Table of Contents
The Brazen Shark
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The Brazen Shark
A Novel of the Clockwork Legion
David Lee Summers
©2016 David Lee Summers
All rights reserved.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Published by Sky Warrior Book Publishing, LLC.
PO Box 99
Clinton, MT 59825
www.skywarriorbooks.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
Cover Art by Laura Givens
Editor: Phyllis Irene Radford
Publisher: M. H. Bonham
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Dedication
To Dean Summers
who wrote letters from Japan when I was seven years old
and introduced me to the simple beauty of haiku.
Chapter One
A Legion in Hiding
Shinriki hefted a twelve-foot long marek and sighted his quarry. With a practiced thrust, he drove the spear’s hooked tip into soft flesh and lifted the squirming body, streaming water and blood. He turned and dropped the flopping salmon onto a mound of its kin and nodded, satisfied.
“A good haul,” said Pasekur from the boat’s stern.
Shinriki looked to the river where salmon still schooled. Although plenty of daylight remained, the boat lay low in the water and the catch needed to be cleaned and prepared for the smokehouse.
His gaze drifted to the Russian village called Poronaysk on the river’s far bank. A year ago, the smoke would have alarmed the fisherman, who would have assumed a nearby forest fire. Now, he knew it came from Russian factories. At least the Sakhalin Islanders left his village alone. According to travelers, Japanese soldiers harassed Ainu villages in Hokkaido to the south.
He took a deep breath of pine-scented air. At least the wind blew the smoke out to sea, away from the river. Aside from the smell of salmon, which indicated a satisfactory catch, the air near the village remained fresh.
Shinriki lay the marek down in the boat, then settled into the bow and retrieved an oar. Together, he and Pasekur rowed against the current to the Poronay River’s far shore. As they reached the bank, Shinriki spotted his wife, Ipokash. From a distance, the dark ink around her mouth looked like a smile. Once he pulled the boat onto the beach, he saw a genuine smile within the tattoo. She summoned several young women who helped them haul the salmon to a work area in front of the smokehouse.
After a few minutes to refresh himself with some water and to wrap his weary arms around Ipokash, Shinriki settled in to help gut the salmon. As the messy work drew to a close, long shadows darkened the land. The women hung the cleaned salmon in the smokehouse and rekindled the gentle fire while Shinriki went to the river to wash up.
As he knelt by the water, horses thundered in from the northeast. He stood and turned, water dripping from his long beard. Russian soldiers would ford the river nearby.
These soldiers wore lacquered metal armor and helmets. Vertical, rectangular sashimono flags adorned with a flower in a circle fluttered from poles mounted to the backs of four riders. Horn-like maidate adorned the leader’s helmet. Shinriki blinked a few times. Samurai!
The Meiji Emperor’s army outlawed the samurai in Japan. These samurai must be bandits, driven northward. Of course, raiding a city as big as Poronaysk with a contingent of Russian soldiers would be futile, but the small Ainu village on the Poronay River’s far bank must seem like easy prey.
Shinriki ran to the boat and grabbed the one weapon available, his marek. As he rushed toward the village, the samurai fired pistols and at least six Ainu fell backwards. Women ran around, shouting and herding children into the huts. Men rushed at the samurai with knives and clubs only to be rebuffed by the mounted warriors.
Pasekur appeared from his hut with a bow and arrows. He loosed an arrow, which ripped through a sashimono flag. A mounted samurai fired a second pistol. The bullet caught Pasekur, whirled him around, and he flopped to the ground.
Shinriki ran forward, cursing the long, narrow marek. Not made for combat, the spear wobbled with each step.
The samurai stirred up a dust cloud as they brought their horses to a stop, dismounted, and dispersed through the village, unleashing a fresh cacophony of screams, shouts and cries. One group of warriors made straight for the smokehouse. Ipokash charged out and shouted at the warriors in Japanese.
The leader whirled around and pointed at her with a curved, gleaming katana. Shinriki sprinted a dozen steps, planted his feet, and prepared to drive the spear’s hook into a joint between armor plates. The leader spun and knocked the spear away with the flat of the katana’s blade. As Shinriki backpedaled, he noticed the leader wore a face guard, adorned with a fearsome horsehair mustache. The leader took a step forward and crouched, spine straight, and glared at Shinriki with dark, brown eyes. The posture seemed unbalanced, but the fisherman didn’t have time to consider it further before the samurai brought the katana back for a blow.
Shinriki dove inside the strike and tackled the leader. With surprising agility given the armor, the leader rolled out from under Shinriki, dropping the katana. Shinriki lunged for the sword, but the samurai kicked him backwards. The fisherman gasped for breath and fought to focus on the swirling pinks and blues of the twilight sky above. The samurai retrieved the sword and rushed back to the village center.
Shinriki’s vision cleared enough and he lifted himself onto one elbow, then reached up and touched his moist forehead, not surprised by the blood on his fingers. No doubt, the samurai’s armored boot cut his scalp. Perhaps the warrior thought Shinriki had been dealt a fatal blow. Dizzy as he was, he considered it possible. He lay back for a moment swallowing gulps of air.
