A Mosaic of Stars: Short Stories From Other Worlds

by Andrew Knighton

  “This is an outrage!” Blaze-Simms exclaimed. “Vandalism. Piracy, even.”

  The airship was losing altitude now, heading fast toward the ground.

  “All I want is the Branch.” The woman was by the window, smiling at them both.

  “Well you can’t have it.” Blaze-Simms folded his arms indignantly. “I bought it fair and square from a man named Jeffrey Two Trees.”

  The woman snorted.

  “The Dream Branch is of the alcheringa, the eternal dream beyond our waking world.” An angry expression crumpled her face. “It wasn’t Jeffo’s to sell.”

  Dirk had been slowly approaching her from one side, and now he leaped, hands outstretched. But again she waved her hand and reappeared across the room.

  “I can do this all day.” She turned a wheel and the tone of the engines changed, the airship accelerating in its downward path.

  “I can pay you for it.” Blaze-Simms pulled a wallet from his tailcoat pocket. “Cash or cheque.”

  “No.” She pulled another lever, disappeared as Dirk grabbed at her, and reappeared to flick a switch. “I don’t know what any of these do, but I bet I’m breaking something.”

  An ominous clang somewhere to the aft made Blaze-Simms grimace.

  “Perhaps a share of the profits?” he asked. “With a navigation device like this-“

  “Ground’s getting close,” the woman said. “I can dream walk away before we crash. Can you?”

  “Tim, give her the stick.” Tension knotted Dirk’s guts. He’d escaped crashes before, but they were falling fast and a long way from help.

  “Dream walk.” A distant expression crossed Blaze-Simms’s face.

  “Tim!” Dirk shouted. “The branch!”

  “Oh, yes.” Blaze-Simms pulled a spanner from his tailcoat, hurriedly unfastened the branch and threw it to the woman.

  “Nice meeting you.” With one more wave she vanished.

  The ground hurtling ever closer, Blaze-Simms rushed between levers and dials, turning, twisting and yanking until the airship levelled out. Dirk breathed a sigh of relief as they drifted a few feet above the outback.

  “Sorry about your invention.” He looked over at the navigation panel, with its dead dials and the empty space where the branch had been.

  “Hmm?” Blaze-Simms looked up from a notebook. “Oh, never mind that. Didn’t you hear what she said? She was dream walking, stepping from place to place through another realm. Imagine if I could make a whole airship do that!”

  Dirk stared out the window at the little old lady waving up at them. He couldn’t see her teaching Blaze-Simms her secrets, no matter how big the cheque.

  Mech Seventeen

  The ground shook with each falling shell. I crouched in our improvised bunker, worried that a direct hit might breech the earth, shatter our timber walls and blow me to pieces, or worse yet bury me alive.

  Even amid this madness, Commandant Corpus was abroad. The door flew open and he strode in, red coat flapping. Behind him came another figure, its heavy tread shaking the floor. It was tall as a man, with two arms, two legs, a head, and rifle at its shoulder. But the smoke stack on its back and the gleam of its metal shell made clear that this was no man.

  “Captain Abernathy.” Corpus glared at me.

  “Commandant.” I forced myself to my feet and saluted. There were few things I feared worse than the rebels, but Corpus was among them.

  “This is Mech Seventeen.” Corpus pointed at the mechanical soldier. “It will be joining your unit for field trials. You will report on its progress. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.” I avoided looking at my men. We all knew what field trials meant. With Mech Seventeen in our ranks, we were all doomed.

  “Back!” I yelled. “Back to the line!”

  My men streamed past me. Many were limping. More would never return at all. Our ninth assault in three weeks, and there were fewer and fewer of us left.

  Mech Seventeen stamped along at the back of the unit, rebel shots bouncing off its chassis. Beside it, Torvig caught a bullet and fell, blood spraying from the ruin of his throat.

