by Jean Rabe
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Introduction
CHANCE CORRIGAN AND THE QUEEN OF HEARTS
ABSINTHE-MINDED ARCHAEOLOGIST
THE PROBLEM OF TRYSTAN
CLOCKWORKS
IN THE BELLY OF THE BEHEMOTH
AUTOMATA FUTURA
LOVE COMES TO ABYSSAL CITY
FOR THE LOVE OF BYRON
FOR QUEEN AND COUNTRY
GRASPING AT SHADOWS
GO FORWARD WITH COURAGE
HER FAITH IS FIXT
KINETIC DREAMS
FOR THE LOVE OF COPPER
CASSANDRA’S KISS
DASHED HOPES
ABOUT THE EDITORS
“What?” was all I had time to say.
A klaxon sounded, loud and pulsing.
Lord Ashington’s face changed in an instant. “Clark, are you on the damned boilers?”
There was noise below as men shouted and ran.
The scaffolding lurched beneath my feet. I staggered. Lord Ashington wrapped his arm around my waist to steady me and grabbed for one of the braces with his free hand. He clasped me tight in a most inappropriate manner.
The machine he had been working on moved, lurching to rise to its feet. It was an automaton, fully twenty feet tall, and it turned a copper face toward the klaxon.
There’d be no help from below, as men raced to what appeared to be a boiler on the verge of boiling dry. Once again the automaton lurched. Ashington released me, thrusting me behind him as he turned to confront his creation, wrench in hand. The platform shuddered beneath our feet. “We have to stop it,” he yelled to me. “Or else it will—”
The automaton raised its hand, and whirling blades emerged inches from Ashington’s face.
I gripped my parasol and leaped to the attack.
—From “For Queen and Country”
by Elizabeth A. Vaughan
Also Available from DAW Books:
Boondocks Fantasy, edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg Urban fantasy is popular, but what if you took that modern fantasy and moved it to the “sticks,” with no big city in sight? Trailer parks, fishing shacks, sleepy little towns, or specks on the map so small that if you blink while driving through you’ll miss them. Vampires, wizards, aliens, and elves might be tired of all that urban sprawl and prefer a spot in the country—someplace where they can truly be themselves without worrying about what the neighbors think! With stories by tale-spinners such as Gene Wolfe, Timothy Zahn, Mickey Zucker Reichert, Anton Strout, Linda P. Baker and others.
Zombiesque ,edited by Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett, and Martin H. Greenberg
Zombies have long stalked and staggered through the darkest depths of human imagination, pandering to our fears about death and what lies beyond. But must zombies always be just shambling, brain-obsessed ghouls? If zombies actually maintained some level of personality and intelligence, what would they want more than anything? Could zombies integrate themselves into society? Could society accept zombies? What if a zombie fell in love? These are just some of the questions explored in original stories by Seanan McGuire, Nancy A. Collins, Tim Waggoner, Richard Lee Byers, Jim C. Hines, Jean Rabe, and Del Stone Jr. with others. Here’s your chance to take a walk on the undead side in these unforgettable tales told from a zombie’s point of view.
Steampunk’d, edited by Jean Rabe and Martin H. Greenberg
Science fiction is the literature of what if, and steampunk takes the what if along a particular time stream. What if steam power was the prime force in the Victorian era? How would that era change, and how would it change the future? From a Franco-British race for Kentucky coal to one woman’s determination to let no man come between her and her inventions . . . from “machine whisperers” to a Thomas Edison experiment gone awry, here are fourteen original tales of what might have been had steam powered the world in an earlier age, from Michael A. Stackpole, Donald J., Bingle, Robert Vardeman, Paul Genesse, Jody Lynn Nye, and others.
After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar, edited by Joshua Palmatier and Patricia Bray
The first bar, created by the Sumerians after they were given the gift of beer by the gods, was known as the Ur-Bar. Although it has since been destroyed, its spirit lives on. In each age there is one bar that captures the essence of the original Ur-Bar, where drinks are mixed with magic and served with a side of destiny and intrigue. Now some of today’s most inventive scriveners, such as Benjamin Tate, Kari Sperring, Anton Strout, and Avery Shade, among others, have decided to belly up to the Ur-Bar and tell their own tall tales—from an alewife’s attempt to transfer the gods’ curse to Gilgamesh, to Odin’s decision to introduce Vikings to the Ur-Bar . . . from the Holy Roman Emperor’s barroom bargain, to a demon hunter who may just have met his match in the ultimate magic bar, to a bouncer who discovers you should never let anyone in after hours in a world terrorized by zombies. . . .
eISBN : 978-1-101-53327-7
Copyright © 2011 by Jean Rabe and Tekno Books
All Rights Reserved
DAW Book Collectors No. 1551.
DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA).
