Diana Pho - Steampunk World

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.