by Cat Rambo
Altered America
Copyright © 2016 by Cat Rambo and Plunkett Press
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author.
Cover art by Rosario Rizzo.
Cover design by Tod McCoy.
Book formatting by Hydra House.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, situations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
978-1-945477-03-4
Stories originally appeared as follows:
“Clockwork Fairies”—Tor.com, 2010.
“Rare Pears and Greengages”—Eyes Like Sky and Coal and Moonlight, Paper Golem Press, 2009.
“Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?”—Patreon post, 2014.
“Memphis BBQ”—Airships and Automatons, 2015.
“Rappacini’s Crow”—Beneath Ceaseless Skies, 2014.
“Her Windowed Eyes”—Patreon post, 2015.
“Snakes on a Train”—Patreon post, 2015.
“Web of Blood and Iron”—Patreon post, 2016.
“Ticktock Girl”—Cyberage Adventures, 2005.
“Seven Clockwork Angels”—Patreon post, 2016.
Introduction
This collection, Altered America: Steampunk Stories, contains a steampunk alternate history that I’ve been writing stories in for a little under a decade, starting with the story “Rare Pears and Greengages.” As I’ve written others, I’ve moved from England to America in order to bring in some of the rich complexity of its history. There is every intent to write at least one novel set in this world, though not till the Tabat Quartet is finished up.
This world differs from our own with the beginning of a fairy incursion in England in the mid 19th century, loosely chronicled in “Rare Pears and Greengages” and “Clockwork Fairies.”As time passes, magic asserts a stronger and stronger presence. When Abraham Lincoln turns to necromancy to aid him in the Civil War, the North quickly wins and a period of industrialization and technological advancement begins, fueled in part by the discovery of phlogiston, a magical fluid capable of powering intelligent machinery. In the decades following its discovery, the 1880s and 90s see the opening of naval war with Japan over phlogiston, a war primarily fought along the west coast, as well as internal threat from a race of shapeshifting sorcerers of unknown origin.
This is the era in which most of the stories take place, including “Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?,” “Memphis BBQ,” “Rappacini’s Crow,” “Her Windowed Eyes, Her Chambered Heart,” and “Snakes on a Train.” The last two have an overlapping cast of characters, including Pinkerton agents Artemus West and Elspeth Sorehs.
In the early 1900s, vampires suddenly emerge as a power group, challenging the fairy hold on Great Britain and taking Eastern Europe entirely. They spread in influence rapidly throughout Europe, as chronicled in “Web of Blood and Iron.” The story of their defeat remains to be written, but is on my docket for late 2016.
I have included two additional steampunk stories that fall into the right category but aren’t entirely of the Altered America canon. “Ticktock Girl” was written in 2005 and originally appeared in Cyberage Adventures; it’s a favorite of mine, combining superheroes and steampunk. “Seven Clockwork Angels, Dancing on a Pin” is a retelling of Sleeping Beauty that I wrote for a Fairypunk project and which originally appeared on my blog in early 2016.
As with other collections, I’ll include afternotes that I hope provide additional flavor and enjoyment.
I’d like to thank my writing group, Horrific Miscue (both the Seattle branch and the national chapter) as well as many of my readers for feedback and appreciation of the stories, particularly those of you who helped fund the creation of these stories by supporting me on Patreon.
Acknowledgments
I want to call out some of the editors who made particular stories the better for their attention: Liz Gorinsky did an amazing job on “Clockwork Fairies.” Bryan Thomas Schmidt gave me insightful feedback on “Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?” Scott Andrews provided his usual meticulous edits on “Rappacini’s Crow.” Rachel Swirsky offered feedback on “Web of Blood and Iron,” back when its title was still “Blue Train Blues (working title).” Wayne Rambo also heard multiple drafts, attended many readings, and listened to me brainstorm many, many points.
My students continue to be a primary source of inspiration. You guys know who you are and I love you all.
For Wayne, always.
Clockwork Fairies
Mary the Irish girl let me in when I knocked at the door in my post-services Sunday best, smelling of incense and evening fog. Gaslight flickered over the narrow hall. This was Southland’s city house. His country estate provided his daughter, my affianced, plenty of space to pursue her studies and experiments.
It was comfortable enough here though. The mahogany banister’s curve gleamed with beeswax polish, and a rosewood hat rack and umbrella stand squatted to my left.
I nodded to Mary, taking off my top hat. Snuff and baking butter mingled with my own pomade to battle the smell of steel and sulfur from below.
“Don’t be startled, Mr. Claude, sir,” Mary said, even as I asked, “Is your mistress in?”
Before I could speak further, a whir of creatures surrounded me.
At first I thought them American hummingbirds or large dragonflies. One hung poised before my eyes in a flutter of metallic skin and isinglass wings. Delicate gears spun in the wrist of a pinioned hand holding a needle-sharp sword. Desiree had created another marvel. Clockwork fairies, bee-winged, glittering like tinsel. Who would have dreamed such things, let alone make them real, except Desiree?
Mary chattered, “They’re hers. They won’t harm ye. Only burglars and the like.”
