Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam

by Jeffrey Thomas

  St. John glanced back at the cockpit and waved at whoever was behind the thick glass. He stared at the land below and shook his head, “Forever wasn’t such a bad idea,” he said to no one in particular, and then dove after his compatriots. Jermyn and Norrys were hurtling towards the earth. St. John waited till he had matched Jermyn’s altitude and then spread his arms and legs and hooked his feet into the lining of his coat, allowing it to catch the air and slow his descent. Jermyn had done the same, but somehow when the simian lord did it, he seemed infinitely more graceful than St. John.

  Below them Captain Edward Norrys was struggling with his coat, but not to open it, but to take it off. His watch was caught in the lining and he was ripping it out, but the process was too slow. He needed to get the damn coat off, needed to concentrate, focus on flying, the idea of flying, flight dynamics, the way air moves over a surface, a wing, a pair of wings. Wings, not arms, wings. His hand elongated, the bones shifted back and slit through the fabric of the sleeve. His back arched, his body convulsed, and what remained of his uniform shredded into pieces that were suddenly lost to the night.

  Edward Norrys was gone as well, in his place was a draconian thing, neither a bat, nor a bird, nor one of the pterosaurs, but rather it bore a semblance to all of those beasts, and others as well. The head was lean, skeletal, with a hint of the equine. His arms had become two massive, articulated wings that were both leathery and scaled. Each wing was paired with a fleshy tendril that hung from the shoulder like a thick root. His legs and feet had become powerful talons flanking a triple-split tail. Norrys spread his new wings and angled his fall into an arc that took him speeding back up into the sky, through the clouds, and above his friends.

  The Norrys-thing braked behind St. John and Jermyn; the fleshy shoulder tentacles wrapped around the two men and then tucked them in beneath his beating wings. St. John smiled at Jermyn and then looked up towards the beast’s head. “How does it feel Norrys?”

  A mouth formed in the beast’s chest, lips and a tongue, the semblance of teeth, and it spoke with Norrys’ voice, “It feels good Philip. I’ve been living as Norrys for so long, sixteen years; I’ve forgotten what it was like to be free, to be something else. I thought for sure that there would be some reversion. That Norrys, his memories and personality, would somehow be suppressed, but there’s been no loss at all. I’ve shifted form, physically I’m a shantak, and on an unconscious level I have all the knowledge and drives that a shantak possesses, but consciously, I’m still Edward Norrys. Well, at least a shoggoth with all the memories and feelings of Edward Norrys.”

  St. John patted the beast’s chest. “Good man. Now let’s just hope you can keep it that way.”

  The dragonet plunged swiftly toward the Castle Ferenczy, trying its best to keep its two compatriots safe. Norrys circled around, making sure that the towers were safe to approach. The towers were clear of men, but were covered with Tesla arrays, radio wave emitters and receivers designed to detect approaching vessels, like the Strato-sphere, but Norrys, St. John, and Jermyn were too small and too soft to show up as anything more than a flock of birds. Gently they settled onto the terrace amidst a thicket of metal emitters and receivers. St. John and Jermyn slipped below the parapet while the Norrys-Shantak melted into a thick viscous jelly that pooled up and then flowed fluidly to their side. It bubbled up; building layer upon layer of tissue until finally Edward Norrys was completely rebuilt.

  Jermyn was suddenly giggling. “How do you feel Eddie?”

  Norrys smiled, “I feel good, it’s liberating really. I had forgotten what it was like to feel my flesh flow, to be something else, to feel the flesh mold under my mind, the wind…I’m naked aren’t I?” St. John joined Jermyn in a chuckle as Norrys reformed his outer flesh into the semblance of his old uniform.

  Far above Danielle Thornton was chuckling as well. “What’s funny?” asked Doctor Clapham-Lee as he tried to hold their position well above the range of the Tesla array.

  “They’ve made it onto the tower.”

  “How do you know?” He diverted more power to the gravity shield on the lower hemisphere.

  Thornton turned to the pilot-inventor and smiled, “Because St. James isn’t dead yet.”

  Clapham-Lee nodded and stroked the control panel. “I’m going to miss the old girl.”

  Thornton put a comforting hand on the inventor’s shoulder. “If we get through this I’m sure Arthur will help you build another ship. It’ll give you an opportunity to make all those changes you’ve been talking about.” Clapham-Lee’s face turned sour, and Danielle caught the subtle mood swing. “That’s a good thing Eric, isn’t it?”

