SteampunX –
Episode Two: SteamDisco Destruction
by
Benjamin Jacobson
Copyright 2011 Benjamin Jacobson
Smashwords Edition
In Episode One of 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.
Gustave
The severed hand sat upon the table. When the lightening outside of the slave quarters crashed the fingers appeared to twitch. It’s only a trick of the light, Gustave told himself as he examined the bodiless appendage.
The other slaves gave him wide-berth. They always did. Most deferred to him and he hated it. He worked in the house, he dressed like a white man, but he was owned, a noir, like them. On this occasion, he could understand their distance. He didn't particularly want to be holding this hand.
"Is it Phillip's?" Jean asked from over his shoulder. Jean was the only one who didn't defer to Gustave or anyone else, except the Master and that never felt like a choice. He had enough stripes on his back to show he wasn't afraid of the occasional disagreement.
More importantly, Jean had the respect of the field slaves in a way that Gustave did not, the respect of an honored peer. That equality escaped Gustave even among his own kind. It was an equality they would all soon fight for and many would and had died for. Gustave took an extra moment to respond. He had to choose the right words, so much rode on the next week. The timing of these disappearances couldn't be worse.
"I believe it is." Gustave said. Jean nodded. "It looks like the harvester caught it," he lied. The harvester would have shredded the hand into pig slop. This hand had been severed with close surgical precision. No accident. He hated the machines as much as any man who'd watched them take the lives of ill-trained slaves. It was easy to blame them now, when he needed his allies strong. The slaves had had superstition bred into them. They'd been given just enough religion to fear the devil and God both. Disappearing friends and disembodied limbs could provide just enough spook to keep them in bondage. The Lord declared a time for every purpose and this was a time for lies.
"He must have had an accident." Gustave said, looking Jean straight in the eyes. "There is nothing to be done."
Jean harrumphed as if he didn't quite believe it, but kept his doubts to himself. Jean knew as well as Gustave did that a rebellion is like a train, slow to start, but unstoppable once it reached momentum. In these critical days of stoking the furnace, nothing could be allowed to interrupt their progress.
*
Red Hand
Days had stretched and nearly a full moon had passed since the three Natives had left their village. Red Hand continued to adjust to his new name and his missing appendage. Just when he'd begun to get used to the absence he'd find himself struggling with some simple task and curse the spirits under his breath. His sister remained ever chipper, bouncing about like a hare losing a race. He envied her that, as he always had. Two Trunks was right. Adulthood brought responsibilities not easily bared nor easily forgotten.
The wizard, Thunder, led the way. Generally, Natives packed light or not at all for such cross-country trips. Needs could be easily met by the spirits of the forest. This trio was not your ordinary band, however. The wizard insisted on bringing quite a few of his inventions and sundry equipment. More in fact than could be carried by one person, so he shared the load with Red Hand. Puck, being still a child, carried nothing, another burden off her shoulders.
They travelled through the wilds. The Ten Hundred Nations still shunned the patterned roads of the Columbians. There were trails frequented by Natives and passable to those who knew how to read them, but no single roadway to carry French carriages and English locomotives. It was something of a wonder that the Buffalo Man had managed to drive his steam carriage so far into the wilderness. Somewhere a brutal path marked his progress. They didn't follow that path either. Their destination was set by the words the Marquis de Chartres. They took the most direct route to the heart of Chartres and hopefully to answers.
Though they crossed no marked border, he could tell the moment they'd entered New France. The hills and plains gave way to massive dirt expanses that stretched to the horizon, like a brown sea. Even the men here were brown and Red Hand watched as they flitted around in the dirt piles, collecting a discarded leaf or errant stalk. They dressed sensibly, which is to say, they wore just enough to guard against the cold and nothing more. Despite their ubiquity, Thunder did not stop to speak to these men. Red Hand questioned the wisdom of this to himself. Having crossed out of the Nations, they now had no guide to follow, no way of knowing how far they had to go, nor which direction. They could read the land, but this land was so savaged by its residents that even that would prove difficult over time.
In the afternoon of that day, Thunder passed another copse of brown people. Puck unburdened, danced forever ahead and Red Hand kept to the rear. He approached a brown woman that Thunder had passed.
"Do you know of the Marquis de Chartres?" Red Hand asked in his own language and then, correcting himself, followed up in Esperanto. The woman looked up and her eyes went wide. She'd been just as content to ignore them as Thunder had been to ignore her. She stood to her full height, a foot taller than Red Hand and made some wide gestures. From her mouth flowed the language he could now easily identify as French, even though he couldn't speak it or understand it. Red Hand, now stuck in the molasses of this conversation, tried to ask again, slower and louder, "Where is the Marquis de Chartres?" Again the response came in the babbling brook of the French tongue and again he learned nothing.
Though he had no more ideas, Red Hand stopped only when Thunder's hand fell upon his good arm.
"Do not speak to her." He warned, continuing to act as if the woman were an invisible spirit. "She is a slave."
"That means little to me. The Great Spirit made us all equal."
"Yet some of us twice as ignorant," Thunder snarled.
"She's a fool then?"
"No, you are!" Thunder pulled at his arm, forcing him away from the woman, pulling him along like a child.
"I am a man. I am Red Hand. Do not treat me like a boy."
"Then do not act like one." When they'd gotten beyond earshot of the woman, Thunder released Red Hand. His grip had been surprisingly tight and Red Hand could feel a bruise beginning. The indignity made him more belligerent, sure of his position.
"You do not know where we are or where we are going," Red Hand accused. "There are people all about that could help us, yet you ignore them."
"Not people, slaves." Thunder retorted, his voice growing weary.
"Slaves are people."