She swatted at one that had come too close, its hair floating like candy-floss in the air. Mary had been with the Southland household for three years now and had grown accustomed to scientific marvels. “I’ll tell her ladyship yer here.”
She left. I eyed the fairies that hovered in the air around me. Despite Mary’s assurance, I was not sure what they would do if I stepped forward. They were capable of independent movement in a way I had not witnessed before in clockwork creations.
Footsteps sounded downstairs, coming closer. Desiree appeared in the doorway that led to her basement workshop. She had been working. A pair of protective lenses goggled around her neck, and she wore gloves. Not the dainty kidskin gloves of fashionable women, but thick pig leather to shield her clever brown fingers from sparks. One clutched a brass oval studded with tiny buttons, almost glove-obscured.
Her skin and race made her almost as much an oddity in upper London society as the fairies. She was mine; I smiled at her.
“Claude,” she said. Her eyes simmered with delight.
She clicked the device in her hand and the fairies swirled away, disappearing to God knows where. “I’m almost done. I’ll meet you in the parlor in a few minutes. Go ahead and ring for tea.”
In the parlor, I took to the settee, and looked around. As always, the room was immaculate, filled with well-dusted knickknacks. Butterflies fluttered under two bell jars on the charcoal marble mantle, carved with lily of the valley. The room was well-composed: a sofa sat in graceful opposition with a pair of wing chairs. The only discordant note was sounded by the book shoved between two embroidered pillows on a chai
r’s maroon velvet. I picked it up. On the Origin Of Species, by Charles Darwin.
I frowned and set it back down. Only last week, my minister had spoken out against this very book. I would have to speak to Desiree. I knew better than to forbid her to read it – but she should not discuss it in polite company or support its heretical notion that humans were related to animals, contrary to God’s order, the Great Chain of Being.
Mary the Irish girl brought tea and sweet biscuits in a clatter of heels, muting when she reached the parlor carpet. I poured myself a cup, sniffing. Lapsang Oolong. Desiree’s father had excellent taste in provisions.
The man himself appeared in the doorway. Lord Southland, one of London’s notable titled eccentrics. His silk waistcoat was patterned with golden bees, as fashionable as my own undulating Oriental serpents.
“Ah, Stone,” he said. He advanced to take a sesame seed biscuit, eyebrows bristling with hoary disapproval behind shilling-sized lenses. “You’re here again.”
“I came to visit Desiree,” I replied, stressing the last word. I knew Lord Southland disapproved of me, although his antipathy puzzled me. If he hoped to marry off his mulatto daughter, I was his best prospect, being free of the prejudices others held.
With his wife’s death, though, Southland had become irrational, taking up radical notions. So far Desiree had steered clear of them with my guidance, but I shuddered to think that she might become a Nonconformist or Suffragist. Still, I took care to be polite to Southland. If he cut Desiree from his will, the results would be disastrous.
“Of course he came to see me, Papa,” Desiree said from the other doorway. She had removed her leather apron, revealing a gay pink cotton dress, sprigged with strawberry blossoms. She perched a decorous distance from me and poured her own tea, adding a hearty amount of milk.
“I’ve come to nag you again, Des,” I teased.
A crease settled between her eyebrows. “Claude, is this about Lady Allsop’s ball again?”
I leaned forward to capture her hand, its color deep against my own pale skin. “Desiree, to be accepted in society, you must make an effort now and then. If you are a success it will reflect well on me, and show that I have not taken you from the shelf, despite your age. Twenty-four is not so advanced that you are automatically an old maid, but people make assumptions. Appearing at the ball will be a major step towards dispelling those.”
She removed her fingers from mine, the crease more pronounced. “I have told you, I am not the sort of woman that goes to balls.”
“But you could be!” I told her. “Look at you, Desiree. You are as beautiful as any woman in London. A nonpareil. Dressed properly, you would take the City by storm.”
“We have been over this before,” she said. “I have no desire to expose myself to stares. My race makes me noteworthy, but it is not pleasant being a freak, Claude. Last week a child in the street wanted to rub my skin and see ‘if the dirt would come off.’ Can you not be happy with me as I am?”
“I am very happy with you as you are,” I said. I could hear a sullen touch in my voice, but my feelings were understandable. “But you could be so much more!”
She stood. “Come,” she said. “I will show you what I have been working on.”
There would be no arguing with her, I could tell by the tone, but a touch of sulkiness might wear her down. Lord Southland glared at me as I bowed to him, but neither of us spoke.
In the workshop, a clockwork fairy sprawled on the table. Using a magnifying glass, Desiree showed me its delicate works, the mica flakes pieced together to form the wings.
“Where did you get the idea?” I asked.
“In Devonshire, an old woman spoke of seeing fairies. There was an interview with her in The Strand.”
I snorted. “Old women are given to fancies.”
Desiree shrugged, taking up a pick and using it to adjust the paper-thin wing hinge. “It made me think of how to create a flying creature. I chose to use bumblebees for my model, rather than the traditional butterfly wings. My fairies can resist strong winds and go where I wish them, according to the instructions I have laid into their ‘brains,’ which are tiny Babbage engines.”
