Mechanics of Man, Chpt. 1

         What had been a fascinating – even slightly dangerous – method of long-distance travel a decade previous, was the most viable and expeditious means of cross-country journeys: Marcus Mattery stood in queue for the transcontinental airship, Sargasso, which would make a handful of stops before Lake City – Marcus' destination – on the border of Vespucha and the Frontier, before continuing on to the Far West, to the little speck of civilization that overlooked the western sea.

         “Please don't dawdle!”

         Marcus looked up to see the porter speaking tersely to an aging man with a cane and small carpet bag.  Quaint and nostalgic as it might still be, the Old World had at least retained nicety, something the New World seemed to sorely lack, in Marcus' opinion.  The queue moved forward, and Marcus shifted the two traveling cases in front of him.

         “You're traveling quite light.”

         A woman – pretty in the face and with an outfit Marcus would have thought improper if he hadn't seen it enough already: a blouse with loose sleeves and a low neckline with a corset on the outside and men's trousers – stood behind Marcus.  Standing silently just beyond her right shoulder, a large Negro man guarded a collection of at least twelve cases.

         “I'm recently arrived,” Marcus replied, “and to be settled in Lake City.  I did not feel it necessary to bring so much.”

         The woman's face softened at him, and her smile broadened.

         “A traveler from the Old World,” she said.

         “An immigrant, to be precise,” Marcus said.

         The woman stuck her hand out.  Marcus looked a little puzzled.  Was he meant to shake it like a man's?  She seemed to notice his look of consternation and turned her hand, palm down, to him.

         Still a bit nonplussed, Marcus stared for a moment before taking her hand in his and giving it a polite squeeze.  It wasn't the handshake he would have given another man, but apparently kissing a lady's knuckles was somewhat passe here in the New World.

         “I am Wilhelmina Abigail McGovern.”

         “That is a decidedly Old World name,” Marcus said.

         “Quite the linguist.”

         Marcus chuckled.  The line moved forward, and they went along with it, Miss McGovern's servant moving the load of baggage on a wheeled, upright cart.  After three more passengers had been boarded, their luggage being carefully hauled aboard by both men and automatons – labormen by the look of them, Marcus thought – the line stopped.  Marcus turned and looked at Miss McGovern.

         “My name is Marcus,” he said.

         “A pleasure, sir,” she replied.  “Will you be received in Lake City?”

         “Yes.  I'll be living with my brother for a spell until I have more than a month's worth of money in my wallet.  He is very kind to take me.”

         “Indeed,” she said.

         The line moved forward again.  The dirigible's porter approached Miss McGovern and her man and began to discuss the finer points of storing her belongings aboard the ship.  Marcus gave her a polite nod in farewell and lifted his bags as he made his way to the long stairway into the aerostat's giant gondola.



         Settled into his quarters aboard The Sargasso, Marcus decided to explore the spacious, two-floor gondola.  Unlike the steamboat that had brought him across the ocean from the Old World, the airship was generous in its accommodations, its price garnering a higher clientele and thus a smaller one.  Marcus' room alone was economical but pleasant: it had a single bed built atop a selection of drawers for one's clothes – for it was a lengthy trip all the way across the continent, with so many stops, even at 45 kilometers for each hour – as well as a modest corner desk that could be folded into the wall and a chair that slid under the bed.  Even the porthole, though small, offered a view far more pleasing than the vast, monotonous (and slightly monochromatic) blue waves of the ocean.

         Marcus walked the narrow, carpeted hallway between the smaller private quarters that lined the hull, and the even more restrictive two-family rooms in the center of the gondola's lower level.  The wood paneling was dark, soothing the nerves that might come with flight, and the electric lights that hung from the walls offered a soft glow to guide the way.  At the end of the walkway, a door opened onto a parlor that stretched the width of the gondola.  As he entered, a handful of passengers looked up from their scattered seats around the room.  Marcus saw Miss McGovern seated alone near one of the windows; she smiled at him over her cup and offered a seat with a little nod.

