Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (28 page)

The tunnel opened up into a massive chamber filled with levels of wooden scaffolding built around a towering cubic clockwork structure. Its purpose wasn't immediately apparent, shifting gears arranged around sliding flywheels, pneumatic tubes snaking between steam-powered pistons, hinged flanges tapping staccato rhythms that echoed throughout the structure. Beyond the guards walking slowly along the scaffolding she could see a man in ragged safari-wear examining the mechanism -- Mr. Kelley?

Set around the tower and its base were caches of supplies: barrels of food and water, bundles of cloth, kegs of cordite and shot for the cannons outside.

One of the mercenaries prodded her along with the barrel of his rifle, preventing her from taking in any more detail, and the prisoners were escorted down a side tunnel. A vine-tied wooden lattice had been placed across its far end, and two of the mercenaries stood watch as the third moved it aside.

Aldora and Amoxtli were prodded through into a small cell where two men -- one in a ruined tweed waistcoat and trousers, the other in torn safari khakis -- sat along its walls.

"Miss Fiske!" Colonel Isley scrambled to his feet. His face was dirt smudged, and his impeccable moustache looked ragged."Thank heavens you're alive!"

And now they know my name, Aldora cursed inwardly. Thank you for that.

"Are you alright? We'd feared the worst."

Aldora hesitated, waiting until the guards' echoing footsteps had faded. "After the raid I was taken in by the local native people."

"You're the woman who financed this rescue operation?" Aldora recognised the other man as the actor Carvel White. "I cannot say that I am impressed."

"You know how it is. Things seldom work out as intended."

"What the devil are you wearing?"

"It's a tunic the natives were kind enough to lend me."

"It's dreadful."

The Colonel frowned. "You'd rather she traipse around in her all-together?"

Carvel gave Aldora an appraising look. "I should say not. I prefer my women with a more classical figure."

"I shall endeavour to recover from such stunning disappointment. If you are quite through critiquing my apparel, where are the others?"

"Dead, I am sad, but not surprised to say," Carvel said. "Our production assistant was killed in the initial assault. Our guide slain as an example when he refused to show the mercenaries' commander whatever respect the bastard felt entitled to."

Henry Robinson was dead. Aldora sat down heavily, hand flitting to her face. It took a lot to take the wind out of Aldora's sails, to wreck her poise, to slip the mask of perfect composure from her face. Carvel didn't seem to notice.

"I haven't seen Mr. Girnwood, the director, since our capture, but I assume that he's dead as well."

"No," Aldora spoke absently, distracted. "He comes from a wealthy family. He'll be kept separate from the rest of us for ransom."

"That cannot be," Carvel said. "I'm a universally well-regarded symbol of the stage. If anyone's worth a ransom, I am."

"Perhaps he's not a fan of theatre," Isley suggested. "Mr. Kelley was taken as well."

"I think I might have spotted him," Aldora said. "Working on that giant clockwork."

"What do you suppose its purpose might be?"

"I haven't the foggiest." Aldora looked over at Carvel. "How did Mr. Robinson die?"

"Foolishly," Carvel said with a snort. "The director, Mr. Girnwood, was trying to wheedle some sort of deal with the mercenary commander, throwing his weight and reputation around, and quite simply exhausted the man's patience. He struck the man, and Robinson called him out as a coward for assaulting a bound prisoner. He was shot as an example to the rest of us."

"An example."

"So he said. It seemed to have been an effective one, at least for Girnwood."

Aldora forced herself to focus. "And what sort of man is this mercenary commander?"

"You'll find out yourself," a gruff voice from behind her spoke. A new pair of guards had silently appeared at the door, rifles at ready. "Come with us, Miss.
Y tu tambien, hombre.
"

The latter was directed at Amoxtli. Aldora rose, interposing herself between the men and her guide. "You don't need him. He's a native -- he doesn't speak English or Spanish."

"That's up to the commander. Come along."

***

The guards escorted Aldora and Amoxtli past the clockwork tower and through darkened corridors to the dusk outside beyond the temple's entrance, and to a large central pavilion tent. It was dark and sombre within, lit by beeswax candles, decorated with Catholic iconography. A portable altar had been set up at the far end, flanked by tall standards bearing a severe and geometric Christian styling. The fore of the tent was occupied with rows of folding chairs of wood and cloth.

The man occupying the tent was dressed in a uniform similar to the other mercenaries, over which he wore a black Catholic clerical waistcoat, buttoned all the way up to the collar. To Aldora his ensemble gave the impression of a militant cassock, made all the more blatant by the gun-belt slung along his hips. He was tall, dark, and athletic, with a regal Hispanic bearing that well suited the pavilion tent's atmosphere.

The guards stopped just outside to flank the tent's entrance.

"Miss Fiske, I presume?" The militant priest looked up as she and Amoxtli entered.

Aldora placed his accent as educated Barcelonian. "I am afraid you have the advantage."

His smile did not reach his eyes. "Father Jago Sarsosa. I apologise for the circumstances."

"Charmed. Should I call you Father Sarsosa or Commander Sarsosa?"

"You may refer to me as is your pleasure, Miss Fiske."

She grinned unpleasantly. "Be careful with your permissions, Commander, I may just take you up on them."

Sarsosa's smile didn't falter. Everything about the man, Aldora noted, was impeccable. His pocket kerchief was folded just so. His moustache was waxed to the perfect degree. His hair parted expertly down the middle.

This was a man who prided himself on his control, perhaps to a pathological degree.

He addressed Amoxtli. "And you, sir?"

Aldora spoke quickly. "He is only a simple native guide. Speaks nothing but his tribal tongue."