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
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First Printing, June 2011
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Introduction © 2011 by Jean Rabe
“Chance Corrigan and the Queen of Hearts,” copyright © 2011 by Michael A. Stackpole
“Absinthe-Minded Archaeologist,” copyright © 2011 by Vicki Johnson-Steger
“The Problem of Trystan,” copyright © 2011 by Maurice Broaddus
“Clockworks,” copyright © 2011 by Jody Lynn Nye
“In the Belly of the Behemoth,” copyright © 2011 by Matt Forbeck
“Automata Futura,” copyright © 2011 by Stephen D. Sullivan
“Love Comes To Abyssal City,” copyright © 2011 by Tobias S. Buckell
“For the Love of Byron,” copyright © 2011 by Mickey Zucker Reichert
“For Queen and Country,” copyright © 2011 by Elizabeth A. Vaughan
“Grasping at Shadows,” copyright © 2011 by C.J. Henderson
“Go Forward With Courage,” copyright © 2011 by Dean Leggett
“Her Faith Is Fixt,” copyright © 2011 by The Cenotaph Corporation.
“Kinetic Dreams,” copyright © 2011 by C.A. Verstraete
“For the Love of Copper,” copyright © 2011 by Marc Tassin
“Cassandra’s Kiss,” copyright © 2011 by Mary Louise Eklund
“Dashed Hopes,” copyright © 2011 by Donald J. Bingle
INTRODUCTION
To me, the Victorian era is romantic all on its own. The dresses and music, lace doilies on decorative little tables, fluted glasses for wine, the soft glow of oil lamps . . . ah, to be transported there. But to be transported there with the use of a time machine, such as is available in “Kinetic Dreams,” is even better. The Victorian era is a little more interesting with a good dose of science fiction, steampunk style, thrown in.
Some of the authors in this collection were in DAW’s previous offering—Steampunk’d.
They even revisit their favorite characters in a romantic light.
As the title implies, these are all love stories—with varying degrees of steam to suit most tastes. But the tales are more than smoochy scenes filled with tender embraces and a few sweaty sheets. They are also filled with intrigue, danger, pyrotechnics, and plenty of gadgets. It wouldn’t be proper steampunk without some gadgets and airships and automatons and the like. There are even a few pairs of goggles in the mix.
The stories weave their way from England to the New World to Egypt and back again, from high above the earth to deep beneath it.
And all are centered on the heart—from Michael A. Stackpole’s Queen of Hearts to the one beating in Jody Lynn Nye’s tale.
This one’s for you, Marty.
Enjoy! I certainly did.
—Jean
CHANCE CORRIGAN AND THE QUEEN OF HEARTS
Michael A. Stackpole
Michael A. Stackpole is an award-winning writer, screenwriter, podcaster, game and computer game designer, and graphic novelist. One of his recent novels, At the Queen’s Command, is the first in his Crown Colonies series. He lives in Arizona and, in his spare time, enjoys indoor soccer and dancing. His website is www.stormwolf.com.
I
Chance Corrigan emerged from the shadowed doorway and fell in step with the woman. None too gently, he took her right elbow in his left hand. “Keep walking, my lady.”
Her blue eyes sparked hotly. “How dare . . .”
“I’m not with them.” Chance cast a glance back over his left shoulder, the mechanical eye clicking once. “I’m here to save you.”
She failed to wrench her arm free, so she raised a heel to kick him. Chance, expecting that, leaned into her, throwing her off balance. Her gown’s long skirts would have rendered the kick less than effective, but now they tangled her legs. Save for his hand on her arm, and his right hand quickly slipping around her waist, she would have fallen onto a wet Monaco street.
Her two pursuers sprinted forward. Both wore evening clothes, the trailing man having donned a thick overcoat and bowler hat. The younger man, wasp-waisted, his blond hair slicked back in the manner of the day, raised a hand. “I say, you there, unhand her.” His accent, the product of generational inbreeding and the finest of British public schools, rendered his English all but incomprehensible.
Chance turned, interposing himself between them and their petite, flame-haired prey. “‘Unhand her?’ I ain’t gonna hurt her. Or are you afraid I’ll do a better job than you?”
“Beastly American idiot.” The gentleman snapped fingers. “Stockton, the convincers, please.”
The larger man mutely raised the valise and managed to open it, all the while keeping his master’s coat folded across his left forearm and his hat balanced on top. The gentleman reached into the leather handbag and pulled out two stainless steel rectangles about the size of a cigarette case, with the thickness of two stacked card decks. He set one on the back of his left hand and punched a button, then did the same with the other on his right hand.
With a whirring of gears, flaps opened and levers flipped. Metal rods covered the man’s fingers to the first knuckle. More steel looped his palm, and then the boxes began to flip backward, somersaulting over his forearm and past his elbow. Slender rails clicked into place, paralleling his bones. Other metal hoops shot out, encircling his limbs. The skeletal supports covered him to just above his biceps, the stainless steel flashing in the streetlight.
Chance released the woman and clapped politely. “Those’ll wrinkle your jacket.”
The slender man snorted. “Stockton is good with wrinkles.”
Chance’s good eye narrowed as he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “You couldn’t have known I’d be here. You brought them to use on her.”
The aristocrat gave him a thin smile. “I am always prepared in case of chicanery. Virginia Greene defrauded me of £5,000.”