"To you and me, yes. But not to them." Thunder gestured to one of the houses that dotted the brown horizon. "That woman you asked had no choice but to answer you. When she answered you, had you known what she was saying, you would have followed her advice and we would have reached the Marquis. She'd report her conversation to her so-called masters. Again, she has no choice. When our business with the Marquis concludes, it will not conclude well. He may be angered. The sadism that powers this world will turn back on its most vital component. She would be beaten, perhaps killed, all because of your ignorance."
Red Hand took in this information behind his usual flat face. He felt the rage at himself and at this stupid system, but he did not release it. He didn't even show it. Instead he focused it into his muscle memory and pushed himself to form a phantom fist on his spirit hand.
"You still don't know where you’re going." Red Hand stated, letting the other issue spark silently in the air between them.
"I know the Neufrancaise. They believe they are gods among lesser men. They build their homes in the style of Ancient Columbian temples, with white columns and tall roofs. And just like the old gods of the Columbians, they seek the highest and most central peek, so that they might be worshiped and be seen.
"You see these people and these fields as villages, but they are only fingers of a great beast. The Marquis has no time for fingers. He is the Godhead. He wants to be seen."
"Where is he then?" Red Hand replied.
"As long as we stay in sight of these fields, we won't miss him."
Puck had trotted on ahead and the two men had to up their pace to reach her. Had they been separated Red Hand felt that it was he and Thunder who would be lost.
As the sun began its leisurely descent to the horizon, a curious spot glinted in the distance. Thunder adjusted his direction accordingly, and after a few minutes a huge ivory egg came into view. Further walking revealed the columns on which the half-egg sat. They didn't rush their pace nor slacken it, but proceeded ever closer to their meeting with a would-be God.
*
Thunder
Thunder steadied his hands as he approached the monstrous domicile. As a craftsman, he admired the workmanship and dedication it had taken to build such a edifice, yet he knew the work had been forced upon unwilling laborers. Furthermore, the concept of a home so large that one might never leave it baffled him. A longhouse was a place to store equipment and sleep out of the rain, but the woods were his home. Red Hand and the girl stood just as impressed though without the reservations. Red Hand walked close by his side and Puck danced about examining person, animal and building all with equal interest. She perched herself in front of the door and stared at it quizzically.
"Where's the curtain?" she asked.
Thunder brushed passed her and lifted the brass door knocker, letting it fall with a loud bang. Pleased, Puck stood on her tiptoes to grab the bulb. She dropped it once, twice, and then started tapping it like a woodpecker, only stopping when the door opened inward, pulling the girl with it. The man who answered was black, another slave, but dressed more formally, which to the Columbians meant with less comfort. Despite the lingering heat of the day he wore a dark jacket over a white button top. He greeted the Natives with no surprise or discontent, only a curt nod and a welcoming gesture.
"Welcome to the home of the Marquis de Chartres. How may I help you?" his French was perfectly pronounced which made Thunder reticent to reply with his broken version of the language. He needn't have worried.
"Are you the Marquis?" Puck asked, apparently oblivious to all they'd seen and done and to the ways of the world in general. She spoke in Esperanto, for neither of the twins spoke French. The servant returned the favor.
"No," he said and his mouth maintained its serious line, but his eyes twinkled slightly. "I am Gustave de Chartres. I am the Marquis' man."
"You're his brother then?" Puck continued and this time it was up to Thunder to interrupt.
"Excuse the girl." he continued in Esperanto, "She's new to your ways. We're here to see the Marquis."
"The Marquis is indisposed. May I take your card?"
"I don't have a calling card, but I was summoned. I am Thunder. I am a man of science. If you tell the Marquis we've arrived I'm sure he'll be eager to greet us."
"Yes, sir," Gustave said, before exciting the well-appointed foyer through an intricately carved door, leaving the three alone.
Puck proceeded immediately to fondle the furniture and walls with equal vigor. She had a particular fondness for picking decorative items and balancing them on various parts of her body. Her brother, as usual, stayed focused on the matter.
"We will die in this room." Red Hand said.
"Always so morose. We didn't come here to die." Thunder said.
"Yet what else can happen?"
"I've known men like the Marquis. They have a set of rules by which they live. They would call it honor. Their lives are about oppression and dominance, not just of others, but of themselves. They demand domesticity of the savage impulses, but it is by these impulses that they live. It is a narrow log they walk and so they walk slowly, as afraid of themselves as they are of their slaves, but always hiding it behind veneers of entitlement and civility. If the Marquis wants us dead, then we are safer here than in the forest. The man has built this palace to keep the savage out. He could no more spill blood here than he could go out and work his own fields. For the moment we are safe."
Red Hand looked at him doubtfully, but did not ask again.
Thunder noticed then that Puck had disappeared during their conversation.
"Where's your sister?" he asked as the interior door opened and Gustave reappeared.
"The Marquis will see you, Sir." They followed the slave, leaving Puck to find her own way.
*
Puck
At first Puck loved exploring the house that was not only long, but wide and tall as well. She reveled in the glorious chaos of it and the randomness with which walls and doors appeared around each corner. She soon realized that the whole box had a certain mundane order. Similar-sized rooms hid behind identical doors. Even the overstuffed furniture in each room, exotic at first, looked identical to her. The home might be some ill-conceived, counterfeit nature in itself. Though it held no wildlife, images of plants and flowers adorned every wall and surface. Still, it had none of the unexpected and joyous chaos of the forest. The novelty of hard floors was not enough to sustain her interest for long.