Sarsosa studied the man carefully before apparently dismissing him as unimportant. "Very well. Let us not unduly waste one another's time, Miss Fiske. You financed the expedition to find your filmmakers, so it is obvious that you come from money. Are you married?"

"Why, Father Sarsosa. That's rather forward of you."

"Miss Fiske."

"I am engaged to be married."

"Then it is to your father that I should address your ransom."

"You would stand a better chance of getting your money with my fiancé. Is that what this is all about?"

"The ransoms are incidental to our business in the region. Opportunities that arise must be exploited."

"How mercenary of you."

"I have to admit that I do not care about your opinion of me in the slightest, just that someone will pay for your release."

"If you must know, then yes."

Sarsosa nodded. "Then I shall appoint you facilities more suited to your station."

"And the rest of my expedition?"

"I have not yet decided their fate. Your behaviour shall, in part, determine what is to become of them."

"Your point is well taken. Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

"You may ask." Father Sarsosa leaned casually against his altar, arms folded across his chest.

"Does the Church condone what you are up to?"

"The Church? Oh. The vestments I wear. No, Miss Fiske, I am no longer with the Catholic Church, but I find their iconography projects a useful air of authority."

"You left the church?"

"I was excommunicated," he said.

"I suppose they look down on their missionaries turning mercenary."

"I was no missionary, and our disagreement was one of philosophy. Are you familiar with the writings of Charles Darwin?"

"
On the Origin of the Species
?"

Enthusiasm filled Father Sarsosa's voice. "Yes! The work changed my life. Darwin's true message was not one of biology, but one of leadership. Some men, you see, are simply superior to others. Smarter. Stronger. More suited to lead. More suited to set doctrine. I do not blame the Church for expelling me for my outspoken cries for modernisation; men of power must make what choices they must in order to secure their positions; I was a threat, and I was dealt with. So is the natural order."

"So you are no priest. Are you at least a military man?"

"After I left the church--"

"After they excommunicated you--"

"-- I served my native Espania's army loyally, until my regiment was sent to Cuba during the rebellion. I saw an advantage in the guerrilla tactics that the natives used... an adaptability and flexibility the Spanish army lacked. A man must always be flexible to take opportunities as they arise. As soon as the Americans joined the Cubans, I defected with my most loyal soldiers and joined the revolution -- together, we helped liberate Santiago. It was glorious."

"Impressive, I'm sure, but how does a revolutionary hero become a mercenary thug?"

Sarsosa raised an eyebrow. "You hope to rile me. Miss Fiske, you are a brave woman to have made your trip into the jungle. And either resourceful or lucky to have evaded my men until you entered the temple. It is circumstances like these -- strife -- that both reveal our highest selves and forge us into more perfect beings. You can rest assured... I shall not underestimate you."

Aldora blinked. "Nor I you, Commander."

"Then you must know that trying to get me to reveal more than I wish out of anger is foolish. But enough of me. The girl. She is yours?"

"The girl?"

He turned his head slightly. "The girl who followed you and the Indian. She has evaded my men, but we will have her soon. I'm not sure she's worth the trouble trying to take alive. Is she your daughter?"

"She is my ward," Aldora said carefully.

"Then she shall be returned to you intact."

"Thank you."

"Show your thanks with your compliance, and you and your ward will remain safe. Take her away."

***

The guards separated Aldora and Amoxtli, taking the native hunter back towards the cell with the others, while Aldora was taken down another corridor.

They escorted her through a simple locked door into another cell. While still rather makeshift, this one was better appointed, with military-style cots and a folding table holding a bowl of fruit.

The engineer Mr. Kelley was sitting at the table, while a second, plumper man reclined on one of the cots. Both stood as she entered, remaining silent until the guards had shut the door.

"Are you alright, Miss Fiske?" the skinny man asked.

"None the worse for wear, Mr. Kelly." She turned to the larger fellow. "You are the director, Mr. Girnwood?"

The heavyset man raised a hand weakly. "And you are?"

"Miss Aldora Fiske." She walked up to Girnwood, stared him in the eyes for a second, then slapped him sharply across the face.

He rocked back, putting a hand on the wall to steady himself. "Wh-what?"

"That is for getting a good man killed."

"What?"

Aldora grabbed him by the tattered remains of his collar, slamming the man against the wall. "Henry Robinson was more of a man than you will ever know, you snivelling worm. He'd lived more, loved more, accomplished more than you can even dream, and now he's dead, leaving an orphaned daughter behind, all because you couldn't sit still and keep your mouth shut."

Girnwood gasped and grabbed at Aldora's fingers, trying to pry himself free. "The girl survived?"

"By all rights she is your responsibility now. Your lack of caution took her father from her, your self-importance almost took her life away, and I'd not add your incompetence to the burden she must bear for the rest of her life, but if you should survive this ordeal you must never forget what it is you've done. Are we clear, Mr. Girnwood?"

"Y-yes, Miss Fiske."

"Excellent."

She gave the man a last shove against the wall, then released him and turned to sit at the table, pulling a banana from the bowl. Mr. Kelly and Mr. Girnwood exchanged glances.

"Did you know Mr. Robinson well?" Girnwood asked. "If so, I'm sorry for your--"

"Mr. Kelly." Aldora's quiet voice cut Girnwood's clumsy condolences off.

The engineer sat up straight. "Yes, Miss Fiske?"

She pointed the banana, half-peeled, at him. "The mercenaries have you examining the clockwork tower."

"Oh, yes. Fascinating thing."

"Is it Mayan?"

"Parts of it, yes."