         Marcus crossed the room and sat in the chair beside her.  Gently, Miss McGovern set the cup down into the Chinaware saucer.

         “Pleasure to see you again,” she said.

         “Indeed,” Marcus said.  “Thank you for the company.”

         “I should thank you, Marcus.  It is apparently quite unseemly for a woman here in the Republics to be traveling without a chaperone.”

         Marcus looked at her, nonplussed.  They sat in silence, a fresh cup of tea in front of Marcus, and Miss McGovern sipping on hers as she looked across the table at him.

         “So what brings you across the world, Mister . . .”

         “Mattery.  Sorry.  Terribly rude of me.  Marcus Mattery.”

         “Your brother isn't Charles, is he?”

         Marcus was at a loss.  He would not have guessed that his brother would be known: though his inventions were certainly popular, the Old World had not quite taken his name as synonymous with his machines, as they had with Pullman or Lawton, or even LaFolette.  Perhaps here, in the Future that was the New World, Progress meant more to people.

         Marcus cleared his throat.  Miss McGovern continued to look at him expectantly.

         “Charles Mattery is indeed my brother,” he finally said.

         “Marvelous,” she replied.  “His designs are wonderful,” she chuckled.  “But I imagine you are quite aware.”

         Marcus shook his head.  “Surprisingly I know very little of my brother or his inventions.  I have not seen him in nearly fifteen years and spoken only sporadically.”

         “I am sorry to hear that,” she said, her placid brow furrowing.  “I did not mean to pry into family matters.”

         “There is no reason to apologize, miss.”

         Miss McGovern nodded with a polite smile but remained silent, sipping her tea.  Marcus partook of his own.  The two stayed that way, stealing glances at one another between looks about the crowd and out the porthole.  By the time Marcus had finished his second cup of tea, the airship was beginning to lift.

         Marcus tensed.

         “Is this your first time aboard an aerostat, Mister Mattery?”

         He smiled sheepishly at her.  There was only a hint of playful mockery, though the smile she flashed in return belied her concern.

         “I have only previously traveled by land or by sea,” Marcus replied.

         The ship continued to rise.  Marcus looked out of the nearby porthole and watched the land slowly slip away.  After only ten of fifteen minutes, the dirigible had risen to an altitude of 400 feet and was pressing forward at 45 miles per hour.

         “So what takes you to Lake City,” Miss McGovern asked, “after so many years separated?  If I may be curious.”

         Marcus took advantage of the mouthful of tea to delay his response.  What should he tell her?  Did she need to know his history?  Could he be vague without seeming rude?  It was a long story, the fifteen years that had separated Marcus and his brother, but he would only say the basics.  After Lake City, there was no guarantee he would see her again.  He swallowed and quietly cleared his throat.

         “Our parents passed away recently,” Marcus said.  “My eldest brother is the only one to remain, but I do not imagine he will miss me.”

         “A man cannot certainly be as callous as that,” Miss McGovern said.

         Marcus shrugged.  As the airship steadied at what the Captain's porter termed 'cruising altitude,' the passengers began to move about more freely.  They did not seem so modern here, as Marcus had expected.  Miss McGovern appeared the only rebellious lady: all of the other women aboard the ship wore long dresses with little embellishment, tight corsets under modest blouses, and scarves to cover what would no doubt have been ample cleavage; their hair was pulled back into tight buns or arrangements of outwardly-complex making.

         For the duration of another full pot of tea, Marcus and Miss McGovern remained mostly silent, exchanging only pleasantries about the weather and the flight, with no talk about his brothers or other personal matters.  Either out of politeness or embarrassment, she excused herself and retired to her quarters.  Alone, Marcus looked out the window.  Perhaps Lucien would miss him now that he, too, was alone – having never married – but Lucien’s response to Marcus' departure had been nearly as volatile as their father's upon Charles' exodus to Vespucha.

