Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam

by Jeffrey Thomas

  There.

  Squinting, Corwin could see the rungs of the ladder leading up to the hatch. There it was, right where he’d put it. Right where it was meant to be. Like Providence. And he let himself believe that, because he was there, too, like some god in a chariot machine.

  Corwin climbed higher as he approached the monstrosity, trying to avoid its considerable reach. The enormousness of it was overwhelming close up, so big he could only see a single panel of it at a time. And he could feel the buzz of it, just under his skin, and in the hair on his arms standing upright. And he could hear it, too, over everything.

  Corwin grabbed the straps anchoring the skysail to the craft, ready to cut them and fly loose, sail down to the hatch. Because he knew how this was supposed to end. He would infiltrate the core, smash the jar, the source. It would be beautiful, an explosion, a vivid blue, and an almost honorable death, dispersing from the jar the lightning god and the fragment of what Brigham might have called the old man’s soul.

  Corwin’s hand trembled around the knife. His whole body shook, as if he might shit himself like some undignified corpse.

  He cut the sail loose, then cut himself free from it and watched as the wood-and-linen pyramid shot up into the air all by itself. It would come down eventually, perhaps in the sea, bereft of its original point.

  The old man turned back to pilot his flying machine out over the ocean, leaving everything behind, because without it, this meaningless death, there would be no purpose to anything he’d ever done in his life, just a bunch of unnecessary parts. So he let the engine drown out the sounds of lightning and the Brigham Guns as he heehawed crazily and flew far above it all like a kite.

  Happy Birthday, Dear Cthulhu

  By Robert Neilson

  Emily’s father was, to quote The Times of London, ‘one of the pre-eminent scientists of his day’; he just wasn’t much of a father. Mostly he simply ignored his only child. If asked, she was certain he would get her eye color wrong. Nor could he tell you whether she was arty or sporty or bookish. And, when forced by the temporary illness of Emily’s mother to organize her thirteenth birthday party, any man with the slightest pretension to fatherhood would know not to engage a Punch and Judy show.

  It was bad enough that because Mummy was ill Emily could only have four friends to her party, but the embarrassment of having her friends subjected to the childish entertainment of a puppet show was almost beyond bearing. Sandy, the Rt. Hon. Lady Sandra Bellingham to give her full name and title, was very understanding. She was the one Emily really was worried about. Sandy’s father was a Duke. Emily didn’t know her that well and was surprised when she accepted the invitation. She had been disappointed at first, only inviting Sandy because it was expected. When she said yes it meant one of Emily’s real friends had to be left off the guest list. Still, now that she was here, it was rather thrilling. And the girls from Paige House would want to hear all about her: what she wore, her witty conversation and, especially, what present she brought.

  Of course the presents would have to wait until after the entertainment. She checked the clock over the mantelpiece; the Punch and Judy man was late. Daddy had been sweet enough to allow his man Watkins to serve refreshments. She had worried about him slightly – he was really Daddy’s driver though his title was butler – but despite what her mother always referred to as his rough edges, Watkins really was quite perfect in his tails and starched collar.

  At last the doorbell sounded. Emily ran to get it herself, even though it was not quite proper; the only other servant was Stella, the downstairs maid, and she had enough on her plate catering to Mummy’s needs. It was the first day Mummy had come downstairs since she began feeling poorly. Emily was delighted she made the effort though concerned that her mother still seemed very pale. Normally Mummy was very much large and in charge. She sometimes thought that Daddy’s work might have kept him out of the house a little less if his ‘Darling Dorothy’ had pushed him about less when he ‘graced them with his presence’.

  When Emily opened the front door three men stood on the granite steps. Each of them wore a dark suit and bowler hat. Two of them held between them a huge wooden box, shaped much like a coffin, though made from rough planks. The one at the front was obviously in charge. His hands were empty but for a silver-topped walking cane, and his maroon cravat was fixed with a pearl stick-pin. The man with the cane and the cravat doffed his bowler revealing a fine head of black hair, parted in the middle as was the fashion, held flat to his head by copious applications of hair-oil.

  “Good afternoon, Miss,” he said. “Would you happen to be the birthday girl?” His mouth tugged into a grin and he slipped her a sly wink.

