by Anthology
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“It’s German,” he replied. “I think that’s appropriate, don’t you? Her maiden voyage embarked from Vienna, so yes, I think it’s quite fitting.”
I found his oblique response somewhat troubling but nodded and took my station in the engine room as we readied for flight. There was much to do, and there would be ample opportunity to discuss such matters later. For the moment, untold adventure lay before us, beckoning.
“Ensign Valkusian!” bellowed Hogalum, “set a course for Antares!” Cerebelli began an abstruse discourse on the comparative remoteness of astronomical bodies, whereupon the bridge erupted in spirited contention, the natural order of things, it seemed.
The Luftigel’s great engines roared to life, and we were airborne once again.
Pain
Rigel Ordinario
Gyras
Concretan, the Walled City
Steam billows up my spine
Upon quadrupedal humawalker,
Humming as it treads on arid soil
Splayed with dead vermilion,
Framed by war and toil.
The Beast, my uncle calls it,
Rattles chains in iron cage.
Or is it that broken gusset
Dangling by the engine?
I notice clouds above the war fields:
Bright cracks upon such ceiling drab
For paladins to photosynthesize;
Infuse steel with “godly precision” —
Mere weapons to proselytize;
Absurdity — for gods do not exist,
Not where man has built their own.
Uncle deems the spot be perfect,
Where barrier’s shadow grants seclusion
From unfitful eyes that buy confusion.
The engine grunts a’halt.
Feet alight upon the ground,
As Beast snarls in captivity —
Eyes, oh, eyes of ruby shade:
Such pain must lie beneath . . .
I shake myself from sympathy,
For there shall lie delay of progress
And decay of reason, says my uncle.
No colder words have befallen my heart;
Granted, that my heart runs only clockwork
And has never known the heat of spring.
Doubt passes over Uncle’s eyes —
But he knows that doubt be hindrance,
Should freedom we commit forevermore.
“Turn the knob,” he orders me,
With wrinkled arms trembling.
“Turn the knob that we may see
Those paladins be immolated.”
Frangible hinge creaks at the touch —
Perforce, I find myself upon the ground!
A glimpse upon those ruby eyes,
As I lie and watch him kiss me —
Pain!
Pain.
Vicious fire benumbs my arm
Where lips pressed onto skin —
Pain.
As shadow recedes into shadow,
Ruby eyes are lost.
Night looms over Uncle’s face.
I cannot feel my arm.
I cannot feel, but for silent ticking
Within my corpse.
Steampunk Rat
reviewed by Mandy Alyss Brown
Airship nominee and Boston Metaphysical Society’s creator, Madeline Holly-Rosing, brings her fans Steampunk Rat, a steampunk novella from the same world. Readers learn about the Weldsmore family and their aristocratic politics through the eyes of Jonathan, the youngest Weldsmore, and his rat, Tinker. In this YA novella, Jonathan finds Tinker crushed at the side of the road and decides to fix her broken limbs with mechanical ones. He then hides her from his high-nosed grandmother. As Tinker gets loose and Jonathan’s brother Hal makes unwise decisions, Jonathan must rise above his brother and grandmother’s petty, irresponsible behavior and save everyone with his wits and Tinker’s help.
Steampunk Rat has wonderful images for the reader that pull double-duty by also providing characterization. In describing Beatrice, Jonathan’s stuck-up grandmother, Holly-Rosing gives the reader a Medusa image: “a high bodice and a black corset laced with pearls, skeins of copper wire wound their way up and around her dress like snakes with no end and no beginning.” The reference is taken further to describe Beatrice’s character: “Unlike Medusa, Beatrice Weldsmore had no fear or regrets when she looked in the mirror. Needless to say, several mirrors were placed strategically around the . . . room allowing Beatrice a clear view into every corner where someone might be talking behind her back.” With these few lines, Holly-Rosing gave me an interesting image of Beatrice and a complete understanding of her character’s priorities. I also enjoyed the characterization shown between Tinker and Jonathan while they went through the motions of rat therapy in the beginning of the story. It created a tenderness to Jonathan that made him instantly likeable.
Elizabeth J. Jackson Copyright 2012
Steampunk Rat switches between Tinker and Jonathan’s point of view, and by adding the innocent perspective of a cyborg rat, Holly-Rosing also creates humor within her novella. For instance, when everyone is in danger and about to die, it’s Tinker who can save them with the help of Jonathan. In a moment of great tension, when the reader still doesn’t know whether Tinker will survive or not, Holly-Rosing writes, “It was only [Tinker’s] love and devotion to Jonathan which urged her forward. And the thought of a really big cracker.” This last line breaks the tension, and the humor wasn’t lost to me. The scene in which Beatrice Weldsmore meets Tinker for the first time is also humorous, but I won’t spoil it here.
The pacing may appear odd to a modern reader. It was for me. While I found the exposition interesting, it took a while for me to understand where the story was headed. It seems Holly-Rosing paints the setting and situation in detail first, and the pace doesn’t pick up until Tink and Beatrice meet. Because the story is only about 75 pages by Amazon’s estimate, I didn’t mind being in the dark for a while, and young adult readers may not have any issue with it at all.
