Smoke and Steam: A Steampunk Anthology

by Karen Garvin

  Blue-green eyes regarded him as the woman worked to remove the shackle from his wrist. Her dusty blonde hair was tucked up in a messy bun beneath her large cap. The coat she wore was impeccable, sized perfectly for her every curve, as was the matching corset she wore beneath it. She wore a man’s trews but they, too, were well tailored to her precise measurements. Full, pouting lips pursed in frustration when the shackle would not come off, making Geiger furrow his brows again. He needed the thing to come off, but wasting time on a miracle would not help them.

  “I know you,” he said. He pulled his wrist away and finally stood to his full six foot height. She followed, not quite as small as Geiger had originally surmised either. She reached just beneath his chin—without the aid of heeled shoes to get her there—and stared up at him with an annoyed twist to her lips and narrowing of eyes that was so well practiced Geiger nearly shrank in on himself. He knew that look; that was the look his mother used to give when he tracked mud into her house all those years ago. The young woman said nothing, however, taking his bloodied wrist in her hands, shackle and all, to rub a stinging salve into the raw, open wound.

  “Ow!” Geiger hissed, pulling away in surprise, but Ophelia took hold of him again until she was satisfied with her work. “Who... is he dead?”

  “Does it matter? Let’s go,” she said. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Why do I know you?” Geiger persisted. He rooted himself to his spot, unwilling to budge until he got answers. Ophelia, however, was having none of it, clicking her tongue. No, not Ophelia, but it was something similar to that; what was it? Either way, Geiger vexed her greatly, of that he was positive. She grabbed his good wrist and hauled him forward with surprising strength as she spoke.

  “We’ve done business before and we really don’t have time for more, Sergeant. Just don’t blow my cover, okay? The fleet is on its way. Until then, we need to find your brother—again— before someone else gets a hold of him.”

  * * *

  The USS Saphira cut through the choppy waters of the North Atlantic. Her bow drove a large wedge of white froth into the deep blue blanket laid out before her. Pillars of deep crimson all along the deck churned out thick columns of steam into the clear afternoon sky. A boy of about fifteen stood watching the horizon, his eyes half-lidded against the wind that blew into his face. It did not prevent him from searching the sky, hunting like a hawk hunted prey. He’d been at his post for hours, shifting from foot to foot or bringing up a pair of leather-bound binoculars when something caught his eye.

  An airship glided through the sky just above the horizon; several of them, actually. The bulbous shapes of them made small blots against the waning afternoon sunlight. Excitement burst through the boy’s chest. His hands fumbled for a silver whistle dangling from his neck, the binoculars tangling up in the red cord of the whistle. Once he finally grasped the whistle, he brought it to his lips and blew as hard as he could. The highpitched squeal rang out into the air and across the gargantuan flat deck of the massive carrier, repeating over and over as the boy ran to the bridge.

  “Cap! HIRMS Darrow spotted on the horizon, sir, 50 knots ahead!” the boy panted as he ran onto the bridge, the whistle and binoculars swinging wildly on his chest. “There’s others as well, Cap. At least seven destroyer type vessels.”

  “Thank you, Jeremy. Return to post.”

  The boy nodded and ran off. Captain Mica “Cassiel” Raanan of the USS Saphira was a tall man of an age close to his mid-forties, though he did not show it in the least. Dark hair was cropped short though it never appeared neat, no matter what was done to it, giving the man a slightly wild look that people had come to fear or respect. The rest of him, however, was always impeccable with everything properly pressed and pinned. The shirt sleeve on the right side puffed up some beneath a thick leather shoulder guard that crossed over his chest to help hold a well-crafted mechanical arm. The stories of how he came to lose—and replace—his arm were always different with each telling, but even more remarkable were the stories that told of how he came to gain the iridescent mechanical wings at his back. They were what earned him the nickname “Cassiel,” speed of God. The ship he commanded was the fastest in the entire fleet with the most colorful crew.

