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What happens when you mix steampunk with ancient mythologies? That’s what I want to know.
I realize, though I haven’t checked into it, that this has likely been posited at some point by someone somewhere. But for me it was an original thought. I once worked at Borders Bookstore (no longer exists), and I brought home a tome about ancient mythologies one evening. The massive book covered six familiar ancient civilizations’ mythologies and legends: Roman/Greek, Japan/China, Egypt, India, Norse and Celtic. Staring at it while waiting for the commercial on TV to mercifully end, it occurred to me that I might could combine such dissimilar concepts as that of ancient myths and steampunk for something new and fresh. That was in 2014. So much for fresh.
At first, I thought that they would just be stand alone short stories. Over time, though, I wondered, “What if I made it into an anthology that had an overarching storyline?” So, each of the short stories has bookends: Prolog and epilog set in the time of the Tower of Babel before everyone started, well, babbling. A Babel-onian professor has assigned his seven students the task of gathering the stories of their ancestors that stemmed from before the Great Flood of Noe (the antediluvian period). The time before the Great Flood was a time of great scientific advances that resulted in various steampunk cultures that was of course lost. I then assigned each book an ancient civilization and a steampunk sub-genre. For example, India has been assigned Victorian gaslamp steampunk; Egypt dieselpunk; Greece stitchpunk; Celtic clockwork; China nautilus; and Norse raygun. Then I had to figure out the overarching story arc: that of what led to the Great Flood. In 2017, I decided to earn a certificate of creative writing, and so I used this opportunity to try out different voices and basic concepts with my class assignments. Some of this will have been a reworking of what I started in 2014, and other were fresh writings for classes, and others will be new works altogether. This is where we will start: Exodriumpostdiluvian![]()
The breeze swept past him and riffled through the papers on his desk. Mebhin Neriad Ruebean didn't turn from his contemplation, however. He studied the monstrosity that rose from the very center of the city and poked at the azure firmament above. It grew noticeably with each passing day since the ruling council had voted to erect it, cleared the old buildings in the oldest part of the city, and hired the architects to design it. Eight he counted. Eight stories thus far. In their fervor, the council had even managed to obtain the public's support with promises that they, the public, too, could be gods if only they could reach the realm of the gods. And with this building, they promised, all could attain this status. With this “spire to the gods” they would never be crushed by flood waters again. They had plans for many more levels.
“Folly!” The old scholar spat as he turned from the window. “It isn’t a place to come to physically. Fools! To reach God, we must correct the errors of our hearts.” The breeze had freed a few of the pages on his desk, but his paper weight had otherwise done its job. He bent to retrieve the errant pages and noticed the titled page: Gangiah by Adriotus Orn Athil. “I suppose this is as good a place to start as any.” He gathered the remainder of his student's essay and sat upon the tattered chair he'd had since the time he'd first risen above the status “adroitus” himself and earned his own private quarters. Now, as one of the only two second-level mebhins, he had an entire floor to himself in the Learned Tower. His floor rested below that of Mebhin Pedar Hatzis. It didn't bother him, really, that Mebhin Hatzis outranked him as a second-level mebhin; at least his seventh level floor rested above the noise and smell pollutions of the city below. It afforded him the necessary environment in which to analyze and correct his students research papers. Neriad scooched and shrugged and shifted until he settled into his favorite position: his back tucked into the corner created by the back and wing of the chair and his legs outstretched and resting upon his padded footstool. He took his spectacles from the marble table beside his chair but left the oil lamp unlit. The sunlight filtering in through his window afforded him the necessary illumination to read the first of his students’ assignments. Months ago, Neriad had assigned his students the task of gathering stories from before. Before their time, before their grandfathers’ times, before their great-great-great grandfathers’ times. Before the great watery cataclysm. It was his desire to commit to writing the oral traditions of the peoples of the earth. He’d had a growing alarm sounding in the deepest part of his soul for months. It grew as the spire to the gods grew: daily. Something ominous loomed, he feared. He just hoped there was enough time for his six students, the adroitus, to finish the task he’d set them. Thus far, no one in academia had taken on the task of collecting their shared history. Why would they? It was shared. Everyone knew it. But did they? Did they truly know their history? Neriad wondered if much hadn’t actually been forgotten in the centuries since their ancestors had resettled the newly revealed earth and the lessons learned with them. Gangiahantediluvian![]()
Gangiah considered the view out the window of her vimana. The window tint lightened as they descended through the atmosphere. A smile spread across her face even as she clutched the armrests of the co-pilot seat. The atmosphere, as viewed from the planet Terratoran glowed golden compared to the cold blackness of space. She watched the approaching Temple. The dome was already peeled back as many of the delegates had arrived ahead of her. She settled back in her seat and began removing the safety harness before the vimana, her personal space vessel, had settled on the docking bay floor. She stood as the pilot communicated with the bay traffic controllers. Laying a hand on his shoulder, she said, “Thank you, Sanjeev. You have done well, as usual.”
