eSteampunk Vol. 01 No. 02

by Anthology

  Through all of it the man had kept his grip on the cord, which was still around the woman’s neck. He yanked hard. She stumbled back, and he slammed her down onto the floor. She landed on her side, and he knelt over her, twisting the cord tight.

  For a moment they strained against each other. Then her hand went into her hair, and she pulled out the remaining stick. A quick flick of her wrist exposed the blade, and she sliced through the black cord.

  The man sprang back as she slashed at him. He leaped to the top of a seat back, crouching so his head would clear the ceiling, and she jumped after him. For a moment they faced each other, each with a foot on the back of two different seats. Then came a flurry of kicks and punches, too fast for Horne to follow. At the end of it the man’s suit was sliced open along the forearm, blood dripping freely.

  Horne turned his gaze to the woman. She had a hand pressed to her side, her face tight with pain. The little knife was gone.

  She spoke to him in Chinese, a good telling-off if Horne was any judge, and he leaped at her. She swayed to one side, and his foot just brushed her ribs an instant before he crashed into her. They tumbled to the floor together, rolling and grunting, and Horne heard a loud ‘pop,’ for all the world like a cork coming out of a champagne bottle.

  The man was flat on his back, she was over him, and she started to rise. He brought one knee up, and it slammed into her side and sent her tumbling into the seats. He sprang to his feet, but his right arm hung strangely at his side. Horne bared his teeth in a fierce smile. The man’s shoulder was dislocated.

  The assassin spun, used his good arm to open the compartment door, slipped through, and was gone.

  After a moment the girl rose slowly to her feet. She turned to Horne. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes. That was absolutely—”

  She had already turned away. She leaned over Burnsley, then straightened. “He will be all right as well.” She turned to face Horne again, her face somber.

  “Thank you, Miss.” He felt strangely tongue-tied. “You saved my life.”

  There was contempt in her voice. “When Chinese agents murder Englishmen on English soil, life becomes harder for Chinese everywhere. I did not do it for you.”

  “Now look here,” he said, indignant. “What’s your problem with me?” He gestured at the door the assassin had left through. “What’s his problem with me? What have I done?”

  Her lip curled. “You voted in Parliament to continue the export of opium to China. You spoke in favour of the blockade of Hong Kong. You wish to prevent the Emperor from enforcing the law against opium. It was wrong. It was worse than wrong, but you did it anyway.”

  He felt the colour rising in his face. If there was one thing Cornelius Horne would not stand for, it was being bullied. “Stop right there, young lady. If you think I’ll change my vote in Parliament, just because you saved my life—”

  “No.” She was sneering at him openly now. “I don’t expect you to do that. I don’t expect you to do what’s right. I expect you to be venal and contemptible.” For a moment she gazed into his eyes with something close to wistfulness. “But I hope I’m wrong.”

  The ant tilted slightly, the rocking motion increased, and he heard waves sloshing against the sides of the compartment. The gaslights dimmed as sunlight came streaming through the portholes.

  “You will be safe now,” she said. “Chen will flee as soon as we stop. I must go after him.” Without another word she slipped from the compartment.

  Burnsley sat up, rubbing his jaw, as the ant lurched to a halt. He stared around, bleary-eyed. “What happened? What did I miss?”

  “Not much,” Horne growled. “Just a foreign policy negotiation. I don’t know why people can’t just ask nicely. Come on, we have a train to catch. Oh, and pick up your pistol. It’s on the floor somewhere.”

  Horne shifted in his seat, and something brushed his shoulder. He turned. A knife was buried to the hilt in the back of the seat. The handle was plain brown wood, but the blade was a marvel, slender and flexible, sharp enough that he nicked himself when he touched it, engraved with a tiger so perfectly realized he had expected to see the tail twitch.

  He thought of the marvellous skill that must have gone into creating it, and the skill that had gone into wielding it. Maybe there was more to China than he’d properly realized. Maybe a flood of opium wasn’t quite what was called for, after all.

  Burnsley was on his feet, looking pale. “Are you alright?” Horne asked sharply.

  Burnsley nodded. “I think so, Guv.”

  “Good.” He gestured with his good hand. “Help me pick up my papers.” Horne watched the bodyguard scoop up his correspondence and frowned. He had a lot to think about on the way to Paris.

  Look for the second episode of Black Dragon Blues in our third issue of eSteampunk!

  The Incurable Weight of the Breathless

  Angel Zapata

  If I hold my breath long enough,

  the oxygen absence arouses

  an instinctual modicum of defense,

  sparks a chemical, involuntary reaction.

  Prior to turning my panic-stricken face azure,

  blood molecules translate to helium.

  I’m able to float, tower above the metropolis

  with playful thoughts of balloons without air.

  Children huddle beneath my shrinking shadow,

  leap for my bare feet in astonishment.

  I never achieve that perfect elevation of clouds

  before I fall— a dawdling, hirsute helix—

  into grass blade quivers or mechanized rivers.