"Avez-vous l'aimez, May?" A girl's voice came from a slightly ajar door just up ahead. Puck generally didn't have much use for girls, though she did like women. The voice was the first unexpected turn in this adventure. She sneaked up to the opening, not at all afraid to get caught, just curious to see without the imposition of being seen.
Inside an elaborately decorated, but utterly familiar room, a young woman stood inside a giant lace toadstool. Her lithe torso emerged from the center of the construct. She had golden hair trussed up in curls that threatened to escape and cascade down her shoulders. She held her arms at odd angles as if waiting for someone to paint her portrait. As Puck peered around the corner of the door she scarcely moved.
Another girl appeared from behind the oversized bell. This one was black and her clothes dulled in comparison. She skittered about the dress, pulling and adjusting to better emphasize the intricate beadwork that adorned it.
"Oui, Mademoiselle. Il est beau." Puck noticed that her face remained neutral as she spoke. The words came like music out of a music box with all of the sounds right, but none of the spirit. The black girl continued to move about on the floor, adjusting and worrying the garment. The two girls continued to chat in the strange language that Puck was now sure was French. Her interest waned until just as she turned to move further down the hall.
"Excusez-moi. Qui etes-vous?" The blonde girl's voice rang out into the hall. Puck looked back to see the girl staring right at her. Puck hesitated at first, but then marched into the room. She held up her right hand to show her good-will. The blonde girl looked at Puck as if the Native girl was a porcelain doll. All at once she began to spout out a torrent of French. Any language would have been incomprehensible that arrived at that speed. Puck held up a second hand to ask for a break.
"I don't speak French." She said slowly and loudly, as if that would make a difference.
She tried again, "you are a lunatic." Puck grinned and the girl grinned back. Apparently, the girl didn't speak Kanien'Keha either. "You are a toadstool girl with a straw head." The girl continued to nod along to the accusations. Puck giggled at this and the girl giggled back. The black girl interjected.
"Go away girl. Leave us be." The two other girls looked in her direction. This one spoke Esperanto at least.
"You speak the trading tongue?" Puck asked.
"Yes, now go away. Isabelle doesn't want you here?" The blonde perked up at the name.
"Are you Isabelle?"
"No, of course not. I'm May. The mistress is Isabelle."
"Then what do you care."
A barrage of verbiage shot directly from Isabelle to May. The way that May flinched, Puck couldn't help but laugh, which only increased Isabelle's interest in her. When the words stopped May turned to Puck.
"The mistress wishes to know your name."
"That's rather presumptuous. My people don't just go out and give our names to everyone we meet. Names are precious."
"Is it not presumptuous to show up in someone's dressing room without notice or cause?" May said.
"You got me there. She can call me May's friend."
"We are not friends." May scowled.
"Yet you are the only one we both know. If she must name me, she may call me May's Friend."
An insistent Isabelle nattered for May's attention and received the information with a quizzical face, which quickly turned feral. A few loud words at May and a few submissive gestures in returned cleared the air and soon Isabelle wore a smile again.
"You are not a nice girl," said May, though her tone didn't match the words. "My mistress says hello and that you may call her the Marchioness de Chartres. She asks what you are doing in her house."
"She is the Marchioness? That makes the Marquis her ...?”
"Father," May completed the hanging sentence.
"Excellent." Puck said. "Tell Isabelle that I've come with my friend and my brother. We are here to kill her father."
*
Thunder
The Marquis took a long drag on his cigarette. The smell of the sacred tobacco wafting about this tall, gaunt Frenchman upset Thunder, but he tried not to show it. It did not surprise him to see the man enjoy tobacco, it was after all his industry, but to inhale the smoke itself struck him as akin to spiritual cannibalism. He tried to hold back his judgments. The meeting would be difficult enough.
The Marquis noticed his discomfort.
"I apologize, I did not offer." the Marquis spoke in his native French, "Gustave!"
Immediately the man who had greeted them at the door appeared with a tray of rolled tobacco. Thunder waved it away and the man vanished just as quickly.
"What brings the legendary Doctor John Thunder to my humble home?" He gestured widely with his cigarette, a gesture which failed to encompass the entirety of the room where the three men stood.
"You called for me." Thunder suggested.
"Did I? I don't recall."
"Five men came to my longhouse in the northern woods. They fired guns on the land of the Ten Hundred Nations. They came in your name." The Marquis sucked once more on his cigarette before placing his hands down on the desk in front of him.
"Please, sit." He offered. The crooked chairs that Columbians twisted themselves into never sat right for Thunder. He pushed them back and sat cross-legged on the floor, Red Hand followed suit.
"I suppose I did call for you, though I didn't send any men. I've wanted something new, something innovative for my plantation. The English have their combustion and steam and have made miracles with it. We trade easily with them, but I believe they've backed the wrong horse.
"I'm a smart man, Native. I've heard of the innovations of your people. How you bottle lightning and create miracles with none of the fuel or smoke of the English monsters. You know, of course, that the New French are not bound by the Philadelphia Convention. Indeed, our people fought on the same side against the English in that long ago war. It was where my grandfather, James Beau Oui, won his fame and this Marquisdom. I have much to thank your people for. We should work together. You can give me what I need."
Thunder stared forward as he talked not wishing to insult the man with eye contact at this critical moment. "You say you did not send men, to fetch me, but they used your name and they took my creations. Nothing you say makes me think that they did not come on your behalf."
"When you are powerful, people will take your name to borrow that power. I may have indicated to the public that I would like to work again with the Natives and with you specifically, but I did not authorize anyone to fetch you and certainly not in such a horrid manner." The Marquis took another puff and blew it out slowly letting the words hang in the air like the smoke.
"I want to believe you, but I fear it cannot be true. Tell me of your plan then, the one you needed me for, the one that endangered my family, by accident or intent." Thunder said.