Soon, breathing came easier and he sat up again. He reached out and ripped a strip of cloth from his sleeve and wrapped it around his head wound. The samurai tied salmon bundles to their horses. A woman’s scream brought Shinriki to his feet. Ipokash yelled curses in Japanese, Russian, and Ainu as a samurai shoved her onto a horse between a rider and a bundle of salmon.
“Ipokash!” Shinriki reached down and grabbed the marek. He stumbled forward as Ipokash struggled, causing the horse to dance around in a circle. Shinriki circled with the horse, found an opening and drove the marek home. The samurai whirled and dislodged the spear’s hooked head.
Another samurai rushed in from the side and shoved Shinriki to the ground as the rider regained control of his horse. The leader barked a command and the sam
urai ran for their horses. The fisherman foundered on the ground, his joints screaming in pain as the samurai mounted their horses. Ipokash had fallen silent. Shinriki tried to focus as he pulled himself to his feet. The samurai rode away. He finally caught sight of Ipokash, lying between a bundle of salmon and the rider. He ran after the horsemen, but they soon outdistanced him. He stopped, panting.
After a few minutes, Shinriki caught his breath and turned around to face the tattered and broken village, so beautiful and idyllic just moments before. The samurai bandits hadn’t burned anything, but they’d ripped out door curtains and burst through walls, taking anything they thought held value. Friends lay on the ground, dead or wounded. The horse corral stood empty, the Ainu mounts stolen or run off. Shinriki unleashed a yell of rage which set his head throbbing.
Just then, Shinriki remembered Pasekur, cut down by a bullet. His friend lay near his hut, blood pooled under his ruined shoulder.
Shinriki knelt beside Pasekur, and examined the wound, which seemed small and bled little despite the pool darkening pool of congealed blood. Shinriki tried to revive his friend, but his gut lurched as though falling from a great height when he felt the cold, waxy skin. Pasekur would never wake again.
Shinriki leapt to his feet and ran several steps after the samurai. He needed to rescue Ipokash. They killed Pasekur. He sank to his knees when he realized he held no weapon and the growing darkness swallowed the bandits’ trail. The night’s first stars seemed to mock him. The samurai had his wife, but how could he hope to fight for her. His village had been decimated and might not recover. Men, women and children all wailed into the darkening night. Did anyone remain to fight?
Shinriki shot an angry glance at Poronaysk. Lights winked on, defying the darkness. More than once, Russian soldiers had come across the river to demand the Ainu’s fealty to the emperor a continent away in St. Petersburg. Perhaps the time had arrived to determine that fealty’s worth.
* * *
The next morning, far to the east of Shinriki’s village, Ramon Morales awoke to bright sunlight streaming through a round window in a metal wall. He lay in a comfortable bed next to the most beautiful woman he knew—Fatemeh Karimi, his wife. He supposed that made her Fatemeh Morales now. Onofre Cisneros, a one-time pirate, swept them away for a honeymoon aboard his freighter called the Ballena. The Spanish word for whale suited the sturdy, powerful steamship. The name belied the ship’s speed, but served to keep people from associating the new vessel with Onofre’s sleek pirate frigate, named Tiburón—Spanish for shark.
Cisneros turned pirate to demonstrate a small submersible boat’s potential in warfare. The Mexican government shunned him because of ties to the former Emperor Maximillian. He gave up the career in piracy when Fatemeh showed him the submersible boat may have more uses in peacetime than in war. Since then, Cisneros had purchased shares in the seaport at Ensenada, Mexico and ingratiated himself with President Diaz.
Now, the captain traveled to the Hawaiian Islands to sign a trade agreement with a British sugarcane plantation owner. The captain thought the islands would be the perfect vacation getaway for the couple.
Ramon leaned over and kissed Fatemeh gently on the cheek. She squirmed a bit, but remained asleep. He climbed out of bed, pulled on trousers and washed up. A Bible sat on a table next to a chair. Ramon wasn’t sure whether Fatemeh had brought the Bible or whether it belonged to the cabin’s previous occupant. It didn’t matter. It allowed him to check the faint memory of a Bible story which had been gnawing at him.
He sat down and thumbed through the book. Less than a month ago, in Sausalito, Ramon spoke to an invisible creature—or were they creatures?—that came from a distant star. The creature, called Legion, helped the Russians invade America, but Ramon persuaded it to let humans solve their own problems. The creature soon departed, which allowed the American army to push back against the Russian invasion. At last, the two countries negotiated—a distinct improvement over fighting.
Ramon found the passage he sought in the Gospel of Mark Chapter 5, verses 8 and 9: “For he said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit. And he asked him, What is thy name? And he answered, saying, My name is Legion: for we are many.”
Legion described itself as a creature from the stars, but Ramon saw parallels with a mischief-causing demon. Certainly the “heavens” the creature showed Ramon seemed more hellish than any angelic realm he’d ever imagined. Ramon pictured Legion as a swarm of tiny clockwork automata.