  Spectators spin parasols, tip top hats,

  volunteer the crook of arms for fear the earth

  engines will once again release me from gravity.

  Sometimes, inappropriately, I drift

  in conversation, permit words to sprout wings;

  hover as doves. They swarm, thrash against

  the ceiling as gaslight vapors. I employ

  these vulnerabilities and hide my face;

  envision the birds that flutter at vein hollows

  until I’m breathless and the coal-burnt sky

  opens her reluctant mouth to sing.

  New city physicians explore these brain folds,

  collapse me to smoke and mirrors, parlor trick.

  Years ago, the cogwheel surgeons — eyes

  punctuated by monocles — pioneered the scar;

  this ability to soar, approach stars. No more!

  Now I steam lungs to capacity, stitch shut nostrils

  and lips. Their science will fail to contain me

  as my silence offers the only escape.

  The Shadow of

  Black Wings

  reviewed by Brandon Bachman

  Listed among Amazon’s Top Ten Bestsellers in alternate history, James Calbraith’s The Shadow of Black Wings (the first in a trilogy collectively titled The Year of the Dragon) is an adventurous exploration sure to please fans of steampunk and fantasy.

  The Shadow of Black Wings begins with Bran (no, not Stark), a young man recently graduated from a magical Academy, and his dragon, Emrys. Bran succumbs to the ennui of post-graduate life, and, coming across a journal written at sea by his grandfather, is immediately taken by the idea of travelling the world. His father, who works for the government, agrees to allow Bran along on what should be a relatively safe trip. Bran eventually meets Sato and Nagomi, two young girls living in the eastern land of Yamato. His presence there complicates things for Sato, whose father is involved in a burgeoning political plot.

  One can immediately see the parallels to other fantasy works. Harry Potter springs to mind, but so does the more recent Kingkiller Chronicles by Patr
ick Rothfuss. Calbraith is smart to start the book with Bran’s graduation, foregoing the territory that so many others have tread.

  Following this trend, Calbraith weaves a story that is wholly original while following the traditional fantasy tropes. The use of an Asian (albeit fictionalized) locale is something not often seen in fantasy, which concerns itself mostly with pseudo-European settings.

  The novel is a curious mix of genres. Part traditional fantasy, part steampunk, it weaves the best parts of both while leaving most of the clichés behind. The world uses steam power — called mistfire here — but beyond that, most of the traditional steampunk elements are not the focal point of the story. Instead, Calbraith uses the spirit of steampunk. A sense of adventure — of a new, dangerous world waiting to be explored — pervades the novel.

  The novel’s greatest strength is the world in which it takes place. It is marvelously detailed. Reading The Shadow of Black Wings, you can tell that Calbraith knows more about this world than he puts on the page and that, like the best works of speculative fiction, the world it takes place in exists as more than mere set dressing. This depth lends the novel its credibility. Despite the dragons and the magic, the story feels as if it might really have occurred.

  The novel’s setting can sometimes be a double-edged sword, however. With a whole new world of nations and cultures (though one based on our own), things can occasionally be a little confusing, with the information about the world alternating between being oblique and over-expository. Fortunately, Calbraith provides a history of the world on his website (in addition to a glossary of terms) to straighten out any confusion readers may have.

  While interesting, the novel’s plot moves very slowly. Though the novel’s synopsis gives the impression that most of the action takes place in Yamato, the opposite is true. Roughly halfway through, the action switches to Yamato, a change that feels jarring and abrupt. Even then, the action follows Sato and Nagomi for close to sixty pages before they encounter Bran. I wondered, while reading this section of the novel, why those sixty pages hadn’t been included earlier in the novel, interspersed between those that follow Bran. There are also a number of grammatical errors throughout the novel, which occasionally give it a less-than-professional feel.

  Overall, the book is enjoyable, but never exemplary. Readers may be divided on the book’s plot, as it exists more as the first act of a longer story than it does as a whole story in and of itself. Though slow, the novel begins to pick up towards the end, and there are hints of further intrigue to follow in the second and third volumes. Despite its flaws, the novel was entertaining enough to persuade me to read the second and third volumes, titled The Warrior’s Soul and The Islands in the Mist.

  The Shadow of Black Wings is available through Amazon for e-readers for $3.50 or in paperback for $11.99 from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. James Calbraith’s website can be viewed at http://jamescalbraith.wordpress.com/

  Brandon Bachman purchased his own copy of this book for an honest review. Neither he nor eSteampunk was compensated or promised anything in exchange.

  The Case of the Night-walking Automaton

  George S. Walker

  “The thefts occurred here,” said Mr. Caldwell of the Bank of England.

  Miss Holmes and I stood in the vault of his Paris branch, surrounded by walls of small steel compartments. Those compartments concealed enormous wealth.

  “Since I wrote to Sherlock Holmes,” he continued, “two more thefts have occurred, Mr. Booth.” The banker clasped his hands anxiously. “I had hoped that as a fellow Englishman, Mr. Holmes would respond more quickly.”