“It is my pleasure to serve, your highness.” She moved to the back of the vimana and waited for her maidservant to remove the travel mask from her face and replace it with her gold filigree mask. It was popular for those of her caste to wear masks that covered the entire face, save for the eyes. In this way, no one could read what the rulers were thinking. Gangiah didn’t care for the political maneuvering and kept with the more open design. She wouldn’t put it past the politicians to start wearing masks that covered the eyes too. She snorted at the insane thought. When the servant had straightened the skirts over her bustle and double-checked that each sausage-curl on her head was indeed secured in place, Gangiah pressed the hatch release, then folded her hands before her and waited. The door rolled into the wall and steps deployed a breath later, leading from the small vimana bay to the tiled floor of the Temple’s docking bay. She stepped out onto the top step, glanced around, then sneezed. The dust of the planet surface always made her sneeze. The bay smelled acrid and oily at the same time. A shot of sound hissed from behind her polished vimana, as the urja, the energy mankind used to power technology, escaped through the pressure valves. Not a single attendant had arrived to aid her in her descent. The silver mechanical bird on her shoulder warbled and she glanced at it. The noon hour. Gangiah sighed, frowned, gathered her skirt in her hands, and descended alone. As she reached the bottom, though, a man did stride toward her. He wore buff breeches tucked into his polished black boots and he buttoned his jacket formally over his waistcoat. A lace cravat flowed from beneath his neck to disappear beneath the top of his waistcoat. “Ah, King Baghera. I had not expected to be greeted formally. In fact, I had thought, hoped, perhaps, the High Priest might have deigned to greet me.” King Baghera’s golden mask scattered multi-hued light about him when the gems the jeweler had embedded in it caught the light with his movements. His nod gave away little to nothing of his thoughts, though. His mask covered his whole face. He bowed just enough to acknowledge her royal station above his own. But only just. And Gangiah tipped her head to him. But only just. “Lady Gangiah, I thought it best to guide you to the conference room myself. A great many others have already arrived and there are great many ruffled feathers.” Gangiah frowned. King Baghera noted her displeasure. “Please do not be distressed. Nothing has come to blows yet.” Gangiah strode from the bay and King Baghera adjusted his steps to match her shorter stride as they entered a high-vaulted corridor. The mechanical smells of the landing bay held back, and the cloying scent of burning aromatic resin permeated the corridor in contrast. Servants stopped when they passed and bowed low at the waist. The temple servants’ masks, made of pressed linen and leather, reflected their place in society–above the plebeian cast (those who awoke at dawn to work their food carts or ply their vocational trades) but below those who ruled and well below those who lived on board the Swargiah in space. Gangiah was of the latter. “Who has arrived, King Baghera?” “Your sisters arrived yesterday. Delegates from the eastern and western provinces as well as the south. Well, everyone actually, except of course the northern. King Santeen is not attending again this year.” “You would think the north would send a delegate at least. How can we know where they stand currently if they will not let their needs be known?” Baghera shrugged and held open a door for her to pass through. “I imagine Santeen would say they are too busy keeping the barbarians at bay.” “So, the Nordse are still causing trouble?” “It’s those damned Valkyrie in their twice-damned airships. Who lets women into battle anyway? Uncivilized.” Gangiah let the comment go unanswered. The urja fed lights flickered and she stopped in the middle of the corridor. The loss of light was momentary, and soon the pair was bathed in the blue glow of the urja gaslamps once more. “It is only a lull in the flow of urja. The disruption is never more than a few moments, though the frequency has increased. Here we are.” The door loomed above her. Ornately carved and imposing. It stood double her height and four people wide and at the moment was the only protection she had from the turmoil roiling on the other side. Muffled voices clawed at the door from the room beyond, reaching for her, demanding to drag her into their conflict. She glanced down the corridor in both directions and briefly considered