  The hatred I felt wasn’t for the men firing those guns. It was for this terrible machine, with its blank eyes and its steaming smokestack, its body that could endure far more than any of my men. It was the reason Corpus was throwing us into every fight, to test the limits of Mech Seventeen. It was the reason so many of my men lay there in the mud, broken and scattered like the parts of some monstrous machine.

  I spat at Seventeen as it ran past. The spittle hissed and evaporated from a pipe on its housing. It turned to look at me, and for a moment I imagined there was sadness in its eyes.

  But there was no sadness in a waggon, a shovel or a gun. There could be no sadness in Mech Seventeen.

  Something had to be done. So far I had separated myself from Seventeen, hoping to survive until it was sent away. For the tenth assault I ordered it to take position beside me.

  The moment our artillery stopped firing we leapt from the trenches and raced across the ruined ground. I lost my footing on the edge a shell hole, was caught by Seventeen and righted myself. We kept running.

  Just before the enemy lines, things went to hell. The rebels emerged from their bunkers and began firing. Stivins fell screaming. Bock’s head exploded. Habbly’s arm was ripped off at the elbow but he kept going, whether thanks to courage or to shock.

  If my plan was to work I had to reach the trenches, and Seventeen with me. I ducked and kept moving, fired my pistol at a man pointing his gun my way, didn’t give myself time to think. Hesitation could kill us all.

  Then we were there, looking down on trenches full of green coated soldiers. Their eyes were wide at the sight of Seventeen, this unstoppable mechanical monster. As it raised its rifle, I took a step back. Holstering my pistol, I shoved Seventeen as hard as I could.

  It swayed for a moment on the brink of the trench, then fell forward, sliding down the bank. With wild cries the rebels fell upon it, battering at the fallen the machine with spades and rifle butts. It rolled over, and I saw that sadness again in its eyes.

  But this was still no time for doubts.

  “Back!” I yelled to my men. “Back to safety!”

  We ran like madmen, hoping to be back before the rebels were done with Seventeen

  As we neared our trenches a terrible sight met our eyes. The lines were full of green coats. Our own emplacements had been seized by the rebels.

  I flung myself down in the mud as they opened fire. There was no way out. Even if we weren’t killed by rifle fire, we would be torn apart by the artillery that followed. I would die here, in the mud and horror, the half rotted body of another soldier inches from my face.

  I almost wept as the ground shook, and I waited for a shell to rip me to pieces.

  A metal foot hit the mud beside me. The shaking wasn’t artillery, it was Mech Seventeen. Scratched and dented, his smokestack twisted and the top of his head buckled in, he charged towards our trench, a rifle in each hand.

  Whether it was courage or shock that overcame my fear, I do not know. I dragged myself from the mud and charged with him, yelling at my men to join us.

  Again bullets ricocheted off Seventeen, and again the enemy gave fearful cries at the sight of him. But this time they were not in their own positions, pushed to a desperate last stand. This time they ran, and my men ran in after them, laughing in relief as they slid into the sweet embrace of their own familiar hell.

  Seventeen stood on the edge of the trench, looking around for more targets. Behind us, I heard the first roars of rebel artillery. Thirty feet to my left the ground exploded in a shower of mud and shrapnel.

  “Get down there, soldier.” I shoved Seventeen as hard as I could, and he fell forward, sliding down the bank. The men cheered for him.

  I leapt in after and crouched in a corner, hoping to survive another barrage.

  Seventeen looked at me, and I imagined I saw him smile.

  The Bra
ss Samurai

  That autumn I dug harder than I ever had before. There were more Oni in the hills than at any time in my life, their cackling echoing through the night. I did not have my father’s skill at the forge, but I was strong for a woman. I could dig pits outside the village and fill them with his iron spikes, trying to trap some of the monsters as they came out of the hills.

  It was that or let them devour the harvest. Demons or no demons, I did not intend to starve.

  Frustration seized me as my shovel clanged on something solid in the mud. Rocks meant harder digging and heavier lifting.