    *          *          *

         Dearest brother – Marcus,

         I was pleased to receive your letter, though the news was difficult to bear.

         Much of the world has changed.  Much of ourselves has changed, as well.  I imagine you are now a man and far beyond the boy that I parted with upon the ladder of that hansom so long ago.  I can only envision that young face looking up at me with hope and fear and sadness; it is my only regret in leaving behind that life.  But is a life, now, worthy of only remembrance without regret.  My time here is one of fulfillment and progress and people worthy of being part of it.

         You are, no doubt, a stranger in a familiar place.  I pray that Lucien is proper and cordial, but he is – and will most assuredly always be – quite aloof and uncomfortable with sentiment.  More so than I, you have a better understanding of his ways; I must admit my vision of him is both old and skewed.  I apologize for my bias.  Time, it seems, still creates bitter memories.  What I mean to say is that I empathize with your plight and your loneliness: even among those you know, there is no lack of solitude.

         Marcus, my young brother, there is a welcome home here in the New World awaiting you.  It is altogether different from your place now, and far away – be certain of this – but know that I would greet your arrival with a warm embrace.

         Write to me.  Give my deepest condolences to our Lucien.

         Yours,

         Marcus

    *          *          *

         Marcus lay in the bed in his quarters: counter to what he had thought, it was uncomfortable.  He had read the letter many times; Charles had once sent letters regularly – at least once a season, so his mother had said (and had read them aloud to Marcus as a boy) – but their father had discouraged the contact and refused their mother the privilege of responding.  After a half-dozen unanswered letters, Charles had ceased his correspondence.  Now, fifteen years later, Marcus treasured it immensely.

         Charles had been fair, though, in his estimation of Lucien’s response after their parents' deaths.  He had never been an affectionate man, much like their father, and he had become even more distant when their father was laid in the grave.  Marcus had tried to connect with his only remaining kin, but Lucien was quiet, cold, and quick to anger.  There had been little need for persuasion when Charles' letter had arrived in response to the news of their deaths.  Marcus had said his farewells to Lucien – what he envisioned to be the final ones – with only a curt nod and a terse 'God's speed' as a parting reply.

         Cramped in the little bed aboard The Sargasso, Marcus neatly folded the letter and slipped it into his jacket pocket.  He could only hope that his departure was the right decision.  Lucien would be fine on his own – that much he was certain about – but Marcus had not taken the time to truly consider whether or not he was meant for the modern world that awaited him.



         In the interim days between Plymouth and Vlissingen, the remaining dutch holding in Vespucha, and then on to Pennton, the route was quiet.  The passengers mingled very little, and many of them departed and were replaced with new passengers.  In Langdon, on the border of the Midland Federation, they stopped for an extra day but did not receive an explanation until they had loaded the vessel again and were prepared to launch.

         Marcus sat at a table with Ms. McGovern in the parlor, along with the rest of the passengers.  At the head of the room, the Captain stood with his porter and two men in the red-and-white uniforms of the Imperial Army with rifles on their shoulders.

         “Thank you everyone for your patience,” the Captain began, “and I apologize immensely for the delay in your travels.”

         He cleared his throat but before he could continue the speech he had obviously prepared, one of the men in uniform stepped forward in front of the Captain.

         “The Sargasso is under military guard,” he said, “due to tension between the Vespuchan Midland Federation and the Confederacy.  We will be with this vessel until Logan, your last stop before the Winnecon border.  Please do not be anxious.”

         The military officer was quickly interrupted by murmuring among the crowd.  After his third failed attempt at quieting the crowd, the Captain placed his hand on the officer's shoulder and motioned for him to step back.  Marcus noticed a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

         “Friends,” he shouted.  The passengers quieted almost immediately.  “There is no need for alarm.  The military presence is merely a precaution given the recent events between our neighbors.”