  In spite of herself, Emily giggled. “And you must be the Punch and Judy man,” she replied, returning his wink as best she could.

  The man with the cane and cravat stepped to one side and swept a hand towards the men with the box. On its side was stenciled in big letters Barrington & Millard, and below in smaller type Fine Entertainment for Fine Families. “J. Barrington Gull, at your service, little lady,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist, eyes locked on hers, smile still playing about his rather thick lips.

  Still giggling Emily curtsied and said,” Do come in Mr…Gull is it?”

  The man with the cane and cravat nodded. “Thought the Barrington sounded better for business purposes as we deal with the quality. Like yourself, little Miss.” His eyes sparkled with amusement. Emily wasn’t quite sure that she got the joke.

  Mr Gull’s assistants carried the coffin-like box through to the sitting room where Watkins had cleared a space at one end of the room and arranged a crescent of chairs in two short rows. Emily’s father followed them in. Gull turned to him. “Sir Roger, I presume,” sticking out his hand.

  “Roger Hant,” Emily’s dad said, shaking the hand somewhat distractedly.

  “J. Barrington Gull.”

  Sir Roger’s eyes flicked to his face momentarily. “Where’s Mr Millard? I was expecting Mr Millard.”

  “Mr Millard is…indisposed,” Gull said, absently fiddling with the stick-pin in his silk cravat. He beamed a broad smile at Emily’s father. “You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to suggest…”

  “Of course not,” Gull said, looming over Sir Roger. He was a tall man, broad in the shoulder and narrow at the waist. His hands were enormous; she wondered how he managed to manipulate the delicate wooden puppets. Beside him her father looked positively scrawny, the top of his balding head barely topping Gull’s shoulder. Like most children, she had never really considered her father purely as a man. But standing next to Gull it was difficult not to make a comparison. His stooped shoulders, pasty complexion and general air of mild bewilderment left her wondering what had attracted Mummy to him. Probably his massive brain, Emily decided, though she thought that she herself might prefer the broad shoulders and narrow waist of Mr Gull.

  Outside his lab Emily’s father never seemed really sure of what he should be saying or doing. He was awkward in almost every situation, particularly those of a social nature. He rummaged through his pockets, eventually producing a sterling silver snuff box etched with a hunting scene.

  “Emily,” Gull said, “it won’t take us but a moment to set up. Perhaps you might round up our audience?”

  She smiled her assent, turning to leave. Her father made to follow, flipping open the snuff box. Gull placed a hand lightly on his forearm. “If I might have a moment, Sir Roger?”

  Sir Roger Hant’s eyes widened. He flipped the snuff box closed one-handed and replaced it in his pocket. Emily could tell he was surprised that the Punch and Judy man had laid a hand on him. She wondered if Gull really was used to dealing with Fine Families as his box proclaimed. She proceeded to the Drawing Room to gather her friends and Mummy for the show. Daddy could look after himself. It was his house after all. For once he could exert his authority without Mummy at his elbow, pushing.

/>   Emily went to Watkins and told him the show was ready. He stepped to the center of the room, cleared his throat and made the announcement. Violet and Susan smiled and ran over to join the birthday girl. They were her very best friends; there would have been no party without them. Helen Nicholson stayed close to Sandy. Helen was also Honorable, but her father was only a Viscount. She wasn’t quite as good a friend as Violet or Susan but they had been in school together for half a dozen years. Helen had decided this was too good an opportunity for sucking up to Sandy to miss. It was annoying and unnecessary. Treating Sandy like any of the other girls was the reason she had accepted the invitation.

  The downstairs maid assisted Lady Dorothy to the sitting room, one hand firmly at her elbow. Emily watched as Mummy walked in a slow shuffle, her shoulders ever so slightly hunched. She noticed a strand of gray where a wisp of hair had escaped her tightly wound bun. Had there been gray before she took ill? Emily thought not. Momentarily she forgot about ill health as Susan linked one elbow and Violet the other, leading her into the show like minor, aged royalty.

  They halted in the doorway. Mr Gull was holding a large handgun to her father’s head. One of his assistants held a similar weapon to Watkins’s temple and the other assistant held another on the foregathered females.