  The pilot and inventor of the strato-sphere closed his eyes solemnly. “Danielle, I don’t have preternatural powers like you and St. John. I’m not a hybrid simian like Arthur, or an alien monster with an inferiority complex like Eddie. I’m just a man; I turned fifty-three last week. I’ve seen so much in my days, fought in too many wars; against the Tcho-Tcho when they tried to overthrow the French, against the Tsatthoqquans when they came up out of N’Kai; and against the Aihas when they came from Mars. We’ve spent the better part of two decades together, traveling the world, exploring, fighting monsters, and I wouldn’t trade any of those days…I have seen things, done things that most men wouldn’t believe, and only a few dream of. But after this, after we do this last thing, no matter what happens, it’s time for me to settle down. Maybe open a repair shop, tinker around on velocipedes and ornithopters. I could work on that analytical engine I’ve been talking about.”

  Thornton nodded. “I understand Eric, but right now we’ve got to get through this one day, and put an end to the plots of these megalomaniacs. If we don’t, there won’t be much point in you opening that shop now will there?” Clapham-Lee nodded and then with a simple flick of his wrist sent the strato-sphere hurtling toward Castle Ferenczy like the hammer of an avenging god.

  St. John looked up and saw the tiny point of light that was the strato-sphere as it started its descent. Even in the few seconds he was watching, the speck was growing, resolving itself into the ship that had been his home for so many years. He motioned toward the sky and Jermyn and Norrys joined him in watching the brilliant light plummet toward them. “You ready for this Arthur?”

  Sir Arthur Jermyn, the Thirteenth Baron Jermyn, Knight of the Realm, and Lord Protector of Ophir took off his coat and climbed up on the ramparts. “St. John, Philip, I was born to do this!” And standing there watching Jermyn on the ledge, the wind whipping through his hair, Philip St. John, bastard son of Lord Philip Croft believed, or at least hoped, that Jermyn was telling the truth.

  The sphere of quasi-metallic alloys fell from the sky faster than normal. Clapham-Lee had reversed the polarity of the gravity plating on the upper hemisphere and was now accelerating toward the earth at a rate greater than that of gravity. The forces were tremendous, greater than those he had designed for. Sensors and manipulators sheared off. An actuator buckled, the hydraulic lines twisted and then exploded. The interior compartment flooded with thick pink fluid that reeked of acid. In the control room an indicator light flashed angrily. Clapham-Lee slammed the panel and then set the auto-pilot to ignore the collision safeties and hold the downward trajectory. “You understand what’s going to happen?”

  Danielle Thornton nodded. “As we pass the terrace you’ll blow the observation window and that will carry us up and out of the strato-sphere. The negators on the upper hemisphere will neutralize our downward momentum and propel us upward. If everything goes well, Arthur will swing out from the tower and pluck us out of the sky like two waiting pigeons.” Clapham-Lee nodded. “Eric, what happens if something goes wrong?”

  “When the ship hits the castle, it will do so with tremendous force. It is unlikely that the sphere or anything in it will survive the impact. The explosive force will radiate out, carrying with it shards and dust of the gravity plating. If we were to come in contact with any unregulated material, we could fin
d ourselves unbound by gravity. If that were to happen, well it might be better to have perished in the impact.”

  Clapham-Lee tuned back and peered into the visual monitor. The tower was approaching and the aging pilot had to make some minor adjustments to make sure they were close enough to be rescued, but far enough away as to avoid doing any damage to the tower itself. A slight touch of the controls and he motioned for Danielle to move to the observation window, and then followed her down the short corridor. There were several metal rings set into the frame that they could use for handholds. Danielle wrapped her hands with her scarf to pad her hands against the rough metal. Clapham-Lee slid in next to her and took hold of another ring with his left leather gloved hand. With his right he reached out and opened a small metal panel revealing a large pin with a ceramic red cap. Clapham-Lee took a deep breath and with a quick jerk pulled the pin straight out.

