Steam Ch. 02

He caught her without looking, turning his body only slightly to interrupt her fall. She mumbled a quick thank you and pushed off his arm to stand back up. He pointed at her foot.

"Can you walk?" He asked. His concern was off putting. She nodded, caught something strange hiding in the cloudy grey of his eyes, and they kept walking. Sylvia held up the pace with her limping, but if Foucault noticed, he didn't let say.

Groups of soldiers were singing songs beside the massive central fire now, the cadence of their words far too fast for Sylvia to translate in her mind. The few words she recognized were awfully dirty slurs though, something about loose barmaids in oceanfront bars.

A ring of soldiers, male and female, cheered on two naked women as they wrestled on the bare stone ground. One of the women, a blonde, managed to get the other in an arm lock, and she tapped out. The blonde stood and crowed at the sky, her voice joined by the others as they cheered. A friendly hand helped the loser to her feet, slapping her jovially on the back as she redressed. Two male soldiers took to the ring and began stripping. Savages. Sylvia looked away, focusing instead on the ground in front of her.

They came to a large tent set in the waning dark beyond the fires. Candles glowed inside, casting their light in long strings through the gaps in the red felt walls. The soldier in front of the tent beat his chest once and pulled aside the flap over the entrance. Foucault returned the gesture and went inside, waving for Sylvia to follow.

The candles weren't candles at all, but rather the glow of the pyromagus that had drawn their baths flickering as she boiled a stinking pot of lead. A different geomagus than the one who had led the party through the frozen wastes sat opposite the pot, his eyes white with magic. He pulled drops of lead from the boiling slurry without touching them, spinning them cool and long in the air in front of him and setting down the finished slugs on bit of wood beside him. Foucault picked one of the cooled slugs from the stack of hundreds and turned it over in his fingers.

"Good weight, smooth," he said, nodding. "You are master of your craft, Colt." The man relaxed his concentration, letting the milky white fire of spell craft slip from his eyes. He smiled and nodded at Foucault. Colt was obviously a westerner, his jet-black hair sticking out messy tufts in all directions.

The girl opposite him, the pyromagus, had the blonde hair and blue eyes of a northerner. Sylvia had heard the northern territories had grown disgruntled with the Imperium, but she would never have suspected them to be traitors. Sylvia bit her lip, thinking of the warm red cloak that encircled her shoulders even now.

"You honor is our honor, sir," the girl said in heavily accented Caanish.

"May it be kept well, magus," Foucault said. "It is good to see you and Colt working so well together Galena." He slapped the boy on the back in comradely fashion. "Are you well kept yourselves?" Galena shrugged.

"Our needs are seen to," she replied, "but we are nearly out of potassium nitrate for the gunpowder." Foucault grunted with a nod.

"Very well," he said, "I'll ask the other geomagi to comb these hills. The caves in the valley are sure to have what you need."

"Thank you sir," Galena added with a bow.

Foucault nodded and Sylvia followed him deeper into the tent. She stole a glance back and saw Colt smiling broadly at Galena. His fingers contorted into strange shapes and a large wad of lead floated up out of the boiling pot. It formed into a crude heart and he winked at Galena. She grinned back at him and traced the heart with her finger from a distance, wreathing it in flame. Still burning, the heart sunk back into the boiling black.

"They no longer have magi in the Imperium, do they?" Foucault asked without turning as the skirted around various piles of wreckage that had obviously been dragged from the ruins of the Lady Turandot. Fire blackened copper trim, twisted axles and pockmarked sheets of roofing steel littered the inside of the tent. Looking around, Sylvia realized that it was much larger on the inside than it seemed when they entered.

"No sir," she replied, her eyes moving in horrified wonderment over the wreckage of her train. A piece of the engine compartment hull, still gleaming despite its condition, reflected their figures as they passed it. A nameplate, reading: ENGINE 108, broke her heart as she read it. In her mind, she could still feel the engraved letters beneath her fingers. The sun warmed metal of the engine smelling softly of ground metal and oil being heated beneath the cold autumn sun. She sighed.

"Elemental magi aren't necessary in the Imperium," she continued, aching to reach out and touch the hull one more time. "Many of their skills have been made obsolete by technology, so it's better to teach magic affine children sigil mastery in school."