         Again there was grumbling, but folks seemed to understand.  One by one many of them returned to their rooms; some remained to ask questions; others stayed simply to finish their tea.  Leaning across the table, Marcus lightly touched Ms. McGovern's elbow.

         “What is this about tension,” he asked.

         She looked at him for a moment with something like dismay on her face.  Then the look faded, and she smiled broadly as if to plea for forgiveness.

         “The Confederacy is unhappy that the Midlands aid and encourage runaway slaves,” Ms. McGovern said.  “They believe it is stifling their economy, and that it is a deliberate attempt by the Federalists to force them into annexation.”

         “So they're threatening war over it?”

         Ms. McGovern nodded.  “They have been for weeks.  Only recently they began moving troops into some of the border states.  General Watson claims it is to aid in catching runaways and illegal migrants from the Federal states.”

         “Sounds like a lot of political air,” Marcus said.

         “It is.  President Barbas has said as much.  Federalist troops are on high alert.”

         Marcus smiled and nodded.  Ms. McGovern cocked her head to the side and smirked back.

         “You find something humorous, Mister Mattery?”

         “Merely enlightening,” he replied.

         “And what is that?  Pray tell.”

         “I am not accustomed to a woman so well-read and equally versed in politics.  It is pleasantly refreshing.”

         Marcus smiled.  In reality it was also mildly intimidating.  All his life, Marcus had interacted in one way with women: ask them how they were feeling (though with little intent of sincerity), comment on the weather in whatever capacity, and compliment their appearance.  Men were the ones to speak to about religion and politics and the world.  Again Marcus wondered – questioned, more accurately – his decision to come to this world so far removed and far progressed from the one he knew.

         “You are kind to say so, Marcus.”

         “My apologies,” he said.  “I did not mean to sound facetious.  I am most –”

         “I am being sincere,” Ms. McGovern said.

         “Oh.  Of course.”

         Marcus would forever remember the moment that followed: unlike the prearranged moments with women in his home village – his father's attempts to find a suitable wife for his remaining eligible son – Ms. McGovern took the initiative to show the first signs of genuine affection and interest.  She reached across the small table and took Marcus' hand in hers.  Shocked, mesmerized, by the feel of her gloved hand on his, Marcus stared at her hand for a moment before looking up at her.

         “You are very kind, indeed,” she said.

         It could have been mere seconds, or hours, or days, for all Marcus knew, before Ms. McGovern – Mina after that – let go.  They spoke for a spell longer, and then retired to their separate rooms.



         The ship Captain's caution was not entirely unfounded.  Only a day into the rolling hills of the Midland Federation, two smaller, streamlined aerostats took up position on either side of The Sargasso.  A fair amount of chatter followed, along with some bustling about of military men aboard the ship, before it was announced that they would be under escort until they reached Logan.  Marcus imagined the Captain would be overly displeased by the slow pace, but the security of a Federalist escort would certainly do well to ease the minds of the more nervous passengers.

         A knock on his door roused Marcus from the light nap he had been drifting in and out of.  He rose in the cramped space and looked at the door.  It was late afternoon – from the look of the sun's light outside – and well before the alarm he had requested of the first-class porter for the evening musical performance.

         “Yes?” he called.

         “Mister Mattery,” a woman's voice called quietly from the other side, “may I come in?”

         Marcus scrambled.  He looked around, expecting some prying eye to be watching from some discrete corner for his reaction.  There was no one, and his room seemed wholly unworthy of company, but he opened the door nonetheless to Mina standing in the empty hallway, wearing a traveling robe and a look in her eye.

         “Miss McGovern?”

         Without responding she slipped into his room and closed the door.

         “I don't understand,” Marcus began.  Mina stepped to Marcus and kissed him.  Marcus did not resist.

         Embracing her, Marcus let this forward, passionate, beautiful woman take over him.  She pushed away from him gently and then pulled the robe off her shoulders, letting it fall to a pool on the floor.  Underneath she wore only a light chemise.

         “Is this proper?”