"I have a new crop. Tobacco is wonderful, but its powers are limited. My men have found a different plant, the coca. It grows in Aztexas. The priests there use it in their ceremonies, much as your people use tobacco." The Marquis, still standing behind his desk, opened a drawer and produced an ornamental box. He lifted the clasp and produced a vial of white powder, along with a thin metal needle. "I know you'll have your own affection for your leaf, but believe me when I say it pales in comparison to the coca." A second vial appeared filled with a liquid. The Marquis mixed the two substances and then attached the vial to the needle. He rolled up his sleeve and pressed the needle into his vein. The euphoria on his face went a long way to explaining his love of the plant. His voice immediately raised in volume as he continued.
"The feeling is indescribable. It is God in a bottle." The Marquis, already pale, lost all color from his face. "I must have it and I must have more, but the essences must be extracted. Smoking the coca doesn't give nearly the effect as injection." The Marquis manners grew manic. "The noirs can't pick enough to get it done. I've contracted the English, but their steam-harvesters are follies. They huff and puff and fill my air with black smoke and consume all the wood in my forests, yet they are too heavy to move. Still the noirs must bring the coca plant." A wide grin spread the Marquis's lips almost beyond his face.
"I know about Thunder, the medicine man, the wizard, the scientist. The man who made the Birch Stag, a creature of wood and electricity that moves on its own through the forests of the Ten Hundred Nations. I don't know how your people treat you, sir, but to the English and the French in the know, you are celebrated. You could make an Engine for me. A Lightening Engine that could harvest the coca and isolate its precious nature." The Marquis eyes began to bulge from his head and sweat graced his brow. The rictus of his face would have been comical if not for the trace of mania.
Thunder rose from his place on the ground, reasonably sure that the Marquis would not be joining him. Red Hand followed.
Thunder spoke, "I cannot help you in this. What you ingest is the spirit of the leaf and spirits such as these should not be tampered with. If you continue to steal this spirit it will take vengeance on you. To my eyes it's already started."
A sharp cackle escaped the Marquis's mouth and his head titled back firing laughter like a cannon. When he'd calmed enough to catch his breath he retorted, "The Native ways. I miss them. The noirs have their beliefs, but they pale in comparison. Everything in the world fits in your philosophy doesn't it, Thunder."
"It wouldn't be much of a philosophy otherwise."
Again the Marquis laughed, "Indeed. It's just as well. I assure you I did not send those men. I would have loved an electro-engine from you, but I've already been making other arrangements. I wish I could share them with you, but you understand. The way you Natives and the English guard your secrets so tightly, what is left for the Neufrancaise? We must carve out our own piece of this new world of discovery or be left behind."
"Marquis, if you say you did not send them I will believe you, but I bring also a warning. The Ten Hundred Nations have stood as friends to the Neufrancaise since the time of the Anowarakowa war. As you say, our ancestors have fought together and died together and neither of us would be where we are today without their sacrifices. This does not give the Neufrancaise cause to enter our country or violate our laws. Spread the word, that another such event will be viewed as an act of aggression and, should it come to it, war."
Again the Marquis laughed, "The Neufrancaise would destroy your so-called country in mere hours," the spirit trapped in his body bolstered his bravado, "but that is not our intent. We value the Natives and their land. You will hear no more about it from me. Now to move on from matters of state."
He continued, "There is a cotillion tonight for my daughter. You will come. We French can fight and we can farm, but our true nature, our primal drive, is to party. I shall give you a room and you and your son will join us."
Thunder looked to Red Hand who stood as stoic as ever. He didn't trust the Marquis, but his line of inquiry had fallen dead at his feet. Only by staying on could Thunder hope to form a theory about the origins of the Buffalo Man. Thunder nodded.
"We shall come." he said.
*
Red Hand
"It's ridiculous to attend this ceremony. This man tried to kill us." Red Hand spit out the words then gritted his teeth.
"It's not a ceremony. It's a celebration." Thunder held up the Columbian clothes the Marquis delivered to their room and examined them.
"What's the difference?"
"A ceremony has a purpose." He placed the clothes back on the bed and shook his head. "What would you like me to do?"
"Kill him. He took my hand."
"He'd take our lives just as easily, or his men would. Violence is a dark path and one not easily escaped. Do not choose it so quickly."
Thunder continued, "We don't know that the Marquis sent the Buffalo Man and we won't find out by getting ourselves killed. Have you seen the Crane?"
Red Hand thought back to the man whose face had been seared into his memory by the pain of his hand. He felt his phantom fingers twitch. He hadn't seen many Columbians since arriving, mostly slaves.
"No."
"If he is here, where do you think we might find him?"
"The celebration."
"Correct, just because I don't act immediately doesn't mean I'm not protecting myself and the Nations. If the Crane is here we will find him. If he is not, then we will have more time to suss out his connection with the Marquis. Quiet now, we are not alone."
The slave named Gustave had entered the room, bringing with him a second set of clothes for Red Hand. Red Hand looked over the garments. His skin itched just contemplating wearing the multilayered, stiff-necked clothes. He lifted the odd headdress that accompanied the outfit. It resembled a trunk on a platter. He placed it upon his head and found it surprisingly comfortable.
The slave spoke to Thunder in French. At first Red Hand ignored him, until he noticed the worrisome tremor in his voice.
"Do you speak Esperanto?" Gustave asked Thunder. Red Hand's ears perked up at the familiar tongue.
"Yes, but I speak French as well." Thunder offered.
"French is not the language for the news I must share with you." Gustave said. "You are from the Nations and you fear that the Marquis is a dangerous man, am I right?"