Chance smiled and looked back at her. “Ginnie, you’ve been very bad. Worse than Bremen. Who’s the sport?”
He answered before she could. “I am Reginald Trent, Viscount Moulton.”
Chance canted his head. “Your reputation says you’re a gentleman. You’re just a common thug.”
Trent banged his fists together and smiled at the din. “I prefer to think of myself as pragmatic.”
Chance stepped back, exposing Virginia to her pursuer’s view. “I ain’t here to be her champion. I’ll just hold her cloak as she cleans your clock.”
That got a chuckle from her and a hiss from Trent.
“Of course, for a sporting guy, there is an alternative. How’d she swindle you?”
“Chemin de fer.”
“Only £5,000?” Chance slowly shook his head. “Surprised you’re bothered. That ain’t much at all.”
The viscount hesitated. “It is the principle of the thing.”
“Yeah, I had you pegged as a man of principle. Here’s the game, sport. Double or nothing on your losses.” Chance pointed up toward the well-lit body of the orbiting HMAS Fortune. “I’ll stake you, then whip you for my money back. That’s if you really is a gaming man.”
Trent sniffed. “As if they would even allow you aboard.”
“Wanna bet they won’t?” Chance’s right hand came out of his pocket and flipped something toward Trent. “You’ll lose.”
The nobleman caught the disk awkwardly, then slowly turned it over in his palm. His lips parted and eyes widened. “A £10,000 chip from the Fortune?”
“That do as proof?”
“Marginally.” Trent lifted his head and sniffed. “I would have your name.”
“Tomorrow night, if I figure you earned it.”
“It shall be a pleasure to take your money.”
“A pleasure you ain’t likely to know.” Chance turned and this time, instead of grabbing the woman’s arm, he presented his to her. She smiled and slipped her right hand inside his elbow. She rested her head on his shoulder as they paraded off into the darkness.
Beyond the next corner, Virginia Greene, her eyes tight, looked up at him. “I would have known you even without the mention of Bremen. Shall I just use your old name?”
“The old one is fine.” She continued to watch his face, unseen, she thought, by him since his mechanical eye remained focused straight ahead. He shifted his voice, draining the growl from it. “ ‘Virginia Greene’ suits you. I like it better than the other one. Good to see you’re doing well.”
She laughed easily. “And you have come up in the world. No longer a mere stevedore.”
“Luck favors the bold.”
“I doubt you were ever a mere stevedore.”
“Charming as always.” Chance patted her hand, relishing its softness. “So how is it that Trent figured out your swindle? Taking money off him should have been simple. You were working the build-the-banco swindle, yes?”
“I don’t know how he twigged to it. He fully believed I was blackmailing the man who maintains the Grand Casino’s automaton dealers.” She frowned. The severe expression accentuated her vulpine beauty, inspiring a flutter in Chance’s belly. “I took my exit at the right time, but he followed me instead of waiting for the kill. I appreciate your intervention. No hard feelings over Bremen?”
“Which part? Your seducing the Chief of the Constabulary to get out of jail or your abandoning me to the agents of the Lithverian prince?”
She stopped, turning to face him, her hand pressed against his chest. “I tried, but the Chief was jealous and thought you were my lover. Then the prince’s men arrived.” She glanced down. “It broke my heart . . .”
The growl returned. “They worked on other bits of me.”
She lifted her face again, tears welling. “I am so very sorry.”
“I healed.” He nodded. “I gave as good as I got.”
“That was you? Oh, God,” she shivered. Her hand shifted, grabbing a handful of his wool coat’s lapel. “Now you’ve come for me?”
“I n
eed someone with your skills.” Chance smiled broadly. “I have some big fish to fry.”
Her face lit up. “I do so want to make amends.” She pointed toward the center of the principality. “I’ll just return to my hotel—these events have fatigued me. We can meet for breakfast.”
“Ginnie, I was born at night, but not last night.” He led her across the square to La Maison Rouge. “I have the Imperial Suite. Wonderful view of the sea. I already sent for your things. The concierge was beside himself with joy that my fiancée was able to join me.”
“You presume greatly.”
“The Josephine Suite is yours. The hotel’s top floor is ours and ours alone.”
“Oh.” Her lower lip pushed out into a pout and he resisted the urge to caress it. He led her up the hotel’s broad granite steps and into a cavernous lobby. Marble pillars upheld a vaulted ceiling. Murals with cherubs and scenes from Greek mythology adorned the walls. Chance’s heels clicked on the checkerboard marble of the foyer.
The lift operator, very sharp in his dark green uniform, touched his cap’s visor. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Bonsoir, Monsieur Corrigan.”
“Bonsoir, Philippe. The suite, please. No one to go up or down until I call in the morning? No visitors.”
“Oui, Monsieur. Je comprend.”
She said nothing as the operator closed the brass gate, then cranked the lever. The lift started upward with a squeal. Chance pulled her back with him against the warm walnut panels. Philippe stared straight ahead, but she remained quiet. Still, she watched him, searching his face with renewed interest.