"A pragmatic approach to the problem, I suppose," Foucault said, winding his way through the makeshift scrapyard. It was surprisingly warm inside the massive tent, and Sylvia found it strange that there were now large drifts of sand on the ground. Salt sea air drifted on an unseen breeze, winning over the stink of the smelting pot as it fell further behind them. "But there is no space for complex machinery in the old hills, on the deserts and in the swamps of the Verdant Waste. The Imperium garrison is going to have a tough time replenishing itself."

Foucault had begun talking to himself as much as her.

"Hello, Colonel," said a tall, skinny old woman ahead of them. She was poised gracefully atop a backless, cushioned stool, her legs crossed knee-over-knee. The red and blue floral print of her dress hung to just above her ankles, and was banded around her waist by a wide belt of intricately woven leather cords. A fat, weather beaten book rested on her palm, held open by its own weight and age. Grey hair, like combed spider silk, rested in a droopy bun at the back of her head.

"Lady Hypatia," Foucault replied, pressing his fist to his chest quietly. "It has been far too long."

"Agreed," she said matter-of-factly, pinching the book closed with a snap. "How have the mountains been treating you?"

"Poorly," he said, "but our will is indomitable." He stepped back and softly pushed Sylvia forward by the small of her back. Chills ran up Sylvia's spine as the woman shifted her gaze onto her. Hypatia's eyes were the same eastern silver as her own. They were cold, analytical. Sylvia could feel the woman summing her up.

"And this pretty young thing Foucault?" Hypatia asked. "Have you taken a war bride? Shall I inform your father?" She grinned.

"No, ma'am," he replied. "This is one of our new sisters, reborn by the favor of Caan. Formerly she was a Steam Trainer, Sylvia Messerschmitt of the Compton Electrical and Locomotive company."

"You've already broken her, it seems," Hypatia said, pointing to Sylvia's injured foot. Sylvia lifted it and saw sand sticking to a patch of blood around where the rock had cut her. Hypatia waved her over. "Come here child, let me have a look at you." The woman stood and set Sylvia down on her stool. The awkward position made it difficult to keep the cloak from falling open. Hypatia sensed her nervousness and kneeled in front of her.

"There is no need to be upset girl," she said, grabbing Sylvia's calf and bringing the wounded foot up for inspection. "Nor is there any need to maintain the demureness of your past disposition, you walk with Caan now." Hypatia pulled Sylvia's leg further up. The cloak fell to the side, revealing the well-toned skin of her thigh, and the slightest curve of her buttock. Hypatia drew a triangle in the bloody sand and pressed her palm to Sylvia's foot.

Tingling numbness washed down her leg like hot water, pleasantly burning down and down and down until it filled her stomach, her chest and her whole body. She sighed and fell slowly back, her arms relaxing and falling to the side, taking her cloak along with them. Her back came to rest on Foucault's massive palm as he knelt down to support her. Warm salt sea air drifted in on the breeze. Her nipples hardened as it passed over her breasts.

Foucault didn't steal a glance upward at her body, he just looked silently down into her eyes. For a moment, she wanted to reach up and touch his face, to feel the scrabbly salt and pepper hair on his cheeks and chin scratching at her palm. His skin was bronzed and rough from years of warring beneath the sun. Tall, broad and silent, as though he had been cast in bronze like some ancient, pagan god and brought to life. He had ordered the deaths of hundreds of her associates.

Sylvia shuddered as the healing trance ended. She sat straight up and pulled the cloak back around her, curling up inside of it. Hypatia helped her to her feet. Her smile was a bizarre mix of affectionate matron and toothy card shark. Sylvia noticed her foot was completely healed.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Think nothing of it," Hypatia said, waving a hand dismissively and turning to a stack of drawers hidden beneath a flowing pink silk curtain. "You will come, in time, to know the generosity of Caan." She pulled an assortment of basic leather clothing from one of the dresser drawers and handed them to Sylvia. "Our people have no possessions, no creed and no need for selfishness or shyness. These are mine, and therefore, yours. They should be enough to keep you warm for the journey down the mountain." Hypatia rummaged through another drawer and pulled free a set of basic cotton undergarments. Sylvia was surprised to find that most all the articles fit, save the bra, which was about a size too small.

She dressed quickly, with her back to Foucault. Hypatia watched her put the clothes on and dropped a pair of tall, fur-lined boots in front of her. Each layer of clothing felt better that the last as she pulled them on. She even found herself smiling a bit as the clothing warmed over her skin.