  “Keep on coming, little lady,” Gull said. “And your friends.” He waved the gun vaguely in their direction. When Emily, Susan and Violet obeyed he nodded and smiled. “Sorry about this ladies, but I’m afraid I am going to have to inconvenience you all somewhat.” He paused. “A little more than somewhat, actually.”

  Emily’s mother staggered and Stella struggled to hold her upright. Emily shook off the hands of her friends and ran to help. Sir Roger moved to join them but cold steel tight under his chin persuaded him to remain where he was. Emily and the maid eased Mummy into a straight-backed chair.

  “We’re all going on a trip into the Cairngorms. A nice little drive up into the mountains. It’ll be fun.”

  “Surely not my wife? Lady Dorothy is unwell.”

  “Sorry Rog, we’re going to need all the ladies.” Gull shrugged then added, “Not all. We won’t be needing the maid. Emily and her friends can look after Lady Dorothy.” He ordered the servant to move away from Emily’s mother with a jerk of his pistol. Emily thought the poor girl looked both terrified and relieved in equal measure. “A little more,” Gull said, jerking the gun again. The maid took two further paces away from her mistress. Gull nodded. “Good.” Without changing expression he shot her in the chest. He nodded to the assistant covering the rest of the girls. The man stepped forward to the fallen maid and shot her in the head.

  A chorus of screams was wrenched from the throats of Emily and three of her friends. The fourth, the Hon. Helen Nicholson, fainted dead away. Emily stood frozen with surprise and horror. It felt as though her brain had simply stopped functioning – her head felt as though it was filled entirely with space. After a moment she closed her mouth and eased her grip on the arms of her friends.

  Gull smiled pleasantly. “Just to make a point,” he said in a conversational voice. “If any of you should become too troublesome or surplus to requirements for any reason, you have my word that I will not hesitate to execute you. Is that clear?” He looked about the room. “You may answer.” When no-one spoke he shouted at the top of his voice, “Is…that…clear?”

  Everyone except Mummy and Daddy mumbled their understanding.

  Gull pushed the gun barrel hard into Daddy’s throat. “We clear, Sir Roger?”

  Through clenched teeth Emily’s father answered, “Yes.”

  Emily and Susan knelt at Helen’s side. Susan patted her wrist. Gull knelt beside them. He brushed Susan aside and slapped Helen sharply on the cheek. Her eyelids fluttered and she emitted a low moan. “Pick her up,” he said climbing to his feet.

  In a kindly, concerned tone Gull said, “Lady Dorothy? Did you hear and comprehend what I just said?”

  Mummy nodded.

  “I didn’t catch that. Could you speak up?”

  Slowly Mummy’s head lifted until she looked him dead in the eyes. “I heard.” Her gaze contained a glint of steel, even though it took much of her strength just to hold her head still. “Why should I do what you say? What reason is there? You will kill us all. That is your nature.”

  Gull sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully, pouting his lips. “I suppose,” he admitted. “But your safety and that of your daughter and her friends is the only coin I have to trade with your husband for his compliance.” He turned to Daddy. “Will you do as I ask, Sir Roger, to keep your lovely wife and daughter alive? Hmmm?”

  Gull smiled without humor, his eyes as empty as a dead fish’s. He pressed the barrel of the revolver against Sir Roger’s neck, pushing hard so that it sank into the flesh. He nodded. “I think you will. And I’m prepared to bet their lives on it. And yours, of course.” A sharp nod of his head in the direction of the front door signaled his men. They bunched everyone together. “Emily and…” Gull looked over the group of girls. He pointed to Violet. “…and you. Help Lady Dorothy outside. We’re going to the coach house.” He smiled at Sir Roger. “Our journey would be arduous were it not for your ingenuity and invention.”

  “How did you know…?”

  “I’m in the information business, you could say. It pays me to know things. It amuses me that you thought you could keep your capture engine a secret for long. Does it have a name, by the way?”

  “Name?” Sir Roger echoed the word emptily.

  “The being. The daemon. The thing you have imprisoned.”

  “If it has I don’t know it,” Sir Roger said, adding an uncharacteristic show of resistance, “We weren’t introduced.”