  “Paige!” Cassiel barked. A woman nearly as tall as he stepped forward, hands behind her back. She wore men’s trews and high boots for riding with a leather underbust corset that had straps for several small weapons and knick-knacks. Her dark skin was mottled in places, lighter than the rest but no less flawless. She said not a word, standing at attention until her captain spoke as was her place to do so. She commanded the security detail aboard the Saphira, as well as the combat unit about to be deployed.

  “Prepare the drakes,” Cassiel said. His voice was always a little gruff but never cruel. People followed without question because he was firm but fair. Somewhere in all that, however, he had failed and lost not only a good soldier, but a good friend, too.

  “Sir!” Paige replied with a crisp salute. She immediate ly turned on her heel to do as commanded, walking briskly through the many decks of the ship until reaching the center most deck. The USS Saphira was different than other carriers, for it held the Union Militia’s most valued weapon. Each man or woman waiting stood before a stall door, each of them in uniforms identical to the one that Paige wore with leather aviator caps on their heads, goggles waiting to be pulled down.

  “Riders! To posts!” Paige said in a smooth tenor that matched her handsome appearance.

  The riders all obeyed, entering their respective stalls with little in the way of fanfare or mutterings. Inside each stall— sixty in all—were large metallic figures about the height of an elephant and length of a school bus. The touch of their riders brought the mechanical Anima to life, each of them moving or hissing, blowing steam through brass nostrils. Screeches echoed through the deck along with the scraping flaps of mechani cal wings against the stall walls. Gears clicked over one notch at a time, three men to a crank on either side of the ship. As the gears moved, the sides of the ship opened up to fresh sea air where the sun was allowed to glint off the creatures stored within. Bright green or blue eyes reflected that light back out into the sea, focusing like a camera on their surroundings.

  “Commander,” Paige said, pressing the side of her cap where small gears and speakers nestled into her ear. “We’re ready. Prepare grappling hooks for launch.”

  “Copy that,” a voice replied as she mounted her own mechanical terror.

  “Hello, beautiful,” she cooed to it, patting the thick bronze plates that made up its neck and shoulder. “Miss me?”

  The mechanical beast snorted in response, its ear flaps squeaking on hinges in need of oil. Paige laughed as she mounted, patting it one more time.

  “I’ll fix it later, Shesha,” Paige said. “We’ve got three of our own to save right now. Let’s go bring them home.”

  Dark tattoos on her hands lit up to a deep orange, swirling into a set of leather gauntlets that covered the rest of the marks that went up just past her wrists almost like a pattern of henna. Shesha screeched again, the noise echoing inside of its metallic parts in response to that magical connection. Iron claws raked at the steel floor and long, spiked tails swished back and forth as the riders prepared to launch.

  “Riders!” Paige called. “Take to the clouds! Let’s bring those Red bastards down!”

  Like butterflies released from a box, all sixty copper, brass, and bronze Anima drakes took to the sky. Metal wings carried lithe bodies up into the atmosphere, high above the clouds.

  Each beat of wing caught a glint of the afternoon sun, send ing an orange-green hue across the drakes’ plating. Paige held tight to the leather reins connected to a saddle bolted onto Shesha’s back, willing her beloved Anima to fl y higher and higher into the sky. In some legends of old, there were stories that the mechanical drakes were once of fl esh and blood commanded by magnates of unimaginable power. Whether it was true or not remained
a subject of debate among historians and archaeologists. Regardless, nearly every navy now had their own specialized construct that gave them great stealth and maneuverability or allowed them to traverse land and sea with more skill than any air or steamship. Theirs were the fabled and feared dragons of old.

  It did not take long for the clutch of metallic drakes to catch up to the airships. The Russians had made this personal, turning too many of their own against them by force. Paige had seen it, nearly paid for it with her life. It was time to make them pay for their crimes. She let the air rush over her back and arms as she crouched low against Shesha’s neck. The sinuous Anima rose higher and higher into the air, then cartwheeled back down in a dive bomb toward the three ships bringing up the rear behind the Darrow.