"Yes," Thunder replied. "Do you have information for me?"
"I know nothing of your troubles, but I do know this, the Marquis is a very dangerous man, very dangerous. He is a cruel and violent master. He beats his best slaves horribly and the poor slaves don't survive. He fathers children upon the girls and then sells the children away. He works them hard and feeds them little."
Thunder waved him off with his hand. "Such is the way of slaveholders. This does not surprise me. My fears go to new evils. Might he incite a war with my people?"
Gustave perked up, his voice remained civil, but Red Hand noticed the anger in the terse cut of his words, "A war is waged every day, a war against my people. The war has continued for so long that it has become invisible to all but the soldiers. You've walked into a war and I come to you out of friendship."
Thunder's shoulders fell and he adopted an apologetic tone. "You are right. I am sorry. The stories of how the Columbians first treated the Natives are akin to your own tales. Having narrowly avoided your fate it is not our place to ignore it. Forgive me." He offered his hand, as the Columbians do, and his name also. "I am Thunder."
"I am Gustave de Chartres." They awkwardly shook hands, a borrowed gesture that fit the setting but not the men. "I've heard your tale. I am that invisible soldier, so much that my master/my enemy no longer sees me, even when I'm in the room. I cannot help you with your quest, but I can warn you of impending danger." Red Hand felt a thrill shoot down his spine as he considered Gustave's words.
"The cotillion tonight is when my people will make our move. The majority will simply escape, but a few will stand and fight as distraction and revenge. Our aim is to kill all attending, or was, but we do not wish to offend the Nations or kill an enemy of our enemy. I place my people in great danger by telling you this." Gustave took a moment’s breath and looked around the room. "The Marquis's evil has grown. He's brought in machines that harvest flesh as well as plants. His men develop new potions, like the one you saw. He tests them on us. Some men never recover. More and more of my people disappear without explanation. Sometimes we find partial remains, but more often they are simply gone and questions lead to beatings. We can countenance this state of affairs no longer." Gustave produced a large knife, almost the size of a sword from his shoulder slung pack and gestured with it threateningly.
"You have a choice," he said, and even in this his voice had a touch of subservience. "I can escort you to the door now and spirit you on your way. I will have you beyond the grounds before there is any trouble." He moved the blade now toward Red Hand who remained still, as if frozen in place. "Or, you may try and tell the Marquis, but I will stop you and if I don't my people will, before you ever leave this room." Red Hand watched the sweat form on the slave's brow. His body told the tale. He would kill them, but he didn't want to.
Thunder stepped forward drawing Gustave's attention. "Isn't there a third choice, Gustave? You have said it clear, we are both enemies of the Marquis, as are all men who value freedom and equality. The Nations have always granted asylum to the slave of the south. I cannot join your cause, to do so would threaten a precarious peace that is already crumbling, but I can keep your secret. I will account for myself and my charges and hold you to no responsibility for our safety. You can exit this room and it will be as if we've never spoken."
Gustave replied, "Forgive me, but I have been lied to so often I can no longer distinguish the truth. I fear you might betray me to the Marquis. My people cannot take that risk and neither can I." He held the blade higher and began to advance on Thunder. Red Hand reached for his own knife. He hadn't moved the sheath since the accident so he had to reach across his belly. Still he produced it in a flash.
"Hold," Thunder shouted, "It would be folly to end this here, between us, for fear of the Marquis, just another victory for the man." The weapons remained poised and unmoved. "Gustave de Chartres, I offer you an alternative. In my mouth I hold the fate of your people, what if I was to offer you collateral of equal value."
Gustave dropped his blade a finger-length. Thunder continued, "I'll place the lives of one of my people in your hands. You must protect her at all costs, but if I spill your secret you may have her life."
The blade wilted in Gustave's hand. "If you arrange it before you leave this room, then I will let you go, but, as you say, I cannot account for you. The violence that is coming is fueled by rage and revenge as much as by strategy. My people will not still their hand if it means the guilty may go unpunished."
Red Hand watched as Thunder contemplated these word before retorting, "The war I fear may come already exists here between the races. It is much to my people's shame that we ignored it for so long, but perhaps that willful ignorance can serve some purpose tonight."
Gustave resheathed the blade and stepped outside the room as another slave entered and closed the door, watching the Natives with steely eyes.
"Get the extra packs." Thunder ordered.
*
Puck
May had been tremendously unhelpful with translating. Puck could tell that the words she said and the one's that reached Isabelle's ears varied greatly. Still they'd manage to organize a fashion parade. Puck would pull an item from Isabelle's wardrobe and May would help her put it on, with an excited Isabelle nodding and gibbering away in French. Isabelle too changed several times, but May always wore the same soiled dress.
At one point Isabelle insisted that Puck wear what she called a corset, but Puck had already seen May help Isabelle get one on and she couldn't imagine anything less appealing than squeezing herself so tightly. Puck declined out right, but May undoubtedly converted her words into a more polite refusal for Isabelle was nonplussed. Puck did enjoy the stockings, camisoles and gloves, however which hugged instead of squeezed. Isabelle would laugh at the outfits Puck would assemble. May explained that she chose only underwear, which for the Neufrancaise was akin to being bare skinned. Puck shrugged. She wore more clothes than she'd ever had in her life, yet here they saw her as naked. It made little sense.
Soon Puck heard a familiar tweet. She whistled back and after a few repetitions her brother appeared at the door. Isabelle fluttered at the appearance of this second stranger and hid quickly behind May, though her dress still hung out on both sides of the servant.
"It's time to go." Red Hand said in their native tongue.
"I'm just having fun." Puck replied.
