Read Online Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection by Michael Coorlim - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Coorlim
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spears made from snapped off broom-handles, belts held like whips or truncheons, lengths of chain. As Bartleby went to see to the captain I stood with the loyal airmen, spanner in hand, eagerly anticipating the brawl to come.
I am not, by nature, a brutal man, but neither do I shirk from necessary violence. What I take from such physical contests is the same primal purity I find in the engineering development process. The application of force. The breaking of resistance barriers. The stripping away of deceit and social context and all the complications that come with more subtle human interactions. It isn't the bloodshed that I love, it's the physics.
"The Schwein are regrouping," the Captain was telling Bartleby as Dewit bandaged the gash in his side. His accent grew thicker as his blood grew thinner. "Ives and der Pinkerton are heading the mob. Ve cannot resist another assault – Ives and der Pinkerton must be brought low, and der others will lose heart."
"What of Mr. Herbert?"
"Zat coward," Nussbaum spit a reddish globule onto the floor. "He hides mit his family in der cabin. He and his coward son."
I could hear the sound of the rabble mutineers approaching. "Ready, lads."
The loyal airmen were watching me, perhaps unnerved by my anticipatory grin, firming their grips on their weapons. We fanned out through the spacious bay, making a semicircle before the hatch leading back into the Rio Grande proper. We were all that stood between them and the aeroboat.
Bartleby stood by the captain, cane held loosely in his hands.
"I hate this." The Chief checking on the pressure in his rivet gun. A glance told me that it was at its lowest setting – likely not out of concern for the mutineers, who would only be hanged for their betrayal if they survived, but to prevent an accidental hull breech.
There was scant warning before our foes swarmed into the bay, easily twice our numbers, lead by the Pinkerton Johnson with his cudgel. We were ready, and crew clashed against crew and passenger alike. I waded through the crowd, swinging my spanner, uplifted by the satisfactory crunch whenever it broke a wrist or fractured some ribs.
A cook smashed me across the shin painfully with his pan, and I caught him across the cheek with my spanner, breaking his face.
A length of chain wielded by a midshipman lashed across my brow, breaking the skin and half-blinding me. I thrust the fork of my spanner into his windpipe, dropping him into a choking huddled mass.
As the redness dripped down across my eyes I sought not to kill, but to disable by the most efficient way possible. If they died, if they were crippled for life, if they would never father children again, it was all the same to me, their just punishment for daring to declare a mutiny, their just punishment for daring to face me in riotous battle. The laws of science and nature knew no mercy. Neither did I.
***
"James! James!"
I stopped at Bartleby's familiar voice, the mists receding from the corners of my eyes. I was covered in bruises and blood, some of which was my own. My hands in particular were painted a bright crimson up to the elbows – I had dispensed with my spanner at some point, or lost it, and had been pummelling my foes with my only the weapons I'd been born with.
"Calm yourself, James. They've dispersed."
I dropped the man I'd been throttling and wiped the blood from my brow. None of the loyalists would make eye contact with me save Bartleby, who'd seen it before. A deep shame filtered up from my gut... I don't like to lose control of my faculties like that. I know better. I should be better. "The Pinkerton?"
"Killed, I'm afraid, and beyond our ability to question," Bartleby responded, handing me a ragged towel to clean myself with. "The rest lost heart when Dewit struck him down. His employer Ives wasn't with them – the First Mate is leading a search party to imprison the mutineers and find him."
"The Captain?"
"Alive. Injured, but alive. You – ah,
I am not, by nature, a brutal man, but neither do I shirk from necessary violence. What I take from such physical contests is the same primal purity I find in the engineering development process. The application of force. The breaking of resistance barriers. The stripping away of deceit and social context and all the complications that come with more subtle human interactions. It isn't the bloodshed that I love, it's the physics.
"The Schwein are regrouping," the Captain was telling Bartleby as Dewit bandaged the gash in his side. His accent grew thicker as his blood grew thinner. "Ives and der Pinkerton are heading the mob. Ve cannot resist another assault – Ives and der Pinkerton must be brought low, and der others will lose heart."
"What of Mr. Herbert?"
"Zat coward," Nussbaum spit a reddish globule onto the floor. "He hides mit his family in der cabin. He and his coward son."
I could hear the sound of the rabble mutineers approaching. "Ready, lads."
The loyal airmen were watching me, perhaps unnerved by my anticipatory grin, firming their grips on their weapons. We fanned out through the spacious bay, making a semicircle before the hatch leading back into the Rio Grande proper. We were all that stood between them and the aeroboat.
Bartleby stood by the captain, cane held loosely in his hands.
"I hate this." The Chief checking on the pressure in his rivet gun. A glance told me that it was at its lowest setting – likely not out of concern for the mutineers, who would only be hanged for their betrayal if they survived, but to prevent an accidental hull breech.
There was scant warning before our foes swarmed into the bay, easily twice our numbers, lead by the Pinkerton Johnson with his cudgel. We were ready, and crew clashed against crew and passenger alike. I waded through the crowd, swinging my spanner, uplifted by the satisfactory crunch whenever it broke a wrist or fractured some ribs.
A cook smashed me across the shin painfully with his pan, and I caught him across the cheek with my spanner, breaking his face.
A length of chain wielded by a midshipman lashed across my brow, breaking the skin and half-blinding me. I thrust the fork of my spanner into his windpipe, dropping him into a choking huddled mass.
As the redness dripped down across my eyes I sought not to kill, but to disable by the most efficient way possible. If they died, if they were crippled for life, if they would never father children again, it was all the same to me, their just punishment for daring to declare a mutiny, their just punishment for daring to face me in riotous battle. The laws of science and nature knew no mercy. Neither did I.
***
"James! James!"
I stopped at Bartleby's familiar voice, the mists receding from the corners of my eyes. I was covered in bruises and blood, some of which was my own. My hands in particular were painted a bright crimson up to the elbows – I had dispensed with my spanner at some point, or lost it, and had been pummelling my foes with my only the weapons I'd been born with.
"Calm yourself, James. They've dispersed."
I dropped the man I'd been throttling and wiped the blood from my brow. None of the loyalists would make eye contact with me save Bartleby, who'd seen it before. A deep shame filtered up from my gut... I don't like to lose control of my faculties like that. I know better. I should be better. "The Pinkerton?"
"Killed, I'm afraid, and beyond our ability to question," Bartleby responded, handing me a ragged towel to clean myself with. "The rest lost heart when Dewit struck him down. His employer Ives wasn't with them – the First Mate is leading a search party to imprison the mutineers and find him."
"The Captain?"
"Alive. Injured, but alive. You – ah,
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