Captain Albion Clemens and The Future that Never Was: A Steampunk Novel! (Lands Beyond Book 1)

by Kin Law

  Captain Albion Clemens and

  the Future That Never Was

  Kin S. Law

  Stories of the Lands Beyond, Volume 1

  Herein Contained:

  1: Albion: The Rogue, the Maid, and the Writer

  2: London

  3: Paris

  4.1: Hargreaves: For Queen and Country

  4.2: Blair: To Not Getting Hanged

  4.3: Rosa: Figure Four Holds

  5: The Straight Hook, Kitty Desperado, Blair Gets Lucky

  6: Rome

  7: Nessie Drake, Gothic Pirate Princess

  8: Berlin

  9: The Urchins of Deadcast

  10: Secret of Leviathan

  11: Moscow

  12: Kowloon Walled City

  13: Survive

  14: Repentance

  15: The Worm

  16: Future that Never Was

  17: Leviathan

  18: Teatime

  For Family

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Moral Support: Claudia D. Dodd

  Cover Art: Hannah E. Gregory

  ISBN: 978-1499332971

  Copyright © 2014 Kin S. Law

  @VoxVorago

  1: Albion: The Rogue, the Maid, and the Writer

  My first thought upon setting boot in the tavern was a guilty pleasure. Sure, I had seen my share of beautiful bodies and vivacious visage, but those had been limited to lantern-lit shadow play, jasmine-scented nights lingering like incense on the skin.

  Almost as a reminder, my reflection stared out at me from a pane of Dublin crystal glass- brown eyes, black hair, a special shade of skin like soy sauce on bean curd.

  Whether or not Kowloon still meant home, the girls there were short, slender and demure. They spoke very little, giggled over men who looked like children, and covered their lily-pad feet with silk. I always thought of them as carefully tended orchids, easily plucked or crushed. Girls in this pub looked like a field of sunflowers: gold where Kowloon girls were dark, round where they were flat, some even tall enough to look me in the eye. I felt my back straighten a couple vertebrae just asking for a table. Everywhere they moved they were laughing and joking with the patrons, and what patrons they were: a dirty, drunk, decadent, downtrodden, delinquent, dated, dour, diverse, different bunch.

  A few gentlemanly types were trawling through in various levels of stupor. Clinging to the girls and drinking like fish, the group inspired me in a most Sherwood Forest kind of way. I was not the only one. A quartet of sailors in waterproof slickers were eyeing the dandies evilly.

  Their coin occasionally drew attention, but was unable to compete with the gold fobs, the expensive cigars lit with shining flintlocks, nor the frilly lace likely to disintegrate at the taste of salt.

  I sensed an upcoming confrontation. If the dandies left with the whole covey, some would likely see the end of a dagger. Say what you like about the dirigible age, but it does bring people together.

  I slumped onto a bench, choosing a booth with my back to the wall. A polite gesture caught the sight of the nearest barmaid, who was balancing a platter and an inebriate. She was fending off a dandy in an elaborate velvet suit, drunk out of his mind and grabbing for her hip-length pleats. Blondie was a very good actress, having at her disposal an endless array of winks, smiles and flips of her hair. Not only did said skirt never catch on his meat hooks, she came away with a bit of shiny currency as well. Her linen barely creased.

  Unable to contain my appreciation, I whistled softly as she came to take my order. At first, she must have thought it more wolf-calls and heckling, but the smile in my eyes soon propagated to the barmaid’s.

  “He’s a merchant out of Camden,” she informed me, in the way most working girls have when chancing upon an empathic soul. I remembered dimly a time those two words were scandalous in Britain- a farthing for the man who guesses which two I mean.

  “Bit of a run-in with air pirates, lost his entire shipment of fine Caledonia perfume,” she was continuing sympathetically.

  I noted the slender figure, the modest curves, but also the wide Nordic shoulders and the regal set to her hips.

  Strange place to meet such a distinct woman, but I supposed anything is possible when one could hop on a dirigible one day and be on the other side of the world in a matter of weeks.

  “A shame,” I replied, trying not to stare at the deep bosom peeking out of her frills.

  “Isn’t it though? Portsmouth had a reputation for ladies of the evening, even before the airship towers went up. A girl needs to wash between jobs. Lad would have made a killing, pardon my French. Wouldn’t be interested in such things, fine upstanding gent like yourself?”

  “You might be surprised.” A glittering bottle of lavender essence appeared from a deep pocket in my duster.

  “That’s Caledonian, isn’t it?” she whispered on the sly. “Best not to let too many eyes on it.”

  “For you,” I said. “If I can avail myself of one of your hot ciders?”

  “Cheeky Monkey. Coming up,” she answered with a wink. I watched her leave, making a subtle show of touching the bottle on her wrists, before vanishing it in the pockets of her apron. I suppose it might have been another of her acts, but the delicate dabs didn’t seem to fit with her character; she looked like she knew what she was doing. I took my pint of cider, and watched her hips sway as she left, putting the disquiet out of mind.

  The Jilted Merman was half-full that evening. Night mist snuck in with the soon-to-be inebriates sifting through the plank door, bright with moonlight. Ornaments yet hung on one drooping evergreen in the corner, cheap baubles to wring every last bit of cheer from the salty patrons.

  Evidently the barkeep preferred the scent of pine needles to his clientele’s breath.