"It won't be fun for long, let's go."
Isabelle peaked her head over May's shoulder to take in the boy and blushed immediately. Puck laughed.
"You've got an admirer." Puck said and then a blush came too to Red Hand's face. He could control a range of emotions, but not this one." Red Hand grabbed her arm and pulled her out.
"We don't have time for this." he said as they marched down the hall. Puck heard May and Isabelle chattering away in French as she left.
"Did you kill him?" Puck asked.
"Who?"
"The Marquis."
"No, don't be ridiculous. We didn't come here to kill the Marquis."
"That's not what you said on the way here." Red Hand stopped and pulled her to face him.
"Look. You are a girl. I am a man. You must listen to me. When you are a woman, I will listen to you."
"Promises the Marquis' assassin."
Red Hand turned and stalked down the hallway, though in three steps he'd regain his composure and a more common gait. Puck followed after, staring at the walls plastered with tiny drawings of flowers and vines. He stopped at a particular door and opened it, inside stood Thunder almost completely inside a Frenchman's suit. Puck laughed immediately. He looked like a mouse trying to wear a snake's shed skin. Red Hand walked to the bed on which sat a hat that looked like a black velvet log. When he put it on his head Puck's giggles turned to guffaws and she could barely contain her laughter. Her brother's grim nature remained, and even Thunder was unmoved by her hilarity.
"You look no less ridiculous," said her brother. She looked down and realized she still wore the frilly underwear of the Marchioness. This made her laugh more. Only when her brother removed his sheath and adjusted its placement did she calm down.
"Is there going to be a fight?" Her eyes lit up. She felt the fear and the thrill simultaneously run through her. She noticed the empty packs and the electro-saw on her brother's belt. She looked to Thunder. His body was bulky beneath the suit. On his hands she noticed little metal disks that fit perfectly in his palm. "There is isn't there? Where's my weapon?"
"There isn't going to be a fight." Thunder said as he placed his hand on her one bare shoulder. She could feel the cool touch of the metal. He reached out to grasp her arm with his free hand and she felt a shock of pain that made her whole body tense. The lightening had come. She stood transfixed for a moment before falling to the ground. The effort of consciousness was too much.
*
Gustave
Gustave's moist hands felt like a betrayal, but to whom he couldn't say. He orchestrated the final touches of the cotillion, an event that had taken months of planning, while simultaneously coordinating an uprising that had been growing since before his father's birth.
The ballroom had been done up right. Decorative paper hung from the already ornate room. The Marquis had ordered all manner of special equipment to be loaded into the massive hall. In lieu of live instruments, phonographs had been supplied with discs, musical memories etched on wax. Specially made cones had been loaded in and placed upon them, a means of amplification. These cones had an end diameter of six feet, so that a whole man could walk inside, though he wouldn't get very far before the sides collapsed down to the tiny point at which the needle reverberated.
Like most industry in New France, the arms of the slaves drove this machine. The device rested on a massive stone turbine, the motion of which would be translated through a series of pulleys to spin the disc at an accelerated rate. The turbine had six pole positions for the slaves, so that their work could be downgraded to produce so little an effect. Only the sick mind of the Marquis de Chartres could have envisioned such a device. He had ordered as well that these particular slaves, though recruited from the field, be dress in a parody of the fancy dress of the party-goers. He called them disc jockeys with a laugh, jockey being his latest demeaning turn for the noirs in his service.
The motion didn't just flow to the disk, however. It also fed a smaller belt which ran to the ceiling. The Marquis's latest worthless invention hung there. A ball covered in shards of broken mirror. Gutave had never been encouraged to think. It wasn't thought highly of a slave to do so, but he couldn't help wonder about the connections between the action of the Marquis and an underlying meaning. The elegant mirror that held the Marquis's image, even as he smashed it, had been destroyed to now hang purposelessly from the ceiling of the hall. Isn't this how he had treated every man that Gustave had ever known?
Jean's appearance in the doorway woke Gustave from his reverie. Jean had never set foot in the hall, or any of the Marquis' buildings. He'd been insubordinate enough times that the Marquis knew him, and just his appearance indoors would be enough to get them both beaten, if not killed. It had been a risk to have him come here. He held a bundle almost matching his size over his shoulder. By the time Gustave had reached him he'd placed the load on the ground before him. They spoke in Esperanto.
"The tools are inside." Jean said.
"I have something for you as well." Gustave said. Jean raised an eyebrow. With a few gestures two slaves produced an old rolled rug. "It's a package of much importance. It must be treated well. No harm may come to it. You understand."
"Now is not a time for changing plans." Jean stared down the house slave. Neither had ever exerted themselves as a leader of anything. A leader was too close to a master in their eyes, but they had neither the time nor freedom to discuss this development. The Marquis had entered the balcony and Gustave noticed his eyes glancing down in their direction.
"Get out of here! Now!" Gustave summoned all his rage and misdirected it at Jean. “This is the day of the cotillion, you know-nothing noir. Now get this soiled rug away from here before I summon the whip!"
Jean had never been observant, working the fields he rarely had to be. Gustave watched his shoulders tense and his well-earned muscle flex. An action once started must be finished. Gustave raised the back of his hand to the only man who might have called him friend. His knuckles hit Jean's cheek flesh with a pop that echoed through the hall. "I said move you filthy beast."
Jean's eyes met his tormentor. A trickle of blood ran down his chin from the wound Gustave had opened. Gustave looked hard for understanding, for forgiveness. He found only the bitter acceptance of the foul burden his race seemed doomed to carry. The man lifted with ease the rug it had taken two house slaves to carry and exited the door without looking back. Holding back all emotion, as he'd been doing for years, Gustave gestured to the similarly disposed slaves to collect the delivered bundle. The Marquis had resumed his inspection on the balcony and did not see the rusty blade that had pierced the underside of the canvas sack.