fleeing. But she was expected. It was her duty. And who knew, perhaps they might arrive at a solution to the dwindling urja resources. She nodded and a blue-masked servant peeled himself from the wall beside the door, bowed at the waist, and drew open the double doors. Sound broke from the room, gleefully tumbling over her and escaping down the corridor. Gangiah withstood the onslaught of discordant noise for a few moments before stiffening her spine and entering the fray. “What of the Kelts? Will they….” “Pure robbery…” “...Decaying as we….” and on and on. None of the arguing delegates had noted her entrance. Gangiah scanned the room. King Baghera had spoken true. The southern delegates, bare-arms scarred by their antiquated “barnacle hauling” ceremony that usually left the inductee dead and scarred those that did survive, argued with the eastern delegates in their filmy tunics and flowing pants. The western delegates faced off with the Heart-of-Harapiah. The only way to distinguish between them was the color of the sashes about their chests: the westerners in blue and the Heart-of-Harapiah in white. King Baghera wore a white sash. Gangiah’s two younger sisters sat at the oversized conference table. They had positioned themselves so they could see whoever walked through the door. “Lady Gangiah of the ship Swargia, Daughter of Imperial Ruler Brahama and High Researcher to the Harrapian Kingdom.” Silence prevailed after King Baghera’s announcement for all of a breath, then the voices erupted once more. Yamaniah waved to her and moved to an adjacent chair. Gangiah accepted the vacated seat between her sisters. “You look a bit wan, sister,” Sharaviah noted. She said it with her mouth, but her eyes never strayed from the eastern-southern debaters. She represented the interests of the Eastern and Northern Provinces. “Are you unwell?” Gangiah accepted a glass of wine from a servant, who’d positioned herself right behind her shoulder, and answered, “How can you tell, Shara?” “Because you insist on those antiquated masks. I can see your skin through the voids in the design. You really should upgrade to the full coverage masks.” Yamaniah interrupted, “Leave her be, Shara. She can wear whatever she pleases. She is right, though, Gangiah, you do look unwell.” “No, I’m fine. Just tired. I hate these negotiations. Nothing ever gets accomplished. I could be working on my latest research. Instead, I’m wasting my time here.” “How is your research coming along? Efficiency management or something, right?” “Yes, have you had any breakthroughs?” Sharaviah turned earnest eyes on Gangiah. For a moment, she had Sharaviah’s undivided attention. “I am close, but no. The efficacy of the Modified Conductron Optimizer has yet to be realized.” “Oh.” She’d lost Sharaviah’s attention again. “What do you want it to do?” asked Yamaniah. “I am hoping that by optimizing the conductivity of the urja we can eek out more energy. We wouldn’t need as much and maybe,” she waved her hand, indicating the delegates in the room, “this won’t be necessary. Maybe–who’s that?” she broke off as she noticed a gentleman and a younger man standing in the corner of the room. They observed the debates with avid interest, as a researcher might observe the mating habits of the rare green moon-moth. Each wore a mask of a visitor, much the same as her own but made of resin not precious metals. “Who? Oh that? They are from Kemet. The older one is Usyre and his companion is Anubys. Their personalized masks are being made as we speak.” “What is the ruler of Kemet and his son doing in our closed-door conference?” Sharaviah answered incredulous, “Have you been so cloistered away in your laboratories that you don’t know how close to war we are? Has father not shared any of this news with you?” She scowled and waved her hand. “This isn’t mere formality. At least not this year. We are no longer just squelching military squabbles amongst our own people. Civil war is only one facet of what we now face. We are dangerously close to world war.” Gangiah stared at her sister. “So, is Kemet throwing its lot in with Harapiah?” Yamaniah interjected, “No. Well, at least we don’t know yet. King Usyre isn’t just visiting us. He’s traveling the world in the hopes that he might assess and sooth the situation.” “Well, that’s one reason, anyway.” Gangiah waited for her sister to explain, but Sharaviah didn’t elaborate. “Yes. If the rumors are to be believed.” “What are the rumors?” “Well-” Doors slamming against the wall interrupted Yamaniah. A man strode into the room and stopped in the center. Delegates scattered and collected against the walls