  But this clang was different, and as I brushed away the dirt I realised why. Instead of a rock I had found a brass tube, which was in turn connected to a barrel like torso, topped off with the helmet of a samurai. We were used to finding fragments of such things, remnants of steam warriors fallen in the War of Clouds, but this was the first time I had found one whole.

  My father beamed when he saw what I had. He knew automata from his days in the city, before he met my mother.

  “Now we are safe,” he announced as he stoked his forge. “I will make him live again.”

  Leaves were falling in their thousands by the time father beat the dents from the samurai and made his boiler burn once more. He was magnificent, tall and proud despite his scratches and scars. Seeing him, I almost felt hope.

  But soon would come the Screaming Wind, and the Oni would be upon us. When I saw how feeble our defences were, and heard their cackling chorus in the night, I wept with fear.

  Half the village watched as the last green leaf curled up in the orchard. A gust of wind caught it, jerked it once, twice, three times, and snatched it from the branch.

  With a vast screeching, the Oni came. Hundreds of them, their eyes blazing and their teeth flashing, horns protruding from their bulbous heads. They leapt and danced their way out of the hills, heading for our village.

  As the first of them reached the fields, the samurai emerged. His armour was tarnished, his helmet dulled with age, but his blade had a fresh edge thanks to my father. Steam poured from his back as he strode out to face the Oni.

  We pitiful humans retreated safely behind our walls. The Oni could only enter buildings that held no food, and we had taken care to keep our homes clear. We would not die now, even if the samurai failed. Instead we would wait for our empty bellies to devour us.

  Fail he might, for all the strength and skill of his blows. He cut down a dozen Oni in turn, darkening the soil with black blood. But then two of them latched onto his arm, while three more grabbed him around the waist. He disappeared beneath a heap of monsters.

  That magnificent steam man had shown more courage than any of us. Now he would die, and soon we would too.

  I grabbed my shovel and made for the door.

  “Katsume!” my father exclaimed. “What madness is this?”

  I did not answer, but rushed out into the fields. Screaming from the top of my lungs, I charged into the mass of Oni, caving in the face of one with my shovel blade, knocking two more aside as they stood in my way. I leapt at those on the samurai, battering them away from his arm, freeing his blade to do its deadly work.

  Back to back we stood, the brass samurai and I, fighting off the frenzied beasts. Soon my arms were more weary than they had ever been from digging, my palms rubbed raw. But still I fought on, the steam that poured out behind me a reminder of the strength one person could have.

  At last the throng dwindled. Only a score of Oni remained. Exhausted, I lifted my weapon to face them.

  Lifted it too high. An Oni came in under my defences and sank its teeth into my arm. There was a crunch, a flash of agonising pain, and where my hand had been blood poured from the stump.

  I slumped to my knees, cold and faint. The samurai turned to stand over me, slicing my attacker in half, fending off the Oni that gazed at me with hungry eyes. I could already hear others battering at his back.

  As my mind spun and the world went black, I heard footsteps and shouts.

  I looked down at the body of the brass samurai. His head was a mangled mess, his torso stooped protectively over where I had been. He had saved me, becoming my armour as the villagers chased down the last Oni.

  My father wept over the stump of my wrist, but I did not. Instead I looked down at the brass samurai’s hand, still clutching his sword. He had given us the inner steel to fight. Perhaps he could give me something more.

  A Railway to the Moon

  It is not my way to accept a commission simply for the money, but for the amount Lady Tottering offered I was willing to make an exception. The madness that made her commission a railway to the Moon would surely pass once she realised its impossibility, and I could return to work on regular locomotives, a second town house paid for.

  “It is absurd,” her Ladyship said when we first met, her eyes fixed on the night sky. “That man Fogg can travel to lands far beyond our view, yet none of us tries to reach what is right before our eyes.”

  Having explained the challenges of the endeavour, and discovered her still intent upon it, I set to work.

  There was no shortage of money or manpower available to me, and yet my plans faltered at every turn.

  I built a ramp miles long, incredible in its lightness and strength, to get us into the air above Surrey. Yet even this proved too heavy to sustain itself, and was repurposed for crossing the Thames estuary.