  “Riders—fire at will!!”

  Cassiel watched fire rain down from the drakes onto the airship closest to the Saphira. He shut his eyes for a moment and prayed; prayed for his crew, for the riders putting their lives at risk, for the three aboard the Darrow, for the innocent lives that were being slaughtered around the globe—for what? No one even knew why they were fighting anymore. So he prayed, hoping that this time someone would hear his prayers, unlike the last time he prayed when things had not gone so well.

  Cassiel growled as he turned sharply on the wheel of the small ship he’d been given to command. The Saphira was too noticeable for this particular mission, too large. He’d been given temporary command of the USS Glaedr to guard the USS Airship Kashet on its journey toward Istanbul. Their positions had been given away, however, and now both ships fought a much larger airship that hovered above the Kashet. Cassiel watched helplessly as the Kashet took on heavy fire, the balloon holding it aloft lighting up in a massive conflagration of blue-green flames in just one, well placed hit.

  The Kashet took a dangerous nose dive toward the ocean while still taking fire from the larger ship above it. There were thirty-seven lives aboard the Kashet, including its small crew and very precious ‘cargo’.

  “Shit... LAUNCH THE RESCUE BOATS!” Cassiel shouted as the smoke began to clear from around the Kashet. He prayed, hoping there was something left to pray for.

  “Captain...”

  He’d seen it; everyone had. An orb of pure energy that resembled a freshly blown bubble cleared the thick smoke. It descended slowly toward the choppy waters of the Atlantic with at least ten people bottled inside of it. The gatling chairs on deck were not fast enough to take out all the drones in the air above them. Sadly, they were also not precise enough to avoid hitting that bubble.

  “CEASEFIRE!” Cassiel hollered as a string of fist-sized bullets nearly hit the floating bubble in an attempt to destroy a drone coming straight for that same bubble. It was already too late, however. Out of instinct, Cassiel shut his eyes and turned away as the bubble was hit, shattering like glass. Each person inside plunged to the churning ocean, some screaming, some never resurfacing. Paige had been on that ship, and Tristan and Everette.

  When Cassiel looked back up again, he growled even more, turning the wheel back the way it had been. The ship surged so sharply to the left it nearly pitched itself right over. Radical it may have been, it worked. The gatling chairs defended the Glaedr, while twelve people were recovered; twelve souls out of almost forty.

  He remembered being told how lucky they’d been that day. There was nothing lucky about losing that many souls on a single mission, Cassiel thought as he finished his prayer. He absolutely refused to have it happen again under his watch. There were no pretenses for hiding this time. The Glaedr and Firnen followed behind the Saphira, launching the few drakes they carried to join the others. The first airship was already falling to the ocean in a plume of blackened smoke. Rescue boats were in the water, ready to pull survivors from the sea. Now they just needed the Darrow.

  It flew at a lower altitude than normal for a ship of its size, which gave Cassiel and his crew the advantage they needed. He took in a deep breath as the space between the two ships shrank and finally touched an earpiece lodged into his right ear.

  “Commander, take them down.”

  All along the foredeck were large turntables made of giant cogs, each with a harnessed stirrup seat at its center. The turntable itself rested on a steel track. On either side of the seat were cranks that moved independently of each other and, in front of the seat, was a giant harpoon-like weapon with iron grapples wedged inside of it. Commander Everette Stone climbed up into one of the stirrup seats, while others did the same all along the deck. Four to five ensigns of a younger age stood at the ready with replacement hooks or gatlings that could be switched out in place of the harpoon weapon. Once belted into the seat, Everette turned each crank, muscular arms moving in opposition of each other until the seat had aligned itself with the target. The echoing click-clack-click-clack of the other turntables made the commander smile. This was exactly like sport fishing, except the “fish” came out of the air rather than the sea and were considerably larger—which, of course, made it that much more entertaining.

  “Ready, men!” Everette called. “READY!”

