Steampunk World

Mary Sundown and the Clockmaker’s Children Malon Edwards

I reach thirty-five miles an hour the moment I see the pinprick of light leading to the surface. My stride is smooth; my clockwork is fluid.

And then, I stumble. Another explosion has rattled the north passage of the LaSalle Street Tunnel.

It takes me just a fraction of a second to recover my balance and regain my speed, despite the incline and the sifted dirt and flakes of concrete shaken loose. It’s a treacherous floor. The Chicago River has found its way in, too. One misstep, and I won’t ever run again.

As the tunnel mouth looms large, I accelerate piti a piti—little by little. I hit forty-five miles an hour when I burst into the daylight and my feet touch the cobblestones on Kinzie Street.

I’m out! I almost shout to Marie-Louise through the aetherlink we once shared, but then I remember: she’s dead. Broken. Crushed by Zonbi Robot.

The very same Zonbi Robot leveling its Dahlgren guns at me now.

Lè Marie-Louise te eseye fè m fache—.

Ah. Excuse me. I apologize. Allow me to say that again.

When Marie-Louise tried to piss me off, which was often, she would say I killed papa nou—our father, the Clockmaker—because he built me last and I was the most difficult of his children to assemble.

Sometimes, when she said that, I would remind Marie-Louise papa nou crippled his once strong brown hands and blinded his once sharp brown eyes fashioning the fine springs and small gears he gave my three hundred ninety-nine brothers and sisters. Long before he built me.

Other times, I would answer Marie-Louise by showing her how long and shiny my middle finger is.

Like I show Zonbi Robot now. It doesn’t seem too happy about that. But then, neither was Marie-Louise.

It takes less than half a second for me to realize I’m not the target of Zonbi Robot’s Dahlgren shell guns. It’s aiming behind me, at the rebuilt Chicago Board of Trade Building.

Maybe Zonbi Robot thinks that’s where the Lord Mayor Jean Baptiste Point du Sable is hiding. Maybe it perceives the building as a symbol of our city-state wealth. Or maybe it just gets off on wanton destruction. I wouldn’t be surprised. Papa mwen, my father, built me to get off on speed.

But no matter what the building means to Zonbi Robot, I have sworn to protect the Lord Mayor. Until I am broken. Until this war ends. Or until I wind down.

I promised papa mwen.

Kounye a, I am all that stands between the jealous might of the State of Illinois and a living, breathing, functioning Sovereign State of Chicago. If the Lord Mayor dies, so does everything he’s given us. Freedom. Prosperity. Kreyòl.

So I do what I do best to ensure he does not die. I challenge Zonbi Robot to a race.

Marie-Louise first called it Zonbi Robot. The Illinois National Guard calls it Big Boy. Fè sans. Makes sense.

One hundred feet tall, it’s a massive coal-fired boiler with a Bonnet stack for a head, two soda-pop-shaped IX-inch Dahlgren shell guns for arms, and two 4-8-8-4 Union Pacific Big Boy steam locomotives for legs.

Every fifth step Zonbi Robot takes, black smoke belches out of a smaller diamond stack set in the middle of its back. I can only imagine the amount of coal and steam power it needs to ambulate.

As Zonbi Robot stomps with toddler fury around River North and Old Town and the Gold Coast, wispy, thin smoke wafts up from the deep, jagged footprints it leaves behind. When the rains come, those footprints will become miniature ribbon lakes matching the Great Lake to the east.

Zonbi Robot might be big and strong, and it might be able to stomp more than just mud holes in the earth, but I’m faster. Even faster than Marie-Louise was.

That used to be all that mattered to me. But now, I realize: ou pa ka mare pye lanmò.

You can’t outrun death.

But you can give her a hell of a race.

Bonjou, Zonbi Robot! I shout, throwing back my head and craning my neck to the sky. Do you want to race?

Zonbi Robot doesn’t answer. I’m not surprised. It’s not as sophisticated as I am.

Sa pa fè anyen. It doesn’t matter. It’s also not as fast as I am. Watch. I’ll show you.

Tankou moun fou, like a crazy person, I run right at Zonbi Robot. In six strides, I hit fifty-five miles an hour. In ten strides, I hit seventy-five miles an hour.

I am swift. I am deft. I am fleet. I've never run this fast before from a standing start.