"Thank you, ma'am," she said to Hypatia. The old woman smiled and waved. "Think nothing of it, but be warned," she added. "All of Caan's children must find their purpose, work that can be done for our consummate glory." Hypatia looked past Sylvia to Foucault. Sylvia swore she could hear the rhythmic crash of waves on the beach somewhere outside the tent. "I assume that you have adopted this wayward daughter, colonel? Have you thought of some purpose for her?"

"Yes, Lady Hypatia," he replied, stepping forward and laying a heavy hand on Sylvia's shoulder. "I would have her as my interpreter. I will need someone who competently speaks both our language and... theirs...when we have descended into the highlands. It is her choice, of course."

"Hmm, yes," Hypatia said, stepping forward and laying a cool hand on Sylvia's forehead. Momentarily, her mind filled with thoughts of moths flying dangerously close to a wax candle. Buzzing. Sulfur. Hypatia removed her hand. "But there are other options for this one. She has quite the capacity for powerful sigil work, perhaps in the defense corps?" Hypatia scoffed and directed her eyes to Sylvia's. "Or you could forgo noble endeavors and just be a cook or some other banal thing. Perhaps latrine duty?"

"I...," Sylvia started. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Obviously," Hypatia said, shooing her away from the stool so that she could get back to reading her book. "But our dear colonel here will be more than willing to help you earn your name, correct?"

"Yes, Lady Hypatia," said Foucault.

"See?" She said rather than asked. "Now find your way out of here, I have a bit of reading to get back to." Foucault nodded and directed Sylvia back toward the path through the scrapyard. They walked silently for a while, until Foucault spoke up.

"I know this is probably all a bit overwhelming for you," he said.

"You are very observant, sir," Sylvia retorted politely. The new clothes were having a positive effect on her confidence. Foucault let out a rare chuckle.

"How you choose to serve Caan is a very important decision," he continued, "and I would very much like for you to find your purpose as my interpreter." Sylvia rubbed her arm nervously. This was all entirely too much.

"You had my people executed like dogs," she said, trying to let her newfound confidence into her voice.

"I did," he replied, bluntly. "There were no other options. Corralling, treating and moving several hundred prisoners in this terrain would have been impossible, and leaving them to freeze to death on a mountain top would have been barbaric. In different situations, situations you will witness in time, you will see that all of our enemies are offered the choice we gave you." She stopped, and he turned to her.

"But why did you attack us in the first place?" She asked. "The Turandot was on a resupply mission to the colonies on the other side of the Pass. We were no threat to anybody." She sniffed, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Even the soldiers were just there to protect us from bandits." Foucault shook his head and continued walking. Galena and Colt had taken their pot and left some time ago.

"There is much you do not understand about your mission," he said, "and I doubt you would know the truth in my words if I told you now. Regardless of what you believe about the Imperium's mission in the west, they were never going to resupply any colonists."

"You can't know that," she said.

"I can," he replied, "there have not been Imperium colonies west of the mountains for decades." They were outside the tent now. The scent of the coast had been replaced by the smell of fire and flame cooked meat. Foucault turned to her. His eyes were cold, but again, she could see something in them. Something just beneath the surface.

"I know this because I was born in one, before the Imperium abandoned its citizens and retreated to the east," he said. He put his hand on her shoulder. Warm. Heavy. She didn't know whether to throw it off or run her cheek along the ridge of his knuckle. "I also know that if four people lived that boarded that train, then that was four more than the Imperium believed would survive the journey." He pulled his hand back.

"The decision is yours," he said, "but I would have you if I could. Eat lunch, think on it, and prepare to march." He turned to look down the mountain, toward the east. A rogue wind caught hold of his cloak and it fluttered out behind him. "You can give me your answer on the road."

With that, he was off, striding away toward the shuffling mass of soldiers. Sylvia watched him until he disappeared into the mass of red uniforms. She bit her lip and ran a hand through her hair, noticing it had finally dried. Another older looing soldier passed by her, leading one of the prisoners, a blond boy, past her and into the tent. Their eyes met briefly as he passed. With her new clothes, he couldn't recognize her. She wasn't sure that, if she saw herself right then, that she'd know who she was looking at either.

Sylvia looked to the sun, cresting the ruined columns of the dead castle, took a breath, and began walking east.

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Authors Note

Thanks for reading Steam chapter two! I hope you enjoyed it.

Look forward to the next exiting chapter in February!