*
Thunder
The shafts of amber light moved across the floors and up the walls of the cavernous hall. Thunder took in the assembled party-goers from his position on a balcony. Red Hand stood at his side. They spoke their native tongue.
"Do you see him?" Thunder asked.
Red Hand surveyed the room. He cocked his head like a hawk spotting prey.
"Perhaps," He gestured in the direction of the far corner. "That may be him, in the grey."
Thunder struggled to find any individual in the undulating mass of humanity. He moved through the crowd and down the stairs. Progress was slow. When walking in the forest, nature makes way for man, but fellow men are rarely so cognizant or kind. Many times an overdressed peacock would step up to them and babble in French. Though Thunder understood the words it was hard to find meaning in pleasantries when his mind lay elsewhere. He simply nodded until the speaker would disappear back into the mob, usually with an unkind word toward the Native. The hall darkened as they approached their destination, now just a guess at the Crane's location. No lamps had been lit. With the moon obscured by the ceiling it became too dark to move.
Suddenly a brilliant light pierced the assemblage. Thunder instantly recognized the purr of an electric bulb. As the eyes of the assembled looked toward the spot where the light hit the wall, he looked back to its source. The mechanism was a native invention, a brilliant bulb that hurt his eyes to look at. It had been flanked and focused by mirrors, an obsession it seemed of the New French. He had to quickly look away and the shouted voice of the slave he'd met previously drew his attention.
"Introducing, your host, the Marquis de Chartres, David Beau Oui!" The light, which had been wandering about the ceiling, suddenly found purpose and fell upon a thin, white figure. Bedecked in the oddest assemblage of cloth and lace, the man raised his hands as light exploded in all directions from the tiny mirrors that had been sewn into the ensemble. As applause exploded from the crowd, Thunder contemplated the androgyny of the outfit. While Natives generally let the nature within them show their gender, he'd noticed that Columbians preferred to draw their own lines, usually by their choice of dress. Certain cut or styles of clothes being reserved for men and others for women. This mess of cloth not only hid nature's intentions, but obscured the wearer's as well. If he had not already spoken to the Marquis, he would not have been able to guess at what kind of person he was.
"Welcome my pretties!" It was the Marquis speaking, the mania that gripped him before now fully in control. "Welcome to this cotillion, a tribute to my beautiful daughter Isabelle!" A second light clanked to life and circled about before landing on a young girl just opposite the Marquis. While his clothes were ambiguous, the girl's were undoubtedly and unrepentantly female. Every tuck of cloth and frill of lace designed to accentuate and display the differences nature had given her from man. A wave of applause had swept the crowd as Thunder observed his hosts. It died down and he wondered how many of these party-goers would survive the night.
"Chartres has always been known for the beauty of our land and all we produce. My daughter is no exception and she deserves no less in this event, but I speak too much. Why let words struggle to say what eyes can clearly see? Let the celebration commence." With this the light spun about randomly before landing on a giant ball concealed in the darkest arch of the ceiling. Rays of luminescence exploded from the sphere. The beams danced around the room and pinpoints of light crowded every surface, wall, ceiling, or person. It was as if the Marquis had somehow caged the night sky and now released it. The stars desperately struggled to return to the nature they'd been stolen from, but found not freedom, but a slightly larger cage.
Thunder blinked hard and realized that the light had burned into his own eyes. The room bathed in an unnatural twilight. What had been difficult before became impossible in the new atmosphere. He turned to speak to Red Hand, only to be interrupted by the commencement of music. A nearby contraption had begun to move and it took squinted eyes to recognize it as a slave wheel, as a mill might employ. Except on this wheel sat a phonogram, or a ridiculous parody of one. The enormous horn buzzed to life as the music began. Every flaw in the recording amplified a hundred-fold. Soon whatever melody the music might have drowned in the pops and crackles. The unnerving effect distracted Thunder's thoughts almost completely. He pushed his mind to make sense of anything. The strobing light dazzled him and the raucous noise deafened him. He covered his ears and closed his eyes in an effort to have the barest thought. He smelt then the tobacco that had filled the room in his distraction and he felt the jostling of the people about. He could no longer distinguish his experience from those around him.
A hand fell on his shoulder and he angrily threw it off. It returned and he thought it might be a figment, so thorough was his failure to focus. The hand turned him and he stared Red Hand in the face. Just remembering him brought great relief to Thunder's mind. He wasn't lost yet. Red Hand produced some resin from his belt. Thunder popped some in his mouth and began to chew. The familiar taste of his childhood returned at least one sense to his control. The more he savored the flavor the more of the world came back to him. Life was still a chaotic mess, but at least it was his life once more.
Slowly he extended his experience outward, first to the Frenchmen and women who cavorted about him. He'd read of the mating rituals of the Columbians. How the elders imposed any number of structures to maintain what they would call civility. How they would dance in highly choreographed lines and circles, periodically changing partners, lest the young get too fixated on any one suitor. Either that scholar had been misinformed or these Neufrancaise had simply decided to do away with any pretext of control. They cavorted and undulated in random batches of humanity. Each pod functioned as a limb or mass on some greater entity that they had all become, the same dark entity that had tried to take him. Nothing spoke to their complete devotion to this eldritch spirit as the zealous grins that adorned their otherwise blank faces.