         “Bollocks to proper, Marcus.  We might never see one another again.  You may stop me at any time if you so desire.”

         She stood and stared at him.  Marcus chuckled.

         “Will this not tarnish your good name?”

         “My dear Marcus, please do shut up and do a lady right.  Besides, I am leaving my home for a reason.”

         That grin – that wicked, playful lift of her lip on one side – enticed Marcus beyond anything else, and he gave in to the desire that had been in him since she had touched his hand, brief though it was and slight the gesture seemed to be.  Together the two made the use, as well as they could, of the small quarters.

    *          *          *

         Dearest Charles,

         Long have you been on my mind these long years and sorrowful I am that I could make no restitution for our father's misdeed to you.  I hope that I may do you some small service with my presence.

         The world at home was small and slow, to be certain, but that world here is altogether strange in a new way.  The Old Republics feel like home and yet within forty kilometers of their border there is forward progress as I would have never imagined.  Slowly – ever so slowly, Charles, because I am not so learned as others – I am making adjustments in my view of our world and its people.

         We have been delayed in Clarise, one of the Federal states, I am told, in a town called Danson.  Our delay is not quantified.  The Captain of The Sargasso has told us that there is danger in our traveling south into Boggsley – as our path was apparently charted – due to skirmishes between the Confederates and local militia.  Until they are resolved or quashed, we shall remain here or be forced to find other means of transport to Lake City.  I am sending this to inform you that I am both well and en route, though I will be some days behind schedule.  Please do not fret over me.

         There is another matter that I would welcome your thoughts on, as it is something out of my experience.  I ask you to have some advice for me when I arrive as to whether or no I have made an appropriate decision.

         Two nights previous (perhaps three), I quite spontaneously had intimate relations with a woman I met aboard the ship.  She is very learned and worldly and unlike any woman from home.  I do not imagine her to be a woman with loose morals, but I find it particularly out of sorts for her to have been so forward as to approach me in such a personal way.  Should I quell this affair?  Am I wrong in pursuing these feelings of affection I have for her by bringing her to bed unwed like one would a paid lady?  I am sincerely puzzled by this, but I continue upon the path, for she engages me both mentally and physically like no one ever has.

         I look ever forward to our reuniting, dear Charles.  With fondest greetings and well wishes,

         Your humble brother,

         Marcus

    *          *          *

         The town of Danson was predominantly non-descript.  It surrounded a large aerial field for Federalist dirigibles, its industry almost completely complementary to this military.  It did, however, offer an office for posting mail and ample entertainment.

         Marcus and Mina, for their part, whiled away their time at the dancing hall and the shared room at the inn.  After their first night together, Marcus had asked about Mina's actions – her impropriety as he was taught – and she had chuckled at him and said that she was a woman of her own means and could do as she pleased.  Marcus had a great affection for her after that.

         They sat together at a table in one of the more mediocre restaurants in the town, a plate of meat and potato mash in between them and two pints of ale.  Here, away from all the tradition and pomp of the Old World, Marcus was surprised that there were many such unwed couples who seemed entirely happy.

         They hadn't spoken about Lake City.  That would mean speaking on the future, on what their engagements meant, if indeed they meant anything.  Part of Marcus' hesitancy lay in the fact that he had never been so intimate with a woman before, and he questioned the affection he had for her, wondering at its realism, doubted its longevity.  Perhaps Mina, too, felt that Lake City was their terminus in multiple regards.  As she had said on their first night together, though, they might not ever see one another again.

         That was what Marcus was saddened by.

         “An airship squadron disembarked today,” Mina said.

         Marcus wasn't sure if he had missed some other part of the conversation.  He looked at her, but she was staring into the crowd, as though expecting it to reveal some truth.  He placed his hand on her knee under the table.  Mina looked over at him.

         “What does that portend,” Marcus asked.

         “Well,” Mina began with a look of sagacity, “the Federalists have been hesitant to do more than patrol the border with light dirigibles for fear of drawing too much attention.  A full squadron means they're preparing for something.”

