Smoke and Steam: A Steampunk Anthology

by Karen Garvin

  Geiger blinked in wonder, his hand absently touching the spot on his middle where he’d been hit with ... whatever it was that had hit him. He had designed little worker bees to do smaller tasks or more mundane ones, mostly because he was tired of getting cut up or shocked when he was elbow deep inside of a busted machine and still not able to see properly. They fixed all the internal problems and then went dormant until another problem cropped up, buzzing to life to start all over again. Was that how the biological ones worked too? Were they just dormant inside his belly?

  “It’s an ingenious design,” Cassiel admitted, with a hint of awe in his voice that made Geiger’s cheeks color. “You’re both incredibly talented; very quick to learn.”

  Geiger swallowed hard again and absently laid a hand over the tattoo on his right arm. It had been an idea conjured mostly out of angsty jealousy. For everything that Tristan learned, Geiger learned, too, and vice versa. It didn’t always work quite as intended, but it did work. Cassiel glanced at the tattoo as well, meeting Geiger’s eye with a cool gaze of his own. The tattoo was highly illegal for many reasons, not the least of which was its dangerous properties.

  “It was my idea,” Geiger croaked.

  “And if I were to ask your brother, he’d tell me it was his,” Cassiel interrupted. “In fact he often did, among other things. He was very protective of you.”

  The jeep fell silent again, Geiger staring intently at his knees while the vehicle bumped gently over cobbles or potholes. The tension grew so high that he very nearly screamed when Cassiel broke the silence again, and leaned back with a heavy sigh.

  “We had reason to believe that your brother defected,” Cassiel said finally. “Even then, because of your little piece of illegal body art, we immediately began looking for them.”

  “Them?” Geiger asked, looking back to the winged captain.

  “Your brother’s battalion. Almost all of them went missing right around the same time that your brother did. They were all supposed to ship out with us for a specialized mission a little over two years ago now, but none of them ever reported for duty. We assumed they had defected with him.”

  “Why would you make that assumption?”

  “They had all expressed some... displeasure with their coming mission.”

  “Which was?” Geiger interjected.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” Cassiel snipped back. “Suffice to say, eight months ago your brother managed to contact Amelia Niffle—one of our apothecaries and a former student of your brother’s. She and Magnate Commander Fallon had been rumored to have a relationship before his disappearance which is why, we think, he reached out to her rather than anyone else. The transmission she received was encoded, but it begged for help, which was not something your brother ever did. Quite the opposite, actually. I’ve had the honor of serving beside him for many years now and it never sat well with me that he would defect to the other side regardless of the situation that may have upset him—though he certainly made his displeasure known. I should have listened more carefully to my instincts and, for that, I will apologize.

  “The woman he contacted, Amelia, was sent under cover with the Russians to extract your brother and the others that had gone missing. What she found was more than we had bargained for. There were only three members of the original battalion left and thirteen sets of twins. Every single one of them died of madness or worse. Amelia was determined to reach your brother before that happened.”

  Geiger’s mouth dropped open again. Thirteen sets of twins? Why twins? He could only stare in shock and lack of understanding at what was happening. What had they been after, exactly?

  “Amelia,” he said, after taking a moment to gather himself. “What happened to her? She was with me when Tristan...”

  Cassiel remained silent for a long time; too long, in fact.

  “We failed your brother, Captain,” Cassiel said after the silence became intolerable again. “We should have had more faith in him—in all of them. Should have tried harder. Should have... these are not excuses, just confessions. Apologies are too hollow and you deserve better; you both do.”

  The jeep had stopped moving somewhere throughout Cassiel’s explanations. Geiger didn’t even realize it until one of the two soldiers up front opened the door to let him out. Geiger looked at the young man, then looked beyond him at a large open garden that led to a beautiful building with domed ceilings and six grand towers all around it. The setting sun painted a wash of pink and red behind the building that gave it an ethereal appearance. Tiles glinted in the waning sunlight and a fountain at the center of the garden spilled clear water into a shallow pool.