Conversation now impossible, Thunder gestured for Red Hand to follow him. His target had changed. Gustave wouldn't wait long to strike, if they hoped to make as much distance overnight as possible. The Crane, if he had been there, had escaped him, but the Marquis might still have the knowledge and soon Thunder would have the advantage over him. Following the trail back to the balcony from which the Marquis had spoken took patience and diligence. As they made their way through they noticed the closing of doors and the appearance of more slaves along the periphery of the crowd. The dancers’ oblivion continued. They reached the Marquis perch. Thankfully, he had not fled into the chaos, but instead sat in a makeshift throne mindlessly admiring the mess he had orchestrated. He smiled as they approached.
Thunder shouted but could not make himself heard. Finally he gestured to a nearby door, not yet blocked. The Marquis rose and followed him, his manner now rather more subdued than his previous mania. One of the Marquis's rather large slaves came along. The slave closed the doors behind them. The monotonous cacophony dulled to what otherwise would have been an intolerable discord, but was relatively pleasant.
"Dr. Thunder, my dear sir, I must say you look awful pleasant in French clothes, I hardly recognized you."
"Marquis, I must return to the matter we discussed earlier."
"Must you? I thought we'd rather put an end to it. I'm afraid I have other more pressing matters at hand." He took steps toward the door.
"I have new information that may change the discussion," Thunder said.
"Yet I have none, so what can I do for you? I really must get back; this is a rather important event."
"You're slaves are revolting."
The Marquis chuckled. "Yes, I'm always saying that, but you need not worry about me. I know how to keep a strong hand."
The large slave pulled a Beau Oui knife, the signature weapon of the Marquis, from his coat.
"Stop him!" Thunder yelled to Red Hand. Red Hand had anticipated the need and seized the slave's arm with his left hand. He followed this up by slapping his stump against the flat of the blade, a move so unexpected by the slave that the weapon fell to the floor. Thunder stepped forward and pressed his two hands to the slave's chest sending the spirit of the lightening through him. The man fell to the ground, twitching and unconscious.
The Marquis's attention had been drawn.
"You can see what I've said is true." Thunder said quickly, trying to seize whatever time he had to get what he needed. "Right now, all your friends and subjects are being murdered in the next room. They're killed for what you've done. Every death is another on your already bloody hands. They will come for you." Thunder's gut twisted as he spat out these words. "I can save you. That slave is not dead, merely unconscious. He will awake, sore but alive. I can do the same for you. I can tell the slaves that you are dead. I can protect your body, but you must give me what I want; The Crane and the Buffalo Man."
The Marquis shook with anger, fear, illness. It was impossible to tell. He slunk to a nearby chair and fell into it.
"You must decide now. I will not be able to stop them when they burst through that door."
"I've done everything for them, the ungrateful bastards. This is how they repay me."
"They'll repay you with death. Who are the Crane and the Buffalo?"
"How do I know I can trust you? I can't trust anyone. You might just let them kill me."
"You're already dead. I offer you an escape, for a small price. Will you take it?"
The Marquis's head lolled forward, like a broken-necked fowl. "Fine, I sent them. I needed you to come and here you are. They did what they were told."
"You could have invited me. The Neufrancaise and the Nations are friends, I might have come."
"I'm not one to ask. I needed you, so I took you."
"All this for your harvester?"
"Ha!" Spit shot from the Marquis's mouth such was the force of his laugh. "Now it is time for you to tell the truth. What do you know of Native raids on Neufrancaise land? What do you know of peasants killed in my Marquisdom? How do I know you haven't staged this revolt? The Nations are moving against us and the Neufrancaise will not stand for it."
"The treaty between our peoples has held for over a century. Why would we break it now?"
"The agreement between the people of France and their sovereigns used to hold such weight, until it was abolished in the Great Revolution and we found ourselves banished to this land. Make no mistake, we may have helped you against the British, but your filthy democracy has always been anathema to my people. I am not surprised that you've moved against us, but I am afraid. I know of your magic, your science and I fear it. But anything I fear, I can take. I can make it mine. I will have your power."
A resounding screech sounded from the hall and then all fell instantly terribly silent.
"Now you have a choice," the Marquis said. "You can show your spirit. I know how you've judged me. I see it in your eyes and the eyes of every noir I've ever beaten. You think me evil, but I just have the will you lack. You can kill me now and start the war that will test our peoples against each other, or you may spare me and draw out the suffering of all. What is your will?"
Thunder stepped forward and fired his bolts through the Marquis's body just as the doors opened.
"Father! Father!" The girl, Isabelle, emerged from the now pitch-black hall, her dress torn and her eyes wild. She saw the Marquis in the chair. Turning to Thunder she screamed, "You've killed him!" She stepped up on him before realizing her predicament. She reversed course ducking behind Red Hand instead, undoubtedly finding comfort in someone more her skin tone.
"Calm down, girl. I haven't killed your father. I've saved him. I can save you, too." He reached out a hand and the smoke of charred cloth and flesh wafted up from his palm.
Isabelle placed her hands on Red Hand's shoulders and peered over them. The young native turned redder then than he had ever been. Then the doors opened again and Gustave appeared his clothes soaked in blood. Another of the famous knives rested in his hand.
"The Marquis must die, step aside."
Red Hand instinctively held out his arm to shield Isabelle. Thunder stepped to the now former slave.
"Hold, Gustave de Chartres. This man is under my protection."
"There is no protection for him. Move or die with him."
"I ask you to stop. No, I beg you to do so. I have given him my word." Thunder held his hands palm up, a gesture of surrender.
"As you gave it to me, yet here you are secreting him away." Gustave retorted. Blood dripped from his hair down his cheek.
"Not so friend. I've saved him, as I'm saving you." Thunder pointed toward Isabelle. "His daughter is here will you kill him in front of her and then kill her for good measure."
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