by Mark Lingane
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
Free Book
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
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10
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14
15
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21
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42
Watchout
Free Book copy
News and Updates
Other Novels
Published 2013 by Insync Holdings Pty Ltd
Copyright © 2013 by Mark Lingane
All rights reserved.
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or the publisher.
ISBN: 978-0-9923779-4-6 (US pbk)
ISBN: 978-0-9923779-5-3 (ebk)
In Praise of Tesla:
A great read, as are all his other books. Tesla is evidence of a very talented writer. 5 stars.
- theIndieTribe
Once Mr L gets into his stride, he shows us his best stuff yet in this teen steampunk versus cyberpunk post-apocalyptic adrenaline rush. 4.5 stars.
- theBookBag
Sebastian really feels like a perfect character for a younger teenager to put themselves into his shoes, and his personal journey is a decent coming of age tale, albeit on an unusual background of a Dickensian home life, magic powers and killer cyborgs. 4 stars.
- SPR
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To Sebastian,
This one is for you.
1
ISABELLE WATCHED HER husband being lowered into the ground on that sultry winter’s day, with a solitary tear rolling down her face.
She had watched him fade from a man of iron to a fragile shell. When they met, Alex was the catch of the town. All the other girls were crazy over him. Yet he had chosen Isabelle, the new girl. She had felt so fortunate. She couldn’t stop smiling for a week after they had first touched hands. He worked hard, tilling the land under his own power. He dragged a plow through the hard ground, cleaving furrows to plant wheat seeds. The work didn’t bother him; he seemed to revel in the simple physical labor.
And he grew stronger and stronger over the years. The others laughed at him with his simple tools while they tried to resurrect dead machinery from a long-forgotten past. When they questioned whether there was an easier way, he simply got stuck into the job. And he always finished first. He sold crops first and got the highest price.
For Isabelle and Alex, it seemed that life couldn’t get any better.
Then Sebastian had been born. It seemed that nothing could go wrong, but Alex fell ill. His hair fell out. He withered away to a walking skeleton in a matter of months. His eyes grew milky and distant.
And so Isabelle stood with Sebastian and watched her husband being lowered into the ground on that sultry winter’s day, a matter of months before Sebastian’s thirteenth birthday, unable to fully comprehend the significance of losing the man of the house. What had her most worried was that she was showing the same symptoms as her dead husband. Her concern over who would look after Sebastian if she were to die screamed inside her head.
*
Sebastian’s school was simple, consisting of a handful of children too young to work the land and those who showed interest in the Power. The Power was a dream from a bygone era kept alive by schools across the land. Mr. Stephenson would grow excited, nearly exploding with enthusiasm, when retelling the stories of his hero and namesake.
“Mr. Stephenson, not me, invented the Power thousands of years ago. Mr. Stephenson, not me, found a way of powering technology with water. He made great machines that could propel people from one side of his world to the other, across land, sea, and eventually even air.”
“What’s a sea, sir?” asked a particularly young boy.
“The best grade you’ll ever get, dummy,” whispered John, who wasn’t a particularly nice boy.
“Quiet, John. It’s Sammy, isn’t it? Well, Sammy, the sea is like Lake Woleebee, except bigger. So big you can’t see across to the other side. So big that if it was the ground it would take you a year to walk across it. And it’s full of waves so high they’re as tall as the trees out by Glasshouse Mountain.”
The younger children all gasped.
“What’s on the other side of the sea?” Sammy asked.
There was a hushed silence. Sammy looked around at the older children, who had suddenly gone quiet.
“Something we do not discuss, Sammy,” Mr. Stephenson replied. His face became solemn after his terse response.
“Zombies and vampires,” shouted John as he laughed uproariously. His thick friends, in both mind and body, joined in.
A young girl started to cry. “Is it true?”
“As you will never go there,” Mr. Stephenson told her, “it’s something you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about.”
He quickly diverted their collective attention to the wonders of hydrodynamic heat exchange under extreme compression, which had John theatrically snoring, puzzled expressions on the faces of the younger children, and Sebastian enthralled.
The school day ended. The children packed away their books and ran out into the warm afternoon.
*
John Oakley was a boy who was about to come of an age where he could till the land with his father. He saw school as a hindrance, something that was delaying him showing his father that he was a man. He was even cultivating some fluff on his upper lip, which had a close resemblance to the fluff on his backside, which he felt obligated to show everyone whenever there was a lull in a conversation.
His older brothers laughed at him, and called him an idiot, and as such he fitted in well with his whole family.
After school that day John lounged against the old wooden fence with two of his friends, one of whom was Sebastian.