I just hope I don’t wind down before I reach Lake Michigan.

I could never just leave it at the middle finger. Marie-Louise always pissed me off. She knew how to get my gears.

It was how papa nou made us. He built us in pairs. We always ran together.

Marie-Louise was my counterpart. She was my competition. She was my rival. Even when we delivered messages and packages west of the Mississippi River.

That had been our original purpose. We'd been built to bring word and comfort to the few remaining people between the Mississippi River and the West Coast after the bombs dropped.

It is a noble task, papa nou had told us, as he wound Marie-Louise and me for departure. He’d made sure each and every child of his was aware of the gravity.

Before each run, he made us recite:

We are the Clockmaker’s Children.

We deliver throughout the scorched land.

We are swift. We are fleet. We are cunning.

Our days are nights, and our nights are endless.

Yet, we run fast and nimble, guided by the faint, daemon-light of the glowing ashes.

We are the dawn on the horizon.

We are the hope of despair.

Four hundred strong, we are brothers and sisters of the gear.

But now, we are one.

It’s quite easy to avoid the slow-motion stomps of Zonbi Robot. I also have no trouble navigating the craters it leaves behind. I long jump those with quick-smart grace.

But each stride, as I now move at eighty miles an hour, could be my last.

The two wind-up keys in my shoulder blades, and the two keys in my hips, spin like mad. But my clockwork is still fluid.

For now.

One of the reasons papa nou built us in pairs was to ensure we had a partner who wound us before we ran down. He also made certain to assign us destinations not too far from one another.

If I delivered to San Diego, Marie-Louise delivered to Los Angeles. We would meet in Oceanside to wind each other before the run home.

I would always need far more time to wind Marie-Louise than she would need to wind me. It may have been wretched of me, but I couldn’t resist teasing her about it.

Fè vit! I would yell into the aetherlink wired inside my mouth and left cheek when I saw Marie-Louise approaching in the distance. Hurry up!

Fèmen dyòl ou! she would yell back at me. Shut up!

Once Marie-Louise made it to my side, I would tell her: I've reached the rendezvous point before you because I am younger. Because I was built long after you.

Non, Marie-Louise would respond, se pa vre. You know that’s not true, at all. Papa nou always sends me on the most difficult route because I am stronger. That’s why I take longer.

She was right, of course. But I refused to admit it.

Then, let’s race, I would say to her, as she wound me.

Se dakò, she would answer. Fine. But not here. Wait until—

But I never waited. I was off, ak tout vitès—like a shot—before Marie-Louise could finish her sentence.

The survivors out West would always laugh at that. You are both graceful, they would tell us. You both run like the wind on a fierce day of endless storms. You are greyhounds.

Non, Marie-Louise would tell them. We are dogs, sent to fetch.

Zonbi Robot is frustrated. The stack in the middle of its back now belches with every stomp. It has laid waste to much of the Near North Side.

The smoke drifting up from the new landscape it has wrought curls about its legs, clinging, wanting to tag along. It’s darker. More acrid. Within some of the craters Zonbi Robot has stomped, I can see the soft glimmer of fire.

If Zonbi Robot continues on like this, all of Chicago will be ablaze in no time. And I’m only halfway to Lake Michigan.

The survivors out West used to call me Mary Sundown. They used to call my slower half, my twin, my sister, Mary Midnight.

Damn Westerners! Marie-Louise had said about that. Always changing things! I’m certain behind our backs they call us dogs!

I’d been surprised by her bitterness. I didn’t know where it had come from. I'd thought greyhounds were regal dogs. Beautiful. Graceful. Very much like Marie-Louise and me.

It was obvious to me that when papa nou built us—and all of his children—he'd had that particular breed of dog in mind.

Just look at me. My build is lanky and slim, like theirs had been. My legs are long and powerful, like theirs had been. And my spine and hips, though copper-laced, are flexible, like theirs had been.

Vrèman vre—truth be told—I'd thought it was a compliment to be compared to a greyhound. But for Marie-Louise, it was an insult.

Now that I think about it, Marie-Louise’s bitterness could have stemmed from the reasoning behind the nicknames the survivors had given us.

They called me Mary Sundown because I always arrived on time, the moment the sun dipped down below the horizon. And they called Marie-Louise Mary Midnight because she always arrived at the rendezvous point in the dark of night. Well after me.