as the new arrival surveyed those gathered. Gangiah and her sisters stood. “What is the meaning of this, Mister-” The man interrupted Gangiah’s question by removing his mask and hurling it to the floor. The room gasped. Roll call hadn’t yet taken place, and no one removed their mask before roll call. “Santeen,” announced the man. Yamaniah gasped. “King Santeen.” “The north. Unprecedented,” whispered Sharaviah. “King Santeen, you are recognized–thanks to your lack of protocol,” Yamaniah stated cooly. The man grinned at her, one eyebrow raised, mocking her. “Do we have time for this protocol? Don’t we have much larger problems to address then whether or not our masks cover our faces? We are all of the same purpose here or we ought to be.” Gangiah folded her hands before her and nodded, a small smile played at the corners of her lips. “Indeed, King Santeen. And how fortuitous that you have just arrived in time for roll call. King Baghera?” King Baghera hesitated and glanced at the clock. The hour had not yet reached one past midday. But he accepted Gangiah’s invitation and unrolled the leadership scroll and began calling the names of those expected to be in attendance. The imperial scribner sat poised in the corner of the room where he kept the meeting notes for posterity, his secretary’s desk neatly arranged, pens and ink well at the top and to the right, sheathes of blank parchment stacked and ready for histories to be inscribed. When he’d finished roll call and all masks had been removed, King Baghera rolled up the scroll once more and handed it to the scribner. Immediately, the debate resumed in full force. Gangiah and her sisters alone took their seats. King Baghera rejoined the debate between the Heart-of-Harapiah and the Westerners. King Santeen stood in the center of the room, his arms crossed over his thick chest and a smile stretched across his teeth. He did not partake in the conversations. Merely observed. Gangiah, too, observed. Her sister Sharaviah had spoken true. Gangiah had been cloistered away in her laboratories for the past year and was dreadfully out of touch with the affairs of those who dealt with the world at large. She listened intently to each grievance as she could discern them. The east and south squabbled over whose need for urja was greater. The engines used to propel the deep-sea trading ships consumed excessive amounts of urja, more than any other technology the people of Harapiah used combined. But the trade was necessary. Though, even that need was dwindling. Everyone in the world was feeling the lack of the energy resource and as such couldn’t afford what the other countries offered in trade. The westerners were, as usual, suing for separation from the whole of Harapiah. No one paid them any heed, as usual. The Western Province had been decrying their abuse for so long no one even heard them anymore. They wanted autonomy to trade freely with whomever they wished. But separate from the whole of Harapiah they would be easy prey for any who wished to invade for control of the urja-rich veins that ran through the Western province. The Heart-of-Harapiah would never allow it–her father would never allow it—so both King Baghera and Imperial Ruler Brahama ignored them. And still, King Santeen did not participate. The arguments dragged on, long past the allotted fifteen minutes of Open-Airing. The mechanical bird on her shoulder warbled: the sixteenth hour. “Gentleman.” The delegates gestured and yelled. Gangiah stood. “Gentleman.” The delegates shifted and bellowed. Gangiah picked up her wine glass. “Gentleman.” Voices boomed off the walls. Glass shattered against the mosaic-tiled floor. Silence descended. Crimson wine pooled for a moment then bled along the grout between the tiles. “We have argued for the better part of an afternoon and have yet to breach the walls of our grievances. We will adjourn for the day and resume with cooler heads and calmer spirits tomorrow morning.” “But we haven’t aired our needs!” “Protocol!” “Unprecedented!” Gangiah reached for her sister’s wine glass. The voices silenced. She withdrew her hand, leaving the wine glass on the table. “We will resume tomorrow morning.” Every head bowed, except Santeen’s. He watched her intently, his eyes glittering. Sharaviah and Yamaniah rose and as one the three sisters rounded the table and quit the room. Sound erupted behind them.
Steampunk Myths: Gangiah © 2022 Darcien Balog
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AuthorDarcien Balog is the Chief Operations Officer for Twilight Tabletop Games, LLC. Archives
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