Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (7 page)

Toby hired himself out to the excavators whenever he could, cheerfully pitching in with the other workers to dig the hard sand. His ability to speak English made him a favorite, and he felt part of something stupendous. The first time he found a broken
ushabti
in the sand he was sifting, he was overcome by the thought he was holding an artifact carved by people who had been dust for millennia.

He brought it to the attention of his employer, but the archaeologist was unimpressed. “It's just a bit of detritus, Toby. We have hundreds of those. Toss it in the leavings pile.”

Toby tucked it into his pack. Broken or not, it deserved the respect its age required. He realized the treasure aspect was the reason most of these men dug, not the historical. It upset him to think they were so callous, and he was no longer as enamored of the archaeologists, but they provided the most interesting work, so he continued to join them as often as possible.

One day, as they dug, he spotted a gold and faience neck piece among the leavings. Looking around him to make sure no one saw, he scooped it up and slipped it into his pocket. It wasn’t until he returned to his sleeping mat that night he realized how easily he had committed a theft. He hadn’t thought twice about it.

What was becoming of him?

He learned the language easily, and by Christmas was swearing like a native. He spent the holiday on a hillock across from the great pyramids, with a bottle of wine and a heartfelt awe of their majesty.

He could have been happy there in Egypt for the remainder of his seven years, but some of the drovers began to watch him surreptitiously. One of the men in particular, a swarthy fellow named Abdullah, began to lay out his blankets close to Toby's sleeping place.

Abdullah tried hard to become Toby's bosom companion. He shared his bread and wine over Toby's protests. And, although he made a point to fold his greatcoat away in Chester's hold, locked with a new stout padlock, Toby feared the little mechanoid was far too portable a hiding place.

When he came back to his lodging unexpectedly and found Abdullah with chisel in hand, he knew he was right. “Here now! What are you about?” he asked the other, fists clenched and ready to do battle at need.

“My good friend,” fawned Abdullah, “I have been intrigued by this marvelous creation of yours. I wanted to see inside of him.”

“There is nothing inside to concern you,” Toby answered through clenched teeth. “Leave him alone if you value your soul.”

This was no idle threat to an Egyptian, and Toby hoped it would be enough to stay Abdullah's hand, but he feared the drover was indeed after the secret of his gold.

When Abdullah came at him with the chisel, he realized his fears were justified. They were alone in the compound, so Toby had no compunction fighting back. If he was going to get another beating, at least he would give as good as he got this time.

His muscles were hard and toned after his recent work history. When Abdullah lunged at him with the chisel, Toby ducked beneath the weapon and grabbed the other's wrist. He put pressure on the tendons until Abdullah grunted with pain and dropped the chisel.

Using one of the moves he'd been taught by the nomads, Toby flipped Abdullah across his back and threw him to the dirt. The drover lay still, stunned.

Toby gathered his things and moved across town to one of the foreigner hotels. He had a bit of trouble convincing them to rent him a room, but gold smoothed away a lot of obstacles. Still, the encounter with Abdullah had soured Egypt for him. It was definitely time for him to find another home.

So, the very next day, as the winter waned, he booked first class passage on an outgoing airship to the British Isles, drawing stares from the station master until he passed over more than ample gold to secure his ticket. He had been avoiding the United Kingdom in his travels, saving it as long as he could. His mother had come from county Cork in Ireland, and he thought there might still be remnants of family there. It would be good to belong somewhere again. All of his American relatives were dead.

He stood beside the airship, looking up at the gilded ribs and painted silk of the gas bag. It was astounding to him that people made a habit of gliding through the air hundreds of feet above the earth. The ship was called “Fortune's Clover” and an emerald shamrock graced the huge rudder behind the balloon. He strode up the gangplank with Chester in tow, finding his cabin deep in the hold and stowing his gear.

Toby liked the airship. It was his first occasion to travel so, as the Confederate soldiers had not been wont to do so, making do with troop trains. It was quiet among the clouds, the steam engines silent as they plowed through the aether.

Toby stood before the observation windows for many hours on the long flight, watching the shadows play upon the ground and water below. It fascinated him to see the world as a flat, smooth plane—like a map—all detail washed away by distance.

When he was not before the window, he spent his time in the salon of the airship, quietly drinking at the bar.The upper class passengers pretended not to notice the filthy man in rags nursing a whiskey in the corner of the salon, though he saw the ladies whispering behind their fans and the gentlemen refusing to stand near him at the counter.

But the children had no such prejudice.They came to sit at his feet,to play with Chester, and to ask him endless questions.

“Hey, mister—why are your clothes so torn?”

“Hey, mister—why don't you wash your face?”

“Hey, mister—does that beard itch? Is that why you are scratching all the time?”

He answered every question with grave attention, and as honestly as the rules of the bet allowed, then made the dancer perform for them. He paraded Chester through the salon, a line of laughing children following behind. Not a child left his presence without a golden coin all their own—and a whispered exhortation to keep it a secret, lest their parents take it away.

By the time they reached British airspace, the children had dubbed him the Raggedy Man and each hugged him tight before disembarking. Their affection warmed his heart a little.It had begun to chill as he saw some of the worse bits of the world. He was still far more cynical than the boy who had made the bet, but he strode down the gangplank whistling. The wager was as good as won.

By his calculations in the battered notebookhecarried in his pack, Toby was just over the halfway point in his seven-year challenge when he stumbled into destiny. It was soon after his arrival in Ireland, where he engaged a small garret for himself and Chester in Dublin. He didn't have to save the money; he just didn't see any reason to be pretentious. Simple was good enough for him.