         “Perhaps we should consider another means of heading west then,” Marcus said.  “The trains are still operating on a more or less regular schedule.”

         Mina nodded.  “If there is no progress in the morning,” she said, “we'll leave with the next train.”



         They were half a day out of Danson, heading northwest, on a freight train that had been outfitted with only two passenger cars at the rear, when the ground shook.  A general cry of panic erupted, and immediately the train began slowing down.  Marcus was on his feet and at the window.  Above them two small dirigibles were circling one another: one had the deep, ocean-blue of the Federalist Army; the other had two bands of red on each side of the gray airbag.

         “Why the hell are we stopping?”

         As if in response, a worker from the train dropped onto the ledge at the back of the car and rushed into the passageway.  Behind him another man entered the caboose.  A din of questions and demands – and perhaps even a few threats – rained down on the man, who threw up his hands, as though he expected to be attacked at any moment.

         “Quiet!”

         The crowd turned and looked at Mina.

         “Let the man speak,” she said.

         “Thank you,” the train worker said.  He looked at the crowd warily.  “We have stopped to unload cargo for a brigade of men to fight incoming airships.  They're a few hours' march from here.  It will lighten the load and get us to the Winnecon border faster.”

         “I'll help,” Marcus said.  “The sooner it's off, the better for everyone.”

         It hadn't been meant as a particularly chivalrous deed.  He had merely wished to speed along the process.  The crowd looked at him with a sort of ovine awe, though, as he followed the man out.  As he reached the door, Marcus looked back at Mina and winked.

         “Be back in two shakes,” he said.

         “Be careful, Marcus.”

         Marcus climbed down from the car and followed the man as he raced along the line of cars.  Four from the engine, in a car from 'grain,' men were already unloading crates of supplies.  Behind them, in the air above, Marcus heard the boom of cannon fire, like old war galleons on the sea.  He hauled boxes from the men in the car to a spot where a well-armed and heavily-armored automaton stood guard.

         The ground shook again.  Marcus nearly dropped the crate as he tripped.  When he steadied himself and looked back, there was a hole in the ground within a meter of the track.

         “They're trying to bomb the track,” he shouted.  One of the workers was next to him.  He looked at Marcus, who pointed to the crater.

         “Horse shit!”

         Marcus dropped the box with the others.  Behind him the workers were climbing into the car.  One man ran forward to the engine.

         “Either get in or go back to the caboose,” one of them shouted.

         Another tremor rocked the ground.  Marcus looked back at the aerostats and saw the track buckle slightly.  The train, itself, lifted ever-so-slightly with the wave that followed the massive explosion.  Marcus bolted for the rear of the train.  The workers didn't care if he changed his mind; they shut the car door.

         As he ran along the track, the train began moving.  It was slow at first, but it was quick to gain speed, being one of the newest models.  Mina was already on the back of the passenger car.  Marcus reached it, but when he went from the handle, it slipped out of his hand.  He stumbled and caught himself before he tripped and fell to the ground.  He paused for only a moment for the train to pass before jumping hard onto the back of the caboose.  His foot slipped in his haste, and he came down on the steel ledge with the full force of his knee.  He groaned and struggled to keep hold on the railing as the train picked up speed.

         Then he felt his body being dragged by someone who had grabbed the shoulders of his sweat-soaked coat.  He allowed himself to be helped to his feet, and then looked at his savior.  Miss Wilhelmina McGovern grinned back at him either out of self satisfaction or pleasure at seeing him safe – perhaps a little of both.

         “Back safe,” Marcus said.

         “Safe enough,” she replied.

         There was another tremor, and the sound reached them just as they looked back to see a section of the train track go up in shards of metal and clumps of dirt.  Marcus grabbed Mina and held onto the railing as the train shuddered under their feet but continued on at full speed.  He thanked his stars that they were headed toward neutral territory.