  The lights in the strato-sphere dimmed and then turned yellow. He fumbled for another ring. The yellow lighting flashed off and then on, and then off again. On the third beat the light changed to red. Clapham-Lee and Thornton each took a deep breath. The lights flashed off, faster this time, then back on. There was a sudden electric hiss; the lights flicked off and in the darkness the exploding bolts created a halo of light and smoke around the pair of adventurers. The great observation port blew out, carrying the two up and clear of the falling ship. It traveled about two yards before it suddenly jerked to a stop and kicked to the side. An electrical line had failed to disconnect and as a consequence the window was still tethered to the strato-sphere, the two hadn’t been thrown clear at all!

  The night air rushed past their flailing bodies. The pilot, knowing he had only moments to do something, brought his right hand down, made a fist and punched his female compatriot in the back between her rib cage and hip. The sucker punch forced Danielle Thornton to reflexively let go of the hand rings. Clapham-Lee kicked her away, and the pulse of null-gravity streaming from the ship caught Thornton and whisked her away into the sky. Doctor Eric Clapham-Lee swung his battered form up and put his feet on the window. He crouched and then leapt up as he let go of his hand hold. The effect was minimized by the null-gravity and instead of kicking up and away from the window, the window moved almost equally in the opposite direction. He spun away from the ship, and trailed weakly after Thornton.

  From below, Clapham-Lee watched as Jermyn’s simian form wrapped around Thornton’s lithe body. The two traveled toward him and then physics took over and the rope that ran from the tower to Jermyn’s hand began to arc them back up into the sky. In Jermyn’s clutches, Thornton reached out for her friend, Clapham-Lee stretched out as well, their hands grew closer, her fingertips brushed his gloves. The pendulum continued on its way and the arc which had brought them so close, now moved them apart. Danielle gasped, loosened her grip around Jermyn and slid down his body, hooking her hands around his belt. Her feet were suddenly kicking into Clapham-Lee’s face; he grabbed her boots and dug his fingers into the laces. One hundred and sixty pounds of man were now hanging from the thin ankles of Danielle Thornton. She screamed in agony, and Jermyn grunted as the weight shifted. The arc continued and as the trio swung over the parapet St. John and Norrys were waiting to catch them.

  The tangle of bodies tumbled across the flagstones. St. John guided them the best he could, and made sure that they ended up in the cover supplied by the wall. He put his hand on Thornton’s head. “Stay down,” he muttered, “wait till the impact and aftershock passes.” They cowered there, waiting, their heartbeats pounding in their heads, their lungs straining, their bodies bruised, waiting for their ship to crash into the castle of their arch-enemy. They waited, but the impact never came.

  St. John cautiously crawled up the parapet and peered over it. Far below, the strato-sphere hung in the air like a soap bubble surrounded by a strange field of black light. Off to the side, on the top of another tower, a team of men were manipulating a massive array of emitters, while steam billowed out around their feet. St. John cursed the fusion of cheap energy and alien technology.

  A sudden pain pierced St. John’s forehead, and a strange vibratory whine filled the air. Clapham-Lee grabbed St. John by the belt and jerked him down from the wall, and yelled “Get down!” as he rose up with the pommel of his weapon in his hand. The micro-engine inside the pommel coughed to life and the air was suddenly filled with a second vibration as an all but invisible blade of sound sprang to life. It cut through the air and parried a similar weapon coming down on where St. John had been crouching. The two weapons of condensed sound slid against each other and let loose a horrific screech. The sound reached a crescendo and then both weapons and owners were suddenly thrown back across the deck.

  Clapham-Lee stumbled to his feet and watched as the fabric of space itself slowly frayed and the wielder of the rival sound-blade stepped out of the in-between space where nightmares roamed free. The thin, wiry form was clad in a black form fitting mesh with gloves, boots and a helmet of ornate metallic gold armor. “Doctor Tillinghast, I thought for sure you were dead?”

  A second form stumbled out from behind the first. Where Tilling-hast had been lithe and agile, this new form was larger than any man Clapham-Lee had ever seen. The thing was easily eight feet tall and four feet wide. As it walked into our world the joints of the massive armored suit hissed violently. A crackle of static filled the air and a deep voice spoke through labored breaths. “Senor Clapham-Lee, haff you not come to understand that there ess nothing that you can keel that I, Doctor Rafael Carlos Garcia Munoz, el Reanimatador, cannot bring back to life?”

  Clapham-Lee scoffed, “Perhaps this time I shall leave you nothing to sew back together?” The pilot rushed forward, sonic sword held high and engaged the still silent Doctor Tillinghast in armed combat.