As with many self-published ebooks, there are errors within Steampunk Rat. Occasionally there is a missing comma or a run-on sentence. However, while coming upon these errors may have been annoying, it never hindered my understanding of the story. So while presentation may be compromised, the story was clear, and it won’t keep me from reading more of Holly-Rosing’s work.
Steampunk Rat is available Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Smashwords for $0.99. It’s an enjoyable read and a simple introduction to the world of steampunk for any young adult reader. You can keep up to date with or learn more about the Boston Metaphysical Society at http://www.bostonmetaphysicalsociety.com/.
Mandy Brown was given a free copy of Steampunk Rat in return for a fair and honest review. Neither she nor eSteampunk was promised anything in return.
Black Dragon Blues
Episode One — Underwater Assassination
Brent Nichols
Cornelius Horne stepped down from his carriage and gazed up at the bulk of the ant. A hundred feet long, thirty feet wide, the steel carapace was suspended a dozen feet in the air on eight spindly, jointed legs. Travelling at a majestic twenty miles per hour, it was about to take him from London to Calais in less than five hours. He could make the same time by train and steam packet, but it pleased him to ride aboard the very pinnacle of human engineering.
He gestured to the broad-shouldered young man behind him as he strode to the ticket window. It irked him to employ a bodyguard. A proper Englishman ought to take care of his own defense, but three Members of Parliament had been murdered — and gruesomely — in the last ten days,
and Horne had not risen to his current heights by taking foolish chances.
Burnsley was a low type, a former infantryman and not much good for conversation, but Horne was finding him dashed useful for lugging suitcases and the like. The bodyguard trudged along behind him now, lugging Horne’s bulging valise and a smaller haversack with his own possessions.
Horne presented himself at the ticket window, leaning his ample stomach against the counter and paid for two tickets, one way. Then he strode to the rolling staircase that led up to the passenger compartments of the ant.
In his youth he might have sprung nimbly up the steps, but Horne was in his sixties now, and the last few decades had been full of good food and easy living. He was wheezing by the time he reached the top. He pushed his tickets at a steward and staggered into the front passenger car.
The passenger area resembled a series of Pullman cars mounted atop the carapace of the ant. There were six short cars, richly appointed, each with room for a dozen passengers. The current car was too crowded for his liking, so Horne lumbered to the connecting door.
At the very back of the ant he found an empty car and settled himself into a seat with a sigh. The motion of the machine was disagreeable to some passengers, and it was worst at the back, but Horne had spent ten years in the Royal Navy. After a winter in the Atlantic, the gyrations of the ant didn’t bother him in the slightest. Burnsley would be looking a little green by the time they reached Calais, but that was his problem.
The car was fitted with round portholes, but Horne ignored the view, instead pulling out a folder of correspondence. He would get some work done as he travelled. He barely noticed when the ant trembled, rose several more feet, and set off at a swaying walk across the English countryside.
He didn’t look up when the door to the compartment clicked open. Then a voice with an odd lilting accent said, “Sir? May I bring you a drink?”
He looked up, and his eyebrows rose. The stewardess, dressed demurely in the blue and white livery of the Blue Star Steam Company, was Chinese. He stared at her. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been this close to an Asian before, not counting Indians. Certainly not to an Asian woman so young and pretty.
“Sir? Would you like a drink? Sir?”
“Oh! Yes, of course. Gin and tonic. Not too stingy with the gin, mind you.”
She smiled and nodded, turning away, and he took a peek at her ankles. Very trim. She had long, dark hair gathered up in a bun with a couple of sticks through it to hold it in place. Her movements were graceful and athletic as she moved down the length of the compartment, swaying with the motion of the ant. She spoke briefly with Burnsley, who smiled foolishly, and left.
The drink didn’t have as much gin as he might have liked, but it kept thirst at bay as the vast machine lumbered to the coast. They stopped in Folkestone to take on coal, and when the ant began to move again, Horne set down his paperwork and leaned closer to the porthole. However worldly a man might become, some sights simply shouldn’t be ignored.
The ant marched past the coal station and directly toward the calm blue expanse of the English Channel. Forward it marched, as inexorable as human progress, and Horne grinned like a schoolboy. The marvellous machine reached the water’s edge and didn’t even slow down. With his head pressed against the glass, Horne could just see the front leg of the ant as it sank delicately into the water. Two more steps put the second set of legs into the water as well. By the time the third set was wet, the waves were lapping at the bottom of the carapace at the front.
Horne peered behind them and watched the last leg step off dry land and into the channel. He could sense the movement of the ant changing as waves lapped against the steel body. On they went, the water growing deeper, until at last the waves were slapping directly against Horne’s porthole. Then the compartment went dark as the ant slipped completely beneath the surface.
