Diana Pho - Steampunk World

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.