Every single time.

I suppose I would be bitter, too, if I always lost to my twin sister.

Speaking of bitter, Zonbi Robot seems a bit rancorous about losing this fight with me right now.

Its frustration turns to anger, and it’s not long before it has its Dahlgren guns going full on. The explosions are much louder above ground.

And much more violent.

I falter and stagger every time Zonbi Robot’s missed shot slams into a structure—sometimes, a burgeoning skyscraper, sometimes, a house. Concrete and wood and steel go flying, end over end. I have to reduce my speed down to twenty-five miles an hour.

I’m not happy about that.

And then, the lethargy sets in.

The herky-jerky movement. It’s as if I’m running with a bear on my back.

Fout.

Before papa mwen died, desan rekòt kafe pase—two hundred coffee harvests ago—he told us how the land came back after the bombs dropped.

Each night, he would wind all four hundred of his children before bed, deep down in the tunnels under the city. His gnarled hands pained him much, but he would still smile as he recounted how Bèl Flè—his beautiful flower—gave birth to Chicago again.

Bèl Flè had been a sickly child, he would begin, wincing as he reached up to wind the keys in each of our left shoulder blades. One by one, we stood in a line, and one by one, he wound us.

Polio had ravaged her organs, he would continue. Manman li, her mother, took Bèl Flè to a steam surgeon, which was quite fortunate. This particular steam surgeon happened to know metallurgy and glasswork.

Here, papa mwen would pause, and try to massage the arthritic pain from his left hand with his right one. My brothers and sisters and I would stand silent in the dim underground hangar, waiting for his next words, with patient obedience. We knew the story. And yet, we enjoyed it. Bèl Flè had birthed us, as well.

Manman li, papa mwen would continue, begged the steam surgeon to fix ti pitit li, her little one. And, oh, did he fix her.

The steam surgeon put Bèl Flè into a deep sleep, and then removed all her dying organs. But don’t fret, pitit cheri mwen yo. Gone was her sickness.

Again, papa mwen would stop to rub his left hand. If he’d had a good day, he would be more than halfway finished winding our left shoulder blade keys. But if his body was feeling its age, he would have shuffled through only a quarter of us.

But always, he pressed on. We had packages and messages to deliver to survivors in the morning.

Unbeknownst to Bèl Flè ak manman li, papa mwen went on, the steam surgeon had, days before, built a steam clock heart. He’d been saddened by the children whose hearts had weakened from the polio epidemic sweeping Chicago.

By this time, papa mwen would have finished winding our left shoulder blade keys and moved on to the right ones. And still we stood, listening.

Oh, pitit cheri mwen yo, my dear little children, the steam surgeon placed that steam clock heart into Bèl Flè with the utmost care. Tapping our chests with a crooked finger, papa mwen would then smile and say, It was very much like the one you have now.

But that wasn’t all he gave Bèl Flè, papa mwen would say, his eyes sparkling with delight as he told his tale. To ensure cheri mwen and her steam clock heart worked, he also gave Bèl Flè a compost boiler, fed by the highest quality coal dust. And to protect it all, he bound her entire torso with unbreakable glass.

Papa mwen would pause again to rub his right hand with his left, but he shuffled faster. The best part of the story was coming soon.

It’s unmistakable now. My gears, my cogwheels, are slowing. I’m winding down. I can run no more than a few steps.

But this is good. I've reached the shores of Lake Michigan.

Zonbi Robot lumbers after me. Its Dahlgren shell guns are spent. Chicago burns behind it.

The city is lost. But Jean Baptiste Point du Sable will be safe. I have kept my promise.

A few more stomps, and Zonbi Robot shall blunder neatly into my trap.

That steam surgeon was a very clever man, papa mwen continued, as he wound the keys in our left hips. Every three weeks, Bèl Flè’s compost boiler would produce the most pristine, rich and loamy soil this green Earth has ever seen.

But even cleverer than him was Bèl Flè mwen. My beautiful flower.

Papa mwen would smile with pride as he told this part.

For days on end, Bèl Flè mwen spread that purified soil from her chest upon the scorched lands and glowing ash, never tiring. Day after day, she did this. And when those long days turned to years, she still did not tire.