  The lumbering form of Munoz’s steam powered battle armor took a step toward the swordsmen, but then turned in response to the retort of a single gunshot ricocheting off his helmet. Edward Norrys had entered the fray. “Aha, suddenly the plump little pilot finds his cajones!” The armored giant took a step toward the ersatz officer.

  Norrys handed the gun back to St. John. Thornton protested as Norrys stepped forward, but St. John put a hand on her shoulder and asked his comrade “Ed do you want any help?”

  The thing pretending to be Edward Norrys rolled his head around on his neck, stretching it, turning it farther than humanly possible. Munoz paused in his approach and his helmet cocked at an odd quizzical angle. Electric blue light pooled up around Munoz’s gauntlets and then arced through the air strafing the stones and leaving them coated in a thick glaze of ice. As he dodged left Norrys was almost laughing, “Eric and I will take care of these two errand boys. You three go after Ferenczy and Nadek.”

  Sir Arthur Jermyn loped across the stones and down the stone stairs chased by St. John and Thornton at breakneck speed. The stairwell was dark, ancient, the stones worn thin and smooth in places. The walls were close, made in a time when people were smaller, and comfort and convenience less important. The masters of this place had done horrible things, and the stones had over the eons soaked in the psychic residues that had been exuded. Thornton could feel the traces, the screams, the fear, they clawed at her mind and soul and she felt the sickness crawl into her belly and settle in her womb. Her throat clenched and her vision blurred. As the echoes of past atrocities seeped inside her, Danielle Thornton felt her legs grow weak and then suddenly buckle.

  St. John caught his wife as she tumbled down the stones. He called out her name, and then guided her to the floor. His whispering voice echoed down the tunnel, but from the inky darkness the lord of the apes did not respond. He raised his voice and called again, “Damn it Arthur, Danielle has suffered one of her spells. Get back here!”

  A faint glow came out of the pitch, so faint that St. John thought he was imagining it, but then it grew and moved, and cast shadows of its own. It flickered, Jermyn must have found a torch thought St. John, but then the shadow
was joined by another, and then a third. He fumbled for his pistol, but he knew it was already too late. A tall gaunt form came round the curve, the pipes and tubes of a vapor gun gleaming viciously in his hands. St. John looked down at his wife and then back to the trio of identical men, “Please don’t.” The lead man shook his head and pulled the trigger. Gas exploded from the gun, enveloped St. John and he joined his wife in oblivion.

  It was Danielle that woke first and saw the terrible situation they now found themselves in. The couple and Jermyn were each bound by strong chains to a series of five metal pylons that were arranged around the perimeter of a large courtyard. Two of the five pylons were still bare, and several men were still securing the chains around Jermyn. Dozens of the resurrected stood guard behind them while a few others operated a series of machines and arrays pointed at the sky. Well not at the sky exactly, but at the strato-sphere that hung above the courtyard still bathed in strange black light. She caught a subtle movement, a hand signal that told her that Philip was awake. She reached out with her mind and touched his, he was oddly calm and he stroked her thoughts with a secret sense of reassurance.

  Her sudden comfort was short lived, “Joseph, some of our guests are awake.” The voice was thick, heavily accented but cultured. It emanated from a statuesque man wearing a finely cut suit of white silk. The cravat around his neck was held in place by a large green gem, his left hand was adorned with four rings, two with inlayed jewels, one a simple silver band, and the third in an image of a snake looped in three coils. His right hand had been replaced with a mechanical artifice, an amalgam of alloys, coils and wires all adorned with the eldritch script of the ancients. Count Ferenczy was as statuesque in person as he appeared in photos.

  Following in his footsteps was another slightly smaller man with thick glasses and a shaggy head of white hair that transitioned into a similarly colored beard. He wore a simple banded flying suit, a pair of leather gloves and a matching pair of boots. Over his left shoulder he carried a large leather satchel. He mumbled an acknowledgement “Mmhmm. We couldn’t expect them to sleep through the entire ceremony could we?” He walked over to the pillar to which Jermyn was chained. “Even this one mmhmm, though he would like us to not know, he too is awake.” Jermyn roared at the man and strained against the chains in vain. The funny old man ignored him, and casually turned away. “Where are the other two, mmhmm?”