  “Well then I’ll be sure to formally introduce you to Cthulhu, when we get there.”

  Sir Roger stopped dead as though jolted rigid by a bolt of electricity. His breath exhaled fully. On the final gasp he whispered the name, “Cthulhu.”

  Emily could not be sure whether it was a question or a form of curse. She had heard her father talk about the Old Ones many times. She had not thought that he really believed in them until he began his latest project. It had something to do with the Old Ones, she knew, but precisely what she had no idea. She saw the blood drain from her father’s face at the mention of the ancient god. His eyes took on a wild, trapped, frightened look. He glanced from his wife to his daughter. His face contained utter despair. Emily thought about what she saw there. It was as though something terrible had caused the edges of his very soul to curl, attempting to hide from the baleful light that now shone upon it.

  Gull giggled, fiddling with the silver head of his cane. “After all, when we bring him to life it will be his birthday. It would be rude not to introduce you all.”

  Emily disliked the way he put a slight emphasis on introduce.

  Gull turned to his assistants. “Norman, Arthur, get the coach house open.” Without glancing in his direction he said to the butler, “Watkins, start her up. And don’t even think about giving me trouble. I’m sure you’re real brave but these little ladies are less so and will scream quite nicely if I need to…chastise them in your place.”

  Watkins’s chest puffed out, his fists balled and he stood to his full height. To Emily he had the look of a man prepared to fight. And he had the look of a man who knew how to look after himself. Though half a head shorter than Gull, his stocky build meant he probably bulked a couple of stones heavier. His biceps and thighs strained against the fabric of his suit. His hands were large enough to encompass Gull’s head and looked strong enough to crush it. But he was no fool, respecting his captors’ superior armaments. After a moment he exhaled slowly and relaxed, stepped to the coach house doors, and pushed Norman, the taller assistant, out of the way before dragging one of the doors wide. He moved toward the other brusquely but Arthur had swung it all the way open. The butler took a hurricane lamp down from a hook set into the brickwork inside the door and struck a Lucifer to it.
The wick flickered in the breeze as he wound it up. Closing its hatch he held the lamp above his head. The coach house was a narrow rectangle the length of a cricket pitch. At the back, in the fitful shadows, stood a large coach. Emily stared at it with intense curiosity. The coach house was off limits and only her father and Wilkins ever went into it. As far as she could see the vehicle possessed neither smoke-stack nor tender and no shafts for horses.

  A rectangular box two feet high was affixed to the front of the carriage, running its full width. The top of the box was inset with a square of thick brass mesh studded with domed rivets. Two huge iron padlocks held it tightly closed. The driver’s cab was set above, its floor on a level with the top of the box. Four levers which she assumed were used for steering the device stood proud from the floor of the cab. The seat looked small and was set precariously high. Only a small wooden rail at the front provided any protection for the driver should he be thrown forward when the vehicle struck one of the many potholes that lined Scotland’s roads.

  “Bring it out,” Gull ordered.

  Watkins mumbled something about, “the little ones.”

  “They’ll see worse ere the sun rises tomorrow morning,” Gull replied.

  The butler went reluctantly into the coach house and hung his lamp from a mounting at the side of the cab. Emily could hear him talking to himself. No, she realized, he was chanting, low guttural sounds nothing like English. As he chanted the butler took off his tailcoat and slung it onto the driver’s seat. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. Emily gasped, hands darting to cover her mouth. She glanced quickly to the side. Only Violet was watching with her. The others were too caught up in their misery and fear.

  Emily stared back into the gloomy coach house, her mind telling her she was mistaken. But she could see clearly that both the butler’s forearms were covered in a series of dark lines, crusted with scabs. He reached into his pocket and produced a penknife. Its steel blade glinted wickedly in the lamplight. Carefully and precisely Watkins drew the blade across his arm and held it downwards over the box, above the square of mesh, so that drops of blood from his cut fell through into the darkness of the box. A low gurgling wail swelled from within. Watkins kicked the side of the box and grunted a curse. Grasping the rail he swung himself into the cab and sat. He pushed forward on the two center levers and the carriage rolled smoothly forward into the smoggy, Edinburgh evening air.