  “Where are we?” Geiger asked, looking at Cassiel. “What’s going on, Captain?”

  “You need some peace after what you’ve been through, Captain,” Cassiel soothed as he exited the jeep as well. “God knows you’ve earned it. Merhaba!”

  Geiger followed Cassiel’s raised hand to see a man of roughly equal age to the good captain, dressed in black leathers and soft black linens, walking toward them. He smiled, raising his arm in greeting as well. The two men shook hands, gripping forearms and offering a brief embrace before facing Geiger.

  “Geiger Fallon, this is Aqil Shahr,” Cassiel said. “He is going to show you around.”

  Geiger looked at Cassiel again, frowning. “Show me around where?”

  “Welcome to Istanbul, Captain Fallon,” Aqil said with a slight bow. Geiger only blinked. How in the world had he come to be in Istanbul, and why? “Come.”

  Geiger opened his mouth to say something but shut it without uttering a sound. There was a sense of finality to Cassiel’s look that made Geiger frown. Before long, the jeep was gone and he was in a simple room that overlooked the Black Sea. The view was positively breathtaking and, under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed it. Instead, he watched the low-lying steamships dock into the bay or the airships take off from port to destinations unknown. He could see the locomotive that barreled through the city, churning out a tower of steam that tickled the underbellies of the ships above. The furniture in the room was simple yet adequate. Three trunks and two suitcases had been stacked against the wall just inside the door. Motes of dust flew in front of Geiger’s face, the magnifier on his left eye naturally adjusting to view it more closely. That was new—normally he had to adjust the thing manually, but it clicked over on its own with simple thought this time. What had they done, exactly?

  Off to the side, a large form sat beneath a white sheet. Geiger walked over to it, tugging the sheet off to reveal George as he had been that horrible day in the warehouse—chest plate open, crystal heart pieces in a delicate net tied around his neck.

  “Hey, buddy,” Geiger whispered almost sadly to the giant golem. He took in the rest of his surroundings slowly, fighting tears that stung the back of his eyes. On one of the built-in shelves in the room was a single frame that had been carefully placed there. It was painfully familiar to him, pulling him there like a magnet pulls on a piece of metal.

  “You guys were cute as kids.”

  Geiger’s heart skipped twelve beats as he spun around toward the voice that spoke. His hand reached for a weapon that he did not have but his fists balled in lieu of that. Slowly, he relaxed and his heartbeat returned to normal. A young woman of about twenty-two stood in the doorway of his room. She wore her hair in a single braid over her left shoulder, a light coat draped around her to accommodate the cloth sling that held her right arm.

  “Amelia? But... Captain Cassiel said...”

  She smiled at him and moved to his side, looking at the old frame. A man and a woman sat on a beat up old pick-up truck with the engine sticking out of it, two identical little boys roughly age nine or ten standing in front of them making goofy faces. There were no marks or patches on the boys yet, no fear on their faces or worries for their parents.

  “You guys look like you were really happy,” Amelia said, smiling at the photo. “Where was this taken?”

/>   “Boston,” Geiger answered. “Just north of it, really. What are you doing here? I thought you were -”

  “Dead?” she cut in, looking up at him with a wry grin. “Well, yes, sometimes one has to disappear if one is expected to continue working without anyone watching. They can’t give both of us promotions, Captain. And it’s Angela, now. Amelia never came up off the Darrow. Besides, I’m a little useless at the moment. I was hoping you might be able to help with that.”

  She lifted her arm a little to help clarify what she meant. Geiger took a closer look at Amelia’s arm, the magnifier naturally focusing again beyond the cloth that held it. Her forearm was missing just below the elbow, the stitching still raw and healing.

  “Your brother has a nasty bite, the damned bastard. If you’re amenable, I hear you can make something that’ll sting when I slap him next time I see him.”

  “Amel—Uhm, Angela, he’s-”

  “You really need to learn to catch subtleties, handsome, or this is never gonna work. This whole place is based on subtleties,” she said, reaching out to touch the spot on his arm where she knew the mark to be.