A knock at the cabin door interrupted Ramon’s thoughts. He looked back and made sure a blanket covered Fatemeh, then cracked the door open. A steward held a tray containing two breakfast plates and a carafe filled with coffee. “The captain’s compliments,” said the man.
Ramon thanked him and brought the tray inside and set it on the trunk at the foot of the bed. Fatemeh stirred and sat up.
“Well, good morning, sleepy-head,” said Ramon.
“If you hadn’t kept me awake so late, I would have been up earlier.” Fatemeh gave a sly grin. “Did I hear breakfast arrive?”
“Thanks to the captain.” Ramon handed her a plate with eggs, beans and chile, then poured the coffee and handed her a cup. She took a sip, sighed contentment, then dug into the hearty breakfast.
Ramon gathered up the second plate and cup, but felt uncomfortable and lazy as he returned to the chair. He’d been many things including a sheriff and a ranch hand. He enjoyed working, but Captain Cisneros insisted Ramon and Fatemeh were guests and must enjoy their time together. Despite his lethargy, Ramon’s stomach rumbled. He gulped down breakfast and sopped up the leftover egg yolks and chile with a tortilla.
“Slow down,” said Fatemeh. “You’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”
“I don’t know why I’m so hungry.”
She shrugged. “Must be the sea air.”
Glancing over at the tray, Ramon spotted a folded paper. He set the empty plate on the small table next to the Bible and read the note. “Captain Cisneros has invited us to visit him on deck after we finish breakfast.”
“Does he say what he wants?”
Ramon shook his head. The captain had been occupied since they boarded the ship and they only visited him once as guests for dinner. The newlyweds dressed and made themselves presentable then left the cabin. Ramon eyed the steamship’s steel girders with suspicion. Even though Fatemeh had explained it to him, Ramon found it counterintuitive that a steel vessel could float.
The two reached the companionway to the ship’s afterdeck. There, beside the rail, a man wearing denim trousers, a teal waistcoat and a white, peaked hat looked off into the distance. He turned around and removed his hat. “You look lovely today, Señora Morales.”
“Why thank you, Captain Cisneros.” Fatemeh curtsied. Ramon noted her grace, and tried to recall if she’d made the gesture before.
“When we first met, I had the privilege of taking you aboard the Legado.” The captain referred to a submersible he built based on a Spanish design. “Not only do I have a new ship, I have a new submersible as well.”
The captain led them to the ship’s stern, where he lifted the protective lid on a control pedestal. The captain pressed a button and a hatch slid aside. A mechanical rumbling sounded from below decks and a white, egg-shaped mechanism arose. Four fins, each resembling a ship’s rudder, encircled the stern. Round windows lined the vessel’s sides. Near the front, four long, arm-like cylinders protruded with finger-like claws. Ramon thought it resembled a stubby, pale squid with four tentacles instead of ten. The machine seemed ready to grapple some unseen foe.
A chemical reaction steam engine that vented into the cabin itself powered the captain’s prototype. If the steam engine had burned coal or wood, such venting would be fatal for the crew, but the captain’s craft used oxygen-producing chemicals.
Cisneros strutted alongside the strange craft and banged on its metal side. “I’ve made this new submersible much stronger than its predecessor.” He climbed up ladde
r rungs welded to the craft’s side, opened a hatch and then disappeared inside. With a whir and a hiss, the arms moved out to the side. The claws opened and closed. Afterward, doors opened near the craft’s keel. Hydraulics hissed and squeaked as a pair of continuous track treads similar to those on a steam tractor emerged.
The captain’s head protruded from the submersible’s hatch. “I can use the arms to repair ships under water. I can use the treads to work on a ship close to land or push a grounded craft into deeper water. I call this new submersible, Calamar.”
Ramon smiled, thinking the Spanish word for squid was indeed an apt name.
“It’s marvelous,” cried Fatemeh.
“You gave me the idea,” said the captain.
Ramon’s brow furrowed. “And the execution? This looks quite sophisticated, not unlike the Russian airships. How did you figure out how to build this craft?”
Cisneros pursed his lips. He left the submersible, then led Ramon and Fatemeh to the rail and looked out over the sea.
“I gather you know about the creature called Legion,” said Cisneros. “He split into multiple parts. Part remained with the Russians. Part traveled with Maravilla…”
The captain referred to an exiled Mexican professor who invented craft that flapped their wings to fly and an automaton disguised as a wolf. He’d also invented a mining machine called the Javelina, which wreaked havoc in Apache country southeast of Tucson. “Part of Legion went with you,” surmised Ramon.
“Legion has been a good companion.” Cisneros’s voice held a sorrowful note. “He guided me as I built my business, helping me choose good investments. He showed me better ways to build machines. He even helped me build better ships, such as the Ballena. A few more years under Legion’s tutelage and I could imagine Mexico surpassing the United States as the Western Hemisphere’s commercial leader.”
“Except if Legion’s influence continued—and he succeeded in his plans—there might be just one country and our emperor would be Czar Alexander.” Ramon folded his arms.
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