Gas lights hissed and the compartment grew brighter. Horne chuckled and looked at Burnsley. The oaf was rigid in his seat, knuckles white, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Horne shook his head in disgust. The man was a simpleton.
The ant marched on at the same speed it had maintained on dry land, and Horne reached again for his paperwork. The door clicked open, and he glanced up, expecting to see the attractive stewardess.
It was a man who stood framed in the doorway, a businessman in a dove-grey suit and a silk top hat. His eyes were fixed on Horne. Brown eyes, almond-shaped. Horne grunted in surprise. Two Asians in one day!
The stranger stepped forward and closed the compartment door behind him. He was somewhere in his thirties, slim and fit. He was quite small, but something about him made Horne think of a hunting cat. He sensed that if the ant lost its footing and went tumbling onto its side, this man would land on his feet.
Those dark eyes were still fixed on Horne, a little unsettling in their glittering intensity. He spoke, his voice mild, his accent a little more pronounced than the girl’s had been. “You are Mr. Horne, yes?”
Horne’s mouth was strangely dry. He didn’t answer, just nodded. The man stepped forward, and Burnsley, sensing the tension in the air, stood to block his path.
The little Asian man looked up at the looming bodyguard and smiled. “You are very big,” he said. There was a sudden flash of movement, a sound of impact, and Burnsley sat down. “I can still reach your jaw, though.”
Burnsley sagged over in his seat, and the man stepped past him. Horne felt a surge of fear and confusion, and suppressed it. It was time to take charge of the situation. He looked the Asian in the eye and snapped, “What’s the meaning of this?”
A slim hand dipped into a pocket, and Horne tensed. He relaxed only slightly when the hand came out holding a length of black cord. “My employers are not pleased with you, Mr. Horne,” the Asian said. “They have been looking at your voting record in Parliament. You have been making some very poor choices.”
“Now, look here,” Horne blustered, fear and outrage battling for dominance within him. “I won’t be bullied!”
“I know,” said the man, and he sprang. He was a blur of motion, impossibly fast, bouncing forward, putting his hands on the seat backs in front of him, and sailing over Horne’s head to land in the seat behind. Horne didn’t even have time to turn his head before the black cord dropped around his neck.
The cord tightened, pulling Horne’s body against the back of the seat. The cord bit into the arteries on either side of his neck. In seconds the compartment seemed to be spinning around him. His vision went black, everything felt far away, and with only moments of consciousness left, he reached up and clawed at the cord with both hands.
He still couldn’t breathe, but blood was reaching his brain now. He pulled frantically at the cord, trying to inhale, trying to scream. He threw himself sideways, but his back was hard against the seat, and he barely moved. Burnsley was inert, useless. Horne’s lungs were on fire, and the cord felt as if it were crushing his larynx. Dark spots appeared in his vision, slowly growing larger, and he knew the end was near.
The compartment door opened. It was the stewardess, and Horne felt his heart sink. She would scream, people would come, but it would all be much too late.
She stepped into the compartment, the door clicked shut behind her, and she reached up and drew one of the sticks from the bun in her hair. She pulled on both ends of the stick, and it came apart like a sword cane, revealing a four-inch blade. With a quick motion she threw.
The pressure was suddenly gone from Horne’s throat. He drew in great panting breaths and watched astonished as the assassin and his protector fought for their lives, and his.
The man sprang past Horne, lunging at the woman, and she took a half-step back. He launched a flurry of kicks and punches, and she blocked and dodged, giving ground reluctantly. It was a small compartment; she would not be able to retreat for long.
Then the man sprang upward, high enough for his legs to clear the seat backs. He launched a kick that came sweeping around like a scythe made of flesh and bone. The woman dodged back, the foot missed her by less than an inch, and she lunged at him before he could recover.
For a moment they were locked together, straining, and then he pushed her back. They tumbled to the floor, rolled together down the aisle, and came up against the compartment door. He was on top, with the strangling cord in one hand. He had it twisted around her neck, and her face was turning red. He used his other hand to fend off her counter-attacks.
She was going to die. Horne knew it. She would die, and then the assassin would turn his attention back to Horne. Well, he was an Englishman, not a trussed goose. Horne lunged out of his seat, darted to Burnsley’s side, tore at the man’s jacket, and at last found the revolver Burnsley wore under one arm.
A small voice in his head reminded him of something he had once read: a gun fired inside the ant might crack a porthole or rupture the skin of the passenger compartment. He might kill everyone. That voice of caution, though, was overwhelmed by a rising terror. He dragged the pistol from the holster, levelled it at the two Asians, and squeezed the trigger.
There was an impotent click, and both Asians looked at him. Sobbing in frustration, Horne stared at the gun, then remembered that he had to cock it first. He dragged the hammer back, and the two fighters looked at each other.
As he levelled the gun, they moved. The man rolled hard toward Horne, the woman rolled with him, and her foot lashed out, connecting with the barrel of the pistol. Horne felt his trigger finger break, and the gun went sailing over his shoulder. He sank back into his seat, cradling his hand and whimpering.