  “Angela, what is this place? What the hell is going on? Where is Tristan?” Geiger said with rapidly growing frustration.

  “Cambridge, I think. Or, that’s where he was last I got a transmission. He’s safe, for now. But before you go demanding to see him or talk to him, you have got to understand that he is still in danger; you both are. People still want him—and youand according to our source, he’s still fighting a losing battle to not completely go off his rocker. We’re working on getting him here but it’s gonna take some time, okay? I promise, I’ll keep you updated with everything I know as soon as I know it. Deal?”

  He regarded her for a moment, glanced over his shoulder at the scenery behind him and let everything he had heard sink in for a minute. There was more to this madness than he knew, but he wouldn’t learn anything if he didn’t play the game they were at; whoever they were and whatever game they played. Honestly, he wanted to argue, to be contradictory somehow or demand a better explanation, to go see all of the things just outside his balcony and figure out who all the folks in black leathers were. Instead, he forced himself to be patient, to take what he had been given and work it to a high sheen like he did with all the broken pieces that were left at his doorstep.

  “All right,” he conceded, stepping closer to Angela. “Let’s have a look at that arm.”

  * * *

  Nothing was quite as lovely as watching the sunset on the loch. That was what it was called, loch. Not lake, not Lomond Lake, it was the loch, plain and simple. Loch Ness had its own thing and so did Loch Lomond. It was the largest inland body of water in Great Britain, and the only one in the world that “sang.” It was a subtle sound that only Tristan could hear. His new companion might be able to hear it as well, but Tristan had never asked. It was a hum that waxed and waned with the gentle movement of the waves. He could see what caused the noise as well, the opalescent colors of the miasma at the bottom of the loch bubbling up through the natural motion of the water. In the evenings, orange and pink light from the sun reflect ed off the glittering waters that stretched across the horizon, tinged with the slightest rainbow hue possible. Fishing ships rowed along the surface or pumped thin pillars of steam into the atmosphere. Tristan sat on the rocky bank with a thick wool blanket draped over his shoulders. He brought a trembling hand to his lips, the gauntlet buried into the flesh creating a gentle tinkling sound as he took a long drag from a freshly rolled cigarette. Every second was a battle against those gauntlets, a battle against the monster they turned him into that wanted to ruin everything he saw, even the beautiful loch.

  Headaches plagued him, a constant thrumming in his skull. It was managed, mostly, but he still felt the urge to burn everything to the ground, himself included. Every session he had with Portofino to help him control all that had been done to him left him fully drained, practically drooling in a puddle of his own saliva but it was necessary. He had to keep reminding himself of that—it was necessary.

  Beside him, a fat little bulldog panted, tongue lolling out as he watched the rolling waves with Tristan. He’d never asked how Beaumont had come to be with him or why or... Questions were a dangerous thing. He’d simply accepted the presence of the dog as a blessed comfort, a reminder of Geiger who, he was told, was well and safe. The gauntlet made it impossible for him to sense his twin through the Gemini’s Mark, let alone just normal twin sense.

  “There you are.”

  Tristan looked up from where he sat and grinned. Beaumont stood as well, stubby legs lifting him all of three inches off the stone beach. His stubby tail wagged with canine excitement. A tall man who appeared to be of an age with Tristan glided to a squat beside them, making sure to pat Beaumont on the head. The other man wore dark goggles, despite the waning light, and long sleeves wrapped in leather straps to help keep the fabric from lifting up. His skin was pale where it could be seen, but completely flawless, almost translucent against his dark brown hair. In his hand was a gun-like contraption with a glass cartridge filled with amber liquid.

  Tristan sighed, trying not to make a face. He’d lost track of time; again. The serum needed to be delivered every six hours, but he’d spent a good majority of the late afternoon staring out into the waters of the loch with Beau. There was no real sense in arguing against the treatment, but he felt the need to do so anyway, even as he dropped the blanket from around his shoulders to expose his neck to the chilly night time elements. There were at least five other small puncture wounds along the sides of his neck, all of them bruising in some capacity.