  The first seven engine designs, each faster than any other in England, proved too cumbersome for the ascent. Each in turn was relegated to the London to Edinburgh run.

  No matter how I refined it, I could not make fuel efficient enough for such a long journey without stops.

  At last the frustration became too much.

  “It is madness!” I leapt up and down on my top hat, venting like a burst valve. “How can I work at that which cannot be completed?”

  Storming past the shocked navvies, I burst into the office and whipped off a short, sharp telegram.

  “PROJECT IS MADNESS STOP CAN TAKE NO MORE STOP I RESIGN STOP.”

  By the time Her Ladyship arrived from London, I had calmed down enough to regret my tone, though not my intent.

  “We have a contract.” She glared at me as we stood on the steel walkway, looking down at the still-bustling works where my assistants were supervising the lasted experimental boiler.

  “I have my pride,” I snapped.

  “And what good will pride do if I sue you for breaching our agreement?” Her eyes were steely grey, arms folded across her chest. Though it was buried, I felt that she had an anger as great as my own. “I hired you because of your potential. Without it you are nothing to me. I will take back every penny I paid, and more. Your house. Your company. Your patents. I will take it all.”

  The blood raced from my face, and I gripped the rail tight. I felt the horror of my situation, to have taken a job to secure a second fortune, only to lose my first.

  “Please.” I gulped. “It is driving me insane. I am an engineer. I can take no joy in a project that never bears fruit.”

  “That never…” Her voice softened, and she laughed. That callous sound sent a shudder up my spine. “My dear Mr Abernathy, your work here has born endless fruit.”

  She took my arm and led me, bewildered, along the walkway. As she spoke she pointed at objects in the yard below.

  “Your Moon-bound locomotives have halved the journey time to Scotland. Your lightened fuel has doubled their efficiency. Out estuary bridge is the talk of London.” She turned me to face her. “I am not a lunatic, Mr Abernathy. I dream of a train to the Moon, knowing it may never succeed. But the achievements that dream inspires, the steps we take toward an impossible goal, those we can take pride in. Those are the things that will last.”

  I blinked, turning my gaze back toward the yard. I remembered all the things I had created here. One mad dream had spurred more inventions in that one year than in my whole illustrious career.

  A smile crept up my
face, and I turned to face her again.

  “I have an idea,” I said, “for the most comfortable of passenger cars.”

  Broken Rails

  “Go left!”

  The train jolted, smoke billowing into Flywheel’s face, as Georgo made a last minute swing at the junction lever.

  “Gears dammit, Flywheel!” Georgo bellowed, glancing at the track they had nearly taken as it ran arrow straight through the cratered debris of the plains. “We can’t jump away from every splinted rail you see.”

  “Can and will!” Flywheel screamed over the roar of the Silver Bolt’s engine. “We hit one at speed, this whole pile of junk goes down, and us with it!”

  “We don’t win this race, we don’t get the scrap,” George replied. “Then the whole town starves.”

  To their right, the Crimson Inferno roared along another of the tangled tracks that crossed the old warzone. For a moment it vanished behind the armoured carcass of an artillery train. When it reappeared it was a dozen feet ahead of them and gaining.

  Georgo cursed as he surveyed the tracks, while Flywheel flung coal into the furnace, sweat pouring down her face. Tracks screeched by beneath their wheels, but as the trains drew toward another junction, the Crimson Inferno was a whole carriage length ahead.

  “Here!” She flung the shovel to Georgo and grabbed a wrench. Swinging at a signalling lever, she sent them careening onto a track set to merge with their opponents. They could hold their nerve and risk a crash, or they could starve.

  Across the dirt and rubble, she saw shock on the other driver’s face. Then determination took its place. Casting aside his wrench he picked up a shovel, forcing more speed from his screaming engine.

  There was one more junction before the tracks merged, one last chance to chicken out and avoid catastrophe. The Inferno rushed straight through.