light of the darkening sun. He continued. "What news have you?"
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