  “Are you ever not punctual, Portofino?” Tristan asked. He hated the ritual that was now required to keep him stable; to keep him alive. Promises were made to help him, to find a way to safely remove the gauntlets if he just had patience. It had been almost six months of patience with no results.

  “I have been looking for you for over one hour,” Portofino said pointedly. “You need this. I cannot chase you all of the time.”

  He had a suave Italian accent that brought more mystery to him than his odd fashion sense or pale skin. Tristan knew what he was, in a way, but still found it difficult to put all of his faith in the other man. Portofino was a friend of a friend of another friend that had knowledge in unique medicines as well as a specific skill set that could come in handy should it be required. Meaning, he was well trained on how to take out a rogue magnate if Tristan should lose his marbles entirely. He had been told he could trust Portofino Giovasi with his life, had to trust him no matter how ridiculous his name was or how Tristan might feel.

  “Well, if I had the help you promised you wouldn’t have to chase me. Besides, isn’t that what you’re best at—chasing? I need that damned serum like I need an actual hole in my head, Fin,” Tristan said, shortening the man’s name just to gall him.

  “Portofino,” he corrected.

  “Is a vacation spot, not a name. Your parents were evil bastards for naming you that. Isn’t it a wine too? I mean really, Fin, it’s ridiculous.”

  Portofino ignored Tristan’s jab. Instead, he pushed gently on the back of Tristan’s head to inject the amber liquid into his neck. The contraption made a quick click followed by a swift hiss, the contents of the cartridge emptying into Tristan’s blood stream. Tristan sucked in breath through his teeth, shutting his eyes tight and then opening them wide as the liquid eased its way into his system. It stung, burned almost, then forced every muscle to go rigid. Tristan tried to breathe normally but, found it too difficult. His nostrils flared rapidly, the air not quite reaching his lungs no matter how hard he tried. His jaw tightened and muscles seized so much he fell back into wild fits that terrified him. This had never happened before. The burning sensations and stiff muscles, yes, but the seizure?

  “F-fin!” he managed, panic filling him as he thrashed, one arm coming up to claw at Portofino. He heard Beaumont whine and bark once but, otherwise, the
dog simply sat where he was while the panic grew stronger and stronger with each seizing muscle. “F-fin!”

  “Shh, it’s okay,” Portofino soothed. “It will all be over soon, my friend, I promise. Shh. Dormire, dormire. It will be over soon.”

  Cathryn Leigh

  The polished granite of the Aquair train station made every foot step echo. Herbert found himself treading lightly, a leather, square-bottomed bag clutched in his right hand. Cursory glances were flung his way as he trailed behind Alchemist Wakefield. His second-hand clothing hung limp on his body, too short for his length, too wide for his slim frame. If that didn’t mark him as a foster, the plain leather band about his wrist definitely did. And, as a foster, he was as he should be: following behind his master, carrying his master’s luggage.

  So, the gentlemen in top hats, fresh from the Medical Professional’s Convention, paid no mind to Herbert as he passed where they sat on padded wrought-iron benches. The deep red cushions brought color to the monochrome space. Much needed color since the majority of the occupants were Doctors, Surgeons, and Alchemists all dressed in black and white. There was an occasional lady among them, flaunting their vibrant frills and flounces.

  The whistle of a train sounded in the distance. The mass of men punctuated by colorful ladies undulated from the station to the platform. The 10:20 morning train was right on time. Alchemist Wakefield, however continued until he stopped at the ticket booth. The stone box grew from the wall and floor, stopping at chest level. It continued in an iron cage arching over the man inside. Clothed in an earthen pinstripe suit with a white shirt ruffled at the neck and cuffs, he peered at them.

  Herbert switched the bag to his left hand. It was weighted down with solutions, tinctures, and powders. But he was not carrying them for Alc. Wakefield. It had been four years since the alchemist had been his master. Herbert glanced to the brass lock that held the bag closed. The numbers were in the same random order as before. Dr. Kipling, his current master, was waiting for these at his practice in Upper Leore.