  “Take aim!” the commander continued, making sure his target was precisely in the right spot with his targeting viewer.

  “ALIGNED!”

  “FIRE!!” Everette cried. His hand pulled hard on a lever to his right, launching the grappling hook into the air at a high rate of speed. The motion vibrated through his entire body, the seat recoiling back along the steel track. The hooks flew along their designated paths, dragging thick iron chains woven with heavy ropes behind them. Everette watched, heart rate increasing in anticipation until the first hook struck, followed by another, and then another. The USS Saphira groaned as cranks were turned, the chains pulling taut to slow the airship above and throw her off balance.

  “Cassiel,” Everette said into his own headpiece without the need to press in on it. The captain had heard all of his commands for Everette needed both hands to maneuver his chosen weapon. His arms strained to control the hook but the smile that lit up his face showed that the strain was worth it. “We’ve got ‘em, Captain! Reverse engines!”

  Cassiel smiled, hearing the mirth in his commander’s voice. The man was at last ten years Cassiel’s junior but well on his way to commanding his own vessel. Again, Cassiel touched the headset lodged into his ear, speaking clearly and firmly.

  “Reverse engines,” he said calmly, eyes narrowing. The Darrow had launched its drones to counter the drakes. The metallic beasts swooped and soared, pinwheeling through the air to dodge the smaller drones that chased them like gnats in the sky. Cassiel’s wings twitched to be in the air with them, but that time in his career had passed and he was needed on the bridge to command his ship, not to recklessly shoot down wretched drones.

  “Everette,” he said after switching the channel so that only his commander heard his words. “Blow those sons-of-bitches out of the damned sky.”

  “With pleasure, Captain. With pleasure.”

  * * *

  The Darrow pitched violently to one side, knocking Geiger and Ophelia to the floor. Alarms sounded everywhere, deafening sirens and flashing red lights creating a halo of chaos all around them. They heard the echoing rat-a-tat-tat of the drones firing above them or the large gatling guns mounted on the naval ships coming to their theoretical rescue. Ophelia grunted from beneath Geiger, his weight crushing her. She tried to shove him off but he was too dizzy to move for a moment, desperately trying to focus on her face so that the rest of him would stop spinning.

  “We really don’t have time for a make-out session, Sergeant,” she said to him, still pushing on his chest. He managed to roll off enough to let her up, but then dry-heaved from the new wave of vertigo that washed over him.

  “You’re not doing well, are you?” she asked, concern thick in her soft words.

  “Mm’fine,” he slurred, using the wall and her arm to get to his feet once more. “Go. I’ll follow.”

  “I can’t lose you again too or we’r
e never getting out of here. C’mon,” she said, throwing his arm over her shoulders to support him until he was able to walk without assistance. It took longer than expected, considering all the rattling and shaking going on in the ship. Eventually, they found the Magnate Commander that Ophelia—no, that was not her name, but it sounded similar; he had to remember—had left Tristan with. The man was unconscious, bleeding from a deep wound at his side but alive.

  “We can’t just leave him,” Geiger said.

  “And we definitely don’t have time to save everyone!” Ophelia hissed. “Do you hear all that above us? That’s Cassiel and the rest of the fleet trying to blow us out of the sky! I’d really rather not be on this ship when that happens but we can’t leave the ship until we find your stupid ass of a brother!”

  “Cassiel, like... Captain Cassiel??” Geiger asked. He knew the man by reputation only, much like everyone else who was not under his direct command. The man was famous not only as a soldier but as an avid tinker, helping to create some of the most advanced creations and weaponry the Union Militia—or anyone really—had to date. The drakes, for example, had been Captain Cassiel’s design.

  “Hey! Focus!” Ophelia said, snapping her fingers in front of Geiger’s face. He blushed. Now was not the time to lose himself to boyish awe. She had removed the Magnate Commander’s shirt and turned it into a long length of makeshift bandages that she wound around his bleeding middle. “Sit him up. It’ll help stop the bleeding.”