He left the mechanoid under lock and key—having learned his lesson in Egypt—and went for a stroll about the town, familiarizing himself with this new land, which included sampling the wares of several pubs along the way. He was heading toward good and truly drunk, smoking his pipe behind yet another of the ubiquitous pubs and nearly asleep when he heard an altercation at the back door.

He scowled at having his rest interrupted—and eavesdropped on the conversation without a thought of moving away to let the men have privacy.

“I told you, Mike O'Hanlon. No more credit, and if you don't pay the rent on the shack you are tenanting, you best find another hole to crawl into. This is your last warning. I want my money by tomorrow, or out you go.”

“But Paddy—you know I can't work no more with me bum back. Will you be for tossing the four of us into the road, with my youngest but a wee slip of a girl?”

“Not my concern, Michael. I have to eat, same as you. And Doreen will have my hide if I let you go any longer.”

Toby knocked the ash out of his pipe and stowed it in his pocket. He limped over to the two men. “Can’t a man nap in peace without having to listen to your caterwauling?”

Paddy, the apron around his waist proclaiming him the publican, crossed his arms on a burly chest and growled, “What business is it of yours, stranger?” His scowl said he had no use for the ragged creature before him.

Mike turned rheumy eyes toward Toby and ducked his head in acknowledgement. “I am sorry to disturb you sir. I been sick. Fell behind a bit on me obligations. But, as I was telling Paddy here, all I need is a bit more leniency . . .”

“How much does he owe you?” broke in Toby. Something about the sickly little man reminded him of Panear the end of his suffering—which was enough to make him turn his back and walk away. On the other hand, the publican annoyed him, and it would feel good to set the man on his arse.

“Again, what business is it of yours?” asked the publican, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Concern for my fellow man, is all,” Toby drawled, playing up his accent.

“American, is it?” Paddy asked, as if that explained everything. “Well, if you must poke into our business—” He tugged a notebook from one pocket of his apron and flipped through the pages. When he found what he was looking for, he thrust it forward for Toby to see himself. “Five pounds, six shillings. You can see it right there.” He pointed at the sum with a grimy finger.

Toby whistled. “That is a goodly amount. You have been a generous man to wait as long as this.”

He placed a hand on Mike's shoulder. “What would you give to have this debt erased?”

“I have nothing to give, sir. Me pockets and cupboard are both empty!” protested the little man, tears filling his eyes. “Sure, and I never intended to cheat a soul. It's just I been down on me luck.”

Toby thought that here might be a bit of sport. He’d pay the man’s debt today and call it in tomorrow. His travels had rubbed the shine off his soul and tarnished it with the ways of the world.

“Well, that's all about to change.” Toby dug in his left coat pocket and pulled out a handful of gold. “I don't have pounds sterling, but I assume this will do as well?” He counted out ten bright golden disks and handed them to Paddy.

The publican's eyes widened at the sight of the gold. “More than enough by half.”

Turning to Mike, Toby grinned. “Now, what do you say to a good dinner—my treat.”

Mike nodded, dazed. “I know a place.”

“Good, because I am new to Dublin. We will sit, eat, and discuss how to make the future a brighter one.”
And how I’ll regain my gold . . . one way or another.

A much less acerbic Paddy raised a hand in farewell. “Come round any time, stranger—pints on the house.”

 Mike led the way to a nice fish and chips stall featuring a pair of tables outside the establishment. The scents of frying fish and vinegar wafted on the air, and Toby's stomach rumbled. Mike indicated a seat at one of the tables.

A wry smile tugged the corner of Toby's lip. “Don't want to be seen inside with me?”

“Well, sir . . .” Mike paused, looking miserable, “you are a bit . . . ripe.”

Toby roared with laughter. Most of the time, people simply ignored him or crossed the street to avoid him. He didn't blame them, having seen himself in many a shop window as the years had come and gone. The image never got better—only worse.

“I-I don't mean to offend, sir.”

“None taken, Mike. I know I look a fright. But that's enough about me. Why don't you get us some food?” He handed Mike another of his gold coins.

“For two fish and chips? They'll think me daft.”

“Get us pints to go with it, and keep any change they may give you.”

Mike's brow furrowed. “Where does all this come from, then?” he asked, voice roughened by suspicion.

Toby shrugged. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you. Just know that I have plenty to share. In fact, take another for yourself.” He handed Mike another gold disk.

Mouth dropping open in surprise, Mike bobbed his head again and scurried away.

Toby leaned back in his chair. Some days were better than others. He’d have a bit of a lark with this old dad. Then demand to be repaid in full. That would send the man into a tizzy.

Mike returned with the food and dove into his plate without a word.

“Tell me about your little ones, Mike,”Toby said, when the other came up for air.

“Oh, and to be sure, they ain't that little any more. Mary Frances is four-and-twenty, and takes the place of her mother in keeping the house . . . such that it is. Bridget is two-and-twenty and has her sights set on grander things. And Kathleen—there's me darling—she'll be twenty come June.”

“I'd love to meet them,” Toby sighed. He missed the company of women—they were less forgiving of his odd appearance than men, and it was seldom that he got to speak to one. Few of them came from backgrounds like Jaliqai where they were used to such dishabille. And the women of the streets who could be bought for a night’s pleasure were not the type of women he missed.

“Sure, and you must! After all you've done.” Mike grinned, showing more than one gap in his yellow teeth. “They are good girls, they are.”

“I'm sure they are,” Toby agreed.

Mike paused in his eating long enough to murmur, “Tell me something about yourself, sir. I don't even know your name. It would be dishonorable of me to take your money so and not even know that much.”