Sammy approached cautiously.
“What do you want, squirt?” John said.
“What happened over the sea?”
John turned to his friends and laughed. “Me old Gramsy says something bad happened. So bad it killed nearly everyone on the whole planet. And now the world’s so sick you can’t live anywhere else. That’s why here’s the best place in the world.”
Sebastian rolled his eyes and headed home, leaving the other two boys reveling in their self-declared awesomeness. He lived a spritely ten-minute walk from the schoolhouse, and often walked home on his own. Occasionally he coincided his journey with Mr. Stephenson’s slow stroll to his own home, another twenty minutes to the north of Talinga.
Sebastian spotted his teacher ahead and ran to join him. “Hello,
Mr. Stephenson,” he panted.
“Hello, Sebby.” Mr. Stephenson strolled along with his measured gait, one hand tucked inside his waistcoat. With the other he carried his battered brown case.
“Would you like to come for dinner tonight?” Sebastian asked.
“That behavior would be deemed inappropriate, Sebby.”
“Please, Mom’s been sad for so long. It might cheer her up. Especially if you bring your machines.”
“Do you want me to come to cheer up your mother, or to show you the machines?”
Mr. Stephenson tipped his top hat to an elderly woman wealthy enough to own her own twin-horse chauffeured sports cab. She had the roof down and was cooling herself with an expensive silk fan. She nodded to Mr. Stephenson.
Sebastian had noticed over the past year that many people gave Mr. Stephenson respectful nods. He wondered what his teacher did to earn the respect of so many people, especially so many old ladies.
“I’ll see you home, Sebby,” Mr. Stephenson said. “I’ve got some small machines in my case, new ones, I’m sure you’ll both like.” The thunder growled overhead, shaking the trees. Both looked up at the menacing clouds. “We’d better make haste.”
*
Mr. Stephenson knocked a jaunty tattoo on the door, which was opened cautiously by Isabelle.
“Hello, Oliver, is Sebby in trouble again?”
Sebastian shouted a quick greeting to his mother as he pushed past her en route to the house’s interior.
“Oh no, Sebby asked me to bring some of my machines … are you all right? You look disturbingly pale.”
“I’m all right. I’ve picked up a cold. It’ll pass in a few days.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “May I suggest you consult the doctor when he next visits, if I may be so bold.”
She nodded, but in a distracted way. Rain tumbled from the sky, quickly forming small puddles in the dirt. She rested her head against the door and gazed into the distance until her eyes rested back on Mr. Stephenson. She looked surprised, as though seeing him for the first time. “You’re looking thin, Oliver.”
His clothes did look several sizes too big for him. He shrugged. “Alas, tinkering with the machines often distracts me from the requirements of the flesh.”
“I heard you fixed the Oakleys’ cart axel and they didn’t even give you dinner.”
“Times have been hard for some people.”
“Perhaps some people shouldn’t spend all their profits on cheap booze.”
“True, Isabelle. Not all people are as astute and diligent as Alex was in saving for the future.”
“Come in, Oliver, I’m not sending you home unfed for another night.”
“I would hate to intrude and diminish your own supplies.”
“Please, Oliver, we have more than enough to survive, and the storms are in. In two hours they’ll have blown over, and you’ll be fed and dry.”
Mr. Stephenson stepped hesitantly into the household. He placed his hat on the hat stand.
Sebastian reappeared. “Cool, you’re staying.”
“Only until the rain passes.”
“Come into the kitchen,” Isabelle said. She ushered them into the large room. “Sebby, set the table please.”
Sebastian collected the various plates and cutlery from the shelves and placed them neatly on the large wooden table. Isabelle stirred the giant pot and the room was filled with the aroma of the nourishing broth.
Mr. Stephenson stood awkwardly in the corner, uncertain of what to do. “Can I assist with some of the duties?” he asked.
“Please,” Isabelle said, “sit and talk to me.”
He sat down on the chair closest to the door and fiddled with his napkin.
“Are you staying around the village this summer?” She had a look of hope on her face.
“No, I’m off to the academy.”
“Shame. I think some of the children would like it if you were around. Will you go every year?”
“I think so, at least for the foreseeable future. The place is literally exploding with new ideas. There’s so much we’re learning. It’s a pity we lost so much knowledge after the reck—” He cut short his sentence and looked at Sebastian, who was busily drawing and appeared not to be listening to the conversation.
The two adults discussed the various problems of the area until Isabelle dished the food onto the plates. All three sat and chatted until they eventually got around to one of the hot topics of the playground.
“What do you make of the body they found out by the lake?” Isabelle asked Mr. Stephenson.