Desiree is interested in such things but spiritual matters are what I find engaging. She droned on but I cut her short. “Sometimes I think you don’t love me.”
She stopped. Her half-parted lips were like flower petals, an orchid’s inner workings. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t understand my position,” I said. “As a Dean, I must have a wife who is acceptable in society’s eyes.”
“This is about the ball again,” she said. She made as though to touch my face, but I turned my head away, pretended to be examining the articulated form half-assembled on the table near me.
“Very well,” she said. Her hand returned to her side. “I will go.”
That week fled pell-mell. I went to a lecture series by John Newman and in the evenings I dined at my club and had excellent quail prepared in the French style. I went to the theater on two occasions, once to see Gilbert’s “Robert the Devil” and again to see “How She Loves Him,” by Boucicault. I stopped by Lord Southland’s on three separate evenings.
Desiree had started on a mechanical cat. She took me into her workshop to look at it. A clockwork nightingale sang in the wicker cage hanging from the rafters, set in motion by our footsteps’ vibration.
“It’s still in the preliminary stages,” she said. A brass skeleton lay disassembled on the table, but it was laid out so I could see the cat-to-be’s shape. Mercury beads rolled in a white porcelain dish. A discarded spray of silver whiskers had been tossed in the coalscuttle.
I glanced around. “The Deanery has a basement,” I said. “It houses our wine cellar and storerooms, but I have sent to have the front room cleaned and whitewashed for you.”
Her teeth flashed as she smiled. Her breath smelled of licorice when I stole a kiss and I felt her skin’s warmth against my hands. True, the room was not as fine as this, but she would improvise and makeshift, for she was a clever girl. And once she had started breeding, such fancies would fall away. Her inventions, her clever machines, were simply the maternal instinct thwarted. Once she had a child, she would find herself devoted to it. Our children would be handsome. And well provided for with the dowry she would bring.
When she went upstairs to speak to her father, I lingered in the workshop. I amused myself walking between the tables and shelves, examining at her work.
I paused beside what looked like a dress-form, a brass cylinder the size of a human torso. My cheeks flushed as I regarded it.
Shockingly, Desiree had given it the semblance of a maiden’s bosom, a suggestion of curves whose immodesty appalled me. Headless, armless, legless, the torso stood affixed to three steel rods that culminated in a circular base as wide as an elephant’s foot.
I reached out and touched my fingertips to its “shoulder.” I trailed them down along the skin towards its chest. The oils from my fingers laid a faint trail behind them, wavering on the metal’s gleam. It was how corrosion started, I knew. Given time, would the stains grow to verdigris, show how intimately I had touched Desiree’s creation?
I buffed the marks away with a linen rag that lay on a nearby workbench. The stairs creaked beneath me in admonishment as I ascended them to join Desiree and her father. They had been arguing again. I heard her father say, “Blasted pedantic popinjay!” and Desiree say, “Oh Father,” her tone coaxing and indulgent.
“You don’t have to settle for such a man!”
“If I want to be part of society and not an outcast, I need the most proper of husbands! Claude and I will accommodate each other with time.”
That had an ominous sound, but we would negotiate it later. They fell silent as I appeared. Southland’s face was red with anger, Desiree’s smile as bland as her mechanical cat licking cream.
On the night of Lady Allsop’s ball, everyone notable was there. Silks and satins gleamed l
ike colored waters, touched with flecks of light from cut gems. The air smelled of hothouse flowers and French scent. The orchestra played “Beautiful Bells” as the dancers glided in the waltz.
I do not entirely approve of such things as dancing, but society places demands on us. I was eager for the ton to place their seal of benison on my bride to be. I would dance twice with Desiree when she arrived, but for the most part I intended to stay on the sidelines, drinking lemonade. Still when a few partners pressed me, I gave in.
I know well that women find me alluring – no credit to anyone other than He who shaped me. But my calf shows to advantage in fine hose, to the point where at least one too-bold madam had called it shapely.
And I knew very well that it was my looks that initially attracted Desiree. Like all women, she is drawn to this world’s baubles, not realizing their transient, mayfly nature. But with time, she had sounded my mind’s depths and I flattered myself that it was what she found there that strengthened her attraction to me.
A woman I danced with let me know the Southlands had arrived. “Your fiancée, is she not?” she purred with a throaty sound. “I saw her arrive with her Papa, a half hour or so ago.”
I made my excuses and went outside the Great Hall to pass through the refreshment line, looking for Desiree. I caught sight of her ahead of me, in the side hall’s shadows, dark hair piled in an intricate mechanism atop her head. She paused beside a dusky silk curtain, speaking to another woman, blond-haired, blue-eyed.
From the back I could see Desiree’s silk skirt: figured with gears, the teeth embroidered in red. I came up behind her and slid my hand through the crook of her elbow, drawing her close to show my pleasure at her presence there, despite her dress’s outré nature.
I realized my mistake from the way the woman pulled herself away. She turned and I saw her clearly, no longer Desiree. Her hair held brownish red highlights, and her eyes were an icy, outraged green. The patterned cogs were Michelmas daises, the teeth ragged petals, scarlet on cream.
