Dieselpunk ePulp Showcase 2 (Anthology)

World of Mañana: Storming Shangri-La

WORLD OF MAÑANA: STORMING SHANGRI-LA

Created by Jack Philpott

INTRODUCTION

Tropical islands, palm trees, flying boats…and the soft thump of a silenced pistol in the night. This is the World of Mañana, a place of lazy relaxation coupled with deadly intrigue. Of patient, persistent progress into A Glorious Future. Of sociopolitical and ethnic diversity emerging from the dying remains of the grand empires of old. Imagine, if you will, Bogart's Casablanca on a global scale, and with the naïve self-assuredness of the summer of 1914. Imagine the laissez-faire attitude of a cafe in Nice contrasted with the frightful panic of a deadly chase through the crowded city streets of Cairo, or a gorgeous sunny seascape with a looming shadow just at the edge of your vision. Set in the present day in a world not our own, Mañana is a world of contrasts and amalgamations. Retrofuturistic super trains share the stage with “old fashioned” flying boats and airships. Baroque-tinged Great Power politics clash with radical, futurist ideologies, emerging global corporations, and the burgeoning nationalism of a thousand composite cultures our world never saw. The old, decaying empires fight for continued hegemony and try their best to patch the growing cracks in their imperial façade, but the center cannot hold. It all gives a guy or dame a lot to think about while sipping that rum as the sun slips quietly beneath the tropical waters in a pool of warm crimson. Combining the Noir-tinged optimism of the Jazz Age with the laid back world of the islands, The World of Mañana is a new, deceptively relaxed, but sinister addition to the Retrofuturist culture. This is where Dieselpunks go on vacation to leave their troubles behind…only to find that their troubles have followed. It's Noir, on Island Time.

***

Warmth. Embracing, consuming, warmth soaks into my muscles like a gentle massage. The penetrating rays of sun from above and the bracing heat from the sand beneath make a soft bed and blanket, lulling me into an easy afternoon’s siesta. Background noises of squabbling chickens and metal clanging in the gentle wind blur into the background. Ill thoughts and distant troubles fade away with my consciousness. I pass comfortably into the infinity of gentle sleep.

A light kick to the soles of my sandals jerks me back into the realm of consciousness.

“We are soon the airplane to be fixing, yes?” says an impatient, familiar, and utterly unwelcome Scandinavian voice. His Portuguese is harsh and accented, his grammar Germanic.

I scowl under my hat. “Mañana,” I say, hoping he’ll let me return to the embrace of my siesta.

“What the hell do you mean ‘mañana’? You said ‘mañana’ yesterday!”

I sigh and push the hat back from my eyes. The afternoon sun, which has been so wonderfully warm on my chest, blinds me momentarily. I can barely make out the shape of my passenger’s head through the glare. His close-cut crop of blonde hair glows like a scary halo. He’s a Vinlander of pure Euro stock and white as a lily, but slowly burning to red as a rose in the California sun. His name is Svensen, a businessman from Nye Copenhagen, a land of towering spires and angry swarms of autocars. He’s still in a hurry even after several days in the tropics. “The plane will be ready when it’s ready,” I say. “The mechanic is working on it!”

“Damn it, Herr Lagarto!” I don’t have time for ‘when it’s ready’. I important and urgent business in San Cristóbal have and no time for some grease ball mechanic from nowhere California to poke at your rattrap plane until it is fixed!”

Now Svensen is just irritating me. No need to insult my plane, Estrella. I pull my hat back over my eyes and lay back again. “If you’re in that big of a hurry, then I’m sure there’s a coach to San Pedro. From there, you can maybe catch a train to San Cristóbal.”