Not even when the green grass grew and the plants and trees sprouted. Or when the storm clouds gathered, and the rain fell from the sky, and the fish swam again in Lake Michigan.

Non, petit cheri mwen yo, papa mwen would murmur, exhaustion deep down in his voice, unlike me, Bèl Flè never tired. And how blessed we are now because of her endurance.

I hadn’t planned on losing to Zonbi Robot.

I hadn’t planned on getting stomped by it, either.

I suppose those two things are one in the same now.

But I did plan on Zonbi Robot, in its haste to stomp me flat, stepping into the muck and morass just off the shores of Lake Michigan.

And I planned well.

One leg stuck fast, Zonbi Robot tries to free itself. Its stack belches furiously . It struggles harder.

And then, like a toddler true, it topples over. Into the swampy lake mire. Boiler extinguished. Thick, black smoke rising. Body still.

Never to stand again.

Oh, how Bèl Flè loved her dear Chicago! papa mwen would go on to say, now winding the keys in our right hips. Not only did Bèl Flè mwen seed her city and nurture her city and grow her city healthy again, he continued, but Bèl Flè mwen gave her city beauty, as well. On the inside. Where it counts.

Papa mwen would tap our chests again with his crooked finger, and then wind us some more.

Bèl Flè mwen placed copper and uranium, and gold and diamonds—and every other precious metal she could think of—far beneath Chicago’s surface. She wanted pitit cheri li—her dear child—to thrive. To live long. To excel.

And the State of Illinois was jealous of her for that.

Here, papa mwen would lose his smile, and his voice would change as he played the role of the State of Illinois.

The bombs scorched our lands, too! he would whine, thin and reedy. We want to be beautiful, too! he would beg, like the childish, no-good brat the State of Illinois had become.

So, papa mwen would continue in his normal, but frail voice, Bèl Flè sent frè mwen—my brother—Jean Baptiste Point du Sable, to the governor in Springfield bearing gifts. She sent him with copper and coal and uranium and steel. She even sent him with that rich, loamy pristine soil.

But the State of Illinois was not satisfied. This is not enough! they told frè mwen. Give us more! Give us the diamonds! Give us the gold!

One last time, papa mwen would massage his right hand and gather his remaining strength as he wound the last of us.

But frè mwen refused, papa mwen continued. He was steadfast. He was Lord Mayor. You have what you need, Jean Baptiste told them. You have more than enough to succeed and become a strong state again. But that was not what the State of Illinois wanted to hear.

But at long last, papa mwen collapsed into his huge, leather wingback chair, and he finished his story.

So the State waged war against Bèl Flè’s child, Chicago, he would whisper, sleep coming on him. They built huge, horrible robots and huge, horrible bombs with those precious metals Bèl Flè gave them.

Frè mwen, Jean Baptiste, seceded Chicago from the State and declared it sovereign. But, by then, it was an empty gesture.

Here, we would lean forward as one to catch Papa’s last few words.

Many people died. Much of what Bèl Flè mwen nurtured was lost. Including our love.

But not her love for frè mwen. She loved his strength. She loved his tenacity. She loved his leadership.

She loved him more than me.

And then, papa mwen would snore until dawn.

I can see what little of Zonbi Robot the lake cannot swallow. My head is twisted at an odd angle. I am crushed and broken, like Marie-Louise.

And still, I lie here, yet.

Perhaps, the Lord Mayor will find me. Perhaps he will wind me. Perhaps, he will tell me stories of Bèl Flè ak papa mwen.

He must. Bèl Flè has gone out West. I am all he has now.

One of my first visual memories is of Marie-Louise. She is the first one I saw when I opened my eyes.

She had been so excited when papa nou was building me. She begged him to be present when he finished me.

She was beautiful. I remember the shape of her head. It was sleek. It was sexy. It was aerodynamic.

(Unlike mine now.)

She was a shade of copper that shone like gold when papa nou polished her.

(Unlike me now.)

She was so vibrant. So full of life. Her windup keys whirred with so much energy.

(Unlike mine now.)

Oh, those first few days! We were fast. No one could beat us. Not even the wind down.

Or so we thought.

How naïve we were. We didn’t know. How could we know?

Ou pa ka mare pye lanmò.

You can’t outrun death.