“I managed to inspect it. It looked unlike any person I’d ever seen before.” He took a mouthful of bread. “He was dehydrated to a critical level. It appeared he hadn’t had any fluid for a week. Then when he fell in the lake his body went into shock. He was killed by the very thing he was craving.”
“Did he look dangerous?”
“His skin was slightly thicker than ours, and he wore a kind of black armor. Not like ours. I doubt it would stop an axe. But it had no rust on it. And on one arm he had a long black tube. I’d be worried about what came out of that.”
“Do you think there’ll be others?”
“Good question. Are they like cockroaches, in other words? There’s obviously more than one, but where are they? As they’re an unknown quantity, it might be wise to be prepared. Do you still have the …”
“It’s hidden downstairs. Frankly, it scares me.” She folded her arms and glanced out the window at the fading light.
“You shouldn’t be afraid of it. Other households have similar ones.”
“Not like the one you created.”
He nodded. “Keep it well oiled, so it’ll work as designed if you do require it.”
“I don’t like the idea of living in a time where we must store weapons. That’s not why I came here.”
“Anyway, enough of this depressing talk.” Mr. Stephenson reached over to his old leather case and flicked it open. “My latest creation.”
He flourished a small box, a few centimeters high, then removed the base and revealed a tiny figurine of a ballerina. He placed it on the table and extracted an equally tiny key from his pocket. He waggled his eyebrows as he inserted the key into a small hole on the side of the base and twisted. The tiny clicks echoed around the large room.
He flicked a small switch underneath the dancer. Nothing happened. He looked puzzled and gave it a small shake but still nothing happened.
He took his toolkit from his pocket and extracted a small adjustable wrench. Slowly, and with a high degree of concentration, he released the bolt from the base and placed the securing washer by his plate, before carefully extracting the mechanism and giving it a gentle blow. He wobbled one of the wheels and pushed firmly until it clicked, then gently closed up the base.
“Now where did that washer go?” he said.
Sebastian looked down and saw the washer by his teacher’s elbow. “It’s here.” He picked it up and handed it over.
Mr. Stephenson gave him a suspicious look. He slid the washer into position and placed the box back on the table. He flicked the switch and the tiny dancer began to pirouette. Then music quietly seeped out of the small box, a melodious little tune that brought a tear to Isabelle’s eye.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “It’s so small and delicate. How did you make it?”
“I’ve devised a micro-furnace for some of the smaller workings, but all it takes is time and a steady hand.”
She turned it in her fingers. “And a beautiful imagination.”
“You have it, please.”
“Oh, no. It’s too pretty for me.” She put it down and pushed it back toward him.
He noted how Sebastian’s face fell in disappointment. “If not for yourself, how about as inspiration for young Sebby? We need some fresh minds at the academy.”
Sebastian’s face broke into a huge grin. He gave his mother his best pleading face, which eventually had her
sighing in resignation.
“Very well,” she said. “But don’t disassemble it and leave the parts scattered over the floor where bare feet can tread on small sharp corners.”
The trio heard the ritualistic screeching of the fruit bats flooding into the dwindling remains of the day. Isabelle ignited the wick in the large gas lantern hanging above the table, which flared into life and bathed them in a soothing golden glow. Soon she made Sebastian prepare for bed.
Grudgingly Sebastian retired to his bedroom. He could barely make out their voices through the wall. He heard the scratching of a pen as one of them wrote on some dried-out paper his mother kept in the kitchen cupboard. Their voices receded until they were just echoes in his mind. The last thing he heard before he drifted of to sleep was the front door clicking closed.
*
A week later and school had finished for the year. Much to Sebastian’s disappointment, Mr. Stephenson had left the day after. In an effort to take his mind off his teacher, he had spread sheets of paper over the kitchen table and was drawing the mythical beasts populating his imagination during the day and his nightmares at night. Idly, he drew a great machine that floated in the air, firing large blunderbusses at the creatures below and defending his village.
Distracted, he watched his mother with one eye. “Is anything wrong, Mom?”
“I-I,” she stuttered. “I don’t feel …” She gazed out the window at the mountains on the horizon. The rain was coming. “What was I saying?”
She swayed, but managed to catch herself by the kitchen counter. She took a couple of deep breaths and steadied herself. She raised a hand and stared at it. It was shaking. Her legs buckled beneath her and she collapsed to the floor. She reached out for her son, trembling from the weakness draining her body.
“Help me,” she croaked before losing consciousness.
2
SEBASTIAN SAT IN his hiding place in between the walls behind his mother’s bed and listened to the adults talking.