  “Mr. Holmes’ demise was unexpected,” I said. “You were fortunate that I am here in Paris as his solicitor, delivering his unsolved case files to his French daughter.”

  “I was not aware that the esteemed Mr. Holmes was married.”

  The young woman rolled her eyes, and I gave an embarrassed cough. Miss Holmes had no patience for the expectations of polite society.

  “Would you indicate the burgled compartments, s’il vous plaît?” she asked.

  As he had previously, the banker feigned an inability to understand her Parisian accent. He would communicate only with me, as if I were a medium for the late Sherlock Holmes’ spirit. I repeated her question to Mr. Caldwell.

  He referred to his ledger book and pointed out the four compartments. All four were within the same steel wall, but not in close proximity. Unlocking any security box required two keys: one possessed by the bank and one by the client. No client was allowed in the vault without the presence of a bank employee.

  “Clearly an inside job,” I stated, using the vernacular of crime novels I had read.

  The banker frowned. “I assure you that all my men are of the most upright moral character.”

  Miss Holmes took a vanity compact from her handbag. Opening it, she blew puffs of white powder around one of the security boxes the banker had pointed out.

  Mr. Caldwell looked aghast. “What is the woman doing?”

  “Observe the circles,” said Miss Holmes.

  I saw that the dust faintly outlined circles approximately two inches in diameter. Miss Holmes and her compact followed the trail of them horizontally and vertically. The trail ended at a box below the level of her bodice. She blew more powder around that box.

  “Nine sets of tracks,” she said. “Nine boxes have been burgled.”

  “Nine!” exclaimed the banker, not bothering to conceal that he understood her this time. “Not possible. There were only four thefts.”

  “Four reported so far,” she said. “Who owns this box, s’il vous plaît?”

  He turned to me, obliging me to repeat her question, then replied, “The Bank of England honors the confidentiality of its clients.”

  “If you wish the crime solved,” she insisted, “I must examine the contents of this box.”

  After much protestation, Mr. Caldwell agreed to open the box using the bank’s master keys, but not in our presence. We seated ourselves comfortably in leather armchairs in the client parlor, where a French butler offered us tea.

  After a few minutes the banker rejoined us, a puzzled expression on his face. “You may inspect the contents.”

  His change of heart surprised me, but I soon saw the reason. He had slid the drawer out of the compartment, setting it on a marble tabletop. Within, almost filling the box, lay the most curious piece of machinery I had ever seen.

  Miss Holmes pushed me aside for a better view.

  “Babbage cards,” she murmured, indicating a rack of cards in the mechanism. “But miniaturized as I have never seen.”

  “For a Difference Engine?”

  “Far cleverer than that, monsieur. Do you hear the ticking?”

  I heard a noise within the apparatus. “Perhaps it is a music box.”

  She gave her quiet French laugh, then lifted the mechanism from the drawer. Cradling it like a baby, she pointed out details of its construction.

  “Observe the clock here, monsieur. Not set to the current time, but running in reverse, counting time until the automaton is activated at night. These sets of wheels are rimmed with India rubber suction cups that press against the smooth wall to ensure an adhesive seal.” She turned the mechanism upside down. “Do you see the two keys held by clamps? The automaton walks along the wall like a wall lizard, measuring out steps as instructed by the Babbage cards. When it reaches the compartment to be burgled, it extends and turns the keys, partially withdraws the drawer and transfers the contents to its holding bin.”

  “And then returns here,” I marveled, “where the owner of this box removes the contents when the bank reopens the next day.”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “I shall notify the authorities at once,” said the banker, his face flushed, “and have the sc
oundrel apprehended.”

  “It will be in the Paris journals, of course,” said Miss Holmes casually. “Nine boxes burgled at the Bank of England.”

  The blood drained from the banker’s face. “The publicity!”

  “My associate and I could … ” she offered.

  “Apprehend the thief? Jolly good!”

  “But we can’t — ” I began.

  Miss Holmes kicked my shin sharply, barely ruffling her skirts. Mr. Caldwell saw nothing.

  “We are honored to offer assistance,” she said. “We shall require the name and address of the owner of this compartment, as well as those of the burgled compartments.”

  Mr. Caldwell nodded understandingly. “So as to recover the stolen property, of course.”

  Miss Holmes and I left the bank shortly thereafter, list in hand.

  “Are you daft?” I hissed. “I am no pugilist. What if this thief is a hardened criminal, even armed?”

  “That should be the least of your concerns,” said Miss Holmes demurely, “for we are dealing with a secretive brotherhood, not just one man.”

  “What?!”

  “When I turned over the automaton, I observed a symbol on its base for les fils de Napoléon: the Sons of Napoleon.”

  “Then we must certainly go to the police!”

  “The motives and methods of les fils de Napoléon are obscure, Monsieur Booth. But one thing that is certain is that their members pervade many elements of French society. The gendarmes, for example.”