  It does the Portsmouth people credit to note their natives were placidly drinking next to unidentifiable scoundrels, air pirates, and jacks of all trades lurking in the dark corners of the tavern. The smattering of locals were well muscled, weather-roughened, and clearly a group not to be fucked with. Toughs in tweed, all of them.

  One particularly ginger fellow, having the slight, rat-like bearing of a no-good cutpurse, attempted to size me up. I simply removed my well-worn duster, revealing aeronaut’s muscles as tight as cord on the wide set of my shoulders, and all was well.

  Suddenly, the voice of our friend the dandy merchant rang out in an aria of woe.

  “Damn and blast!” He cursed with London airs through a week’s worth of beard. “If it weren’t for the Turkish blockade, my dear Swarthy Wain would yet be riding the gales!”

  “You sayin’ them bloody Turks shot down your freighter?” prompted a sympathetic friend, or a curious sadist.

  “I’m saying those bloody borscht-swilling swine closed the route over the Ottomans. Great big cannon emptying bandits out of their skies and into ours! I took my Wain over land, avoiding the worst of them in the Channel, when who should I see?” the merchant announced.

  “Who?” chirped a chorus of ill-weather friends. Misery indeed loves company.

  “The Blasted Manchu Marauder! Albion Clemens! Him and that accursed ship, what was her name, the Gooseberry? The Cloudberry?”

  “The Huckleberry!” I called, certain my voice would be directionless in this crow
d.

  “The Devil take the Huckleberry and her crew! Damn ship just drops out of the sun, she does, and quick as a wink we’re boarded by masked pirates, rounded up by a fence of cutlasses!”

  At this point, several patrons were willing to ply the piracy victim with drink, in exchange for details, and his voice fell to a hush. Surely that had been his ploy?

  Quietly chuckling in the corner, I turned to receive a steaming flagon of cider from the beauteous barmaid.

  “Here you are, Marauder,” she quipped quietly, returning my sass cheek for cheek. Obligingly, I flipped her a coin for her trouble- I was beginning to like her. As she caught the coin, I caught her wrist gently.

  “Say, all jibes aside, I wonder if you could help me.”

  “Back door is next to the loo. Turn left to get to the docks, right goes by the constabulary,” she supplied, clearly used to her clientele. “If you’re in a carousing mood, I’m afraid the night flowers have all been plucked, and I just serve drinks.”

  “How could you think I had such lewd intentions? Betrayal made fouler by beauty!” I feigned a gasp. “No, my dear, I’m looking for a man.”

  “Oh my… are you sure?” she pouted, popping out a well-formed Nordic hip.

  “He’s…like a father to me,” I obliged, and for a moment it seemed as if the actress had been replaced by a human being.

  Wry smiles soon masked her again, but at least she seemed sincerely willing to help.

  “Sorry, I haven’t seen a cloth button or silk slipper in here for months, not since the Imperial ambassador’s visit. You are a rare sight, Chinaman,” she answered helpfully. Vixen once more, she scented for a tip. “Especially a young, handsome Chinaman…”

  “Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter,” I said, surprising myself. It had been something Captain Sam said quite often.

  “You sound like an old man!” Blondie chortled.

  “Might be because I’m looking for one, an American. White hair and beard, bit of a penchant for cigars. Might be wearing a dirty drover’s hat. Likes blondes. Would be carrying a ‘chester rifle.”

  As I was talking to my barmaid, the rat-like ginger man resumed eyeballing me from across the pub over rounded spectacles. I didn’t like it very much, especially when I caught the glimpse he gave to two rather unsavory characters in a booth. No rat like a rat with two snakes for backup.

  “No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen the like,” My barmaid was saying, one lock of hair freed from her bun and chewed on.

  “I know him, he would have been through this tavern,” I said placidly. “Thank you anyway.”

  “I’ll ask around. If you need anything just call.” She favored me a wink. I turned my attention to the second flagon, always the better of two for its lack of immediacy. Savor is best when thirst comes second.

  Master Ginger slipped through the pub and into my booth, even as the maid laid down two more flagons of wondrous cider. He seemed surprised, and impressed, his spectacles highlighting large, dark eyes. At close range, the man did not seem so rat-like; a sparse frame hung on strong shoulders, made deceptively smaller by an overlarge tweed coat. His ginger was fake. Black roots sprouted at eyebrow and hairline over a pasty complexion. Under dirty tweed and threadbare elbows, the man’s clothing was simple linen and canvas, but surprisingly clean. He spread his hands, to show he meant no harm.

  Five lead slugs weighed down my hip. I debated muffling the hammer click against my duster, but I doubted murder was on his mind.

  “Wotcher drinkin?” he asked in a passable cockney. The voice was surprisingly warm. “Looks good.”

  “Help yourself,” I offered generously. Just kill them with kindness. “You have business with me?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” he smiled, and took a long draught, breathing a contented cloud of spirit into the chill pub air. “This is the only thing I get in the Isles.”

  “Best cider in the Commonwealth,” I agreed. Lamplight flickered over our faces, giving us merry expressions. It was good warm gaslight too, none of the humming or buzzing from those harsh arclights. A good deal warmer than the conversation we were having, certainly.

  “The lager is better in Deutschland,” the ginger began. “France has the best wine, and I get nothing but stout on the Emerald Isles. Nothing holds a candle to English cider. My name is Elric Blair, and I need your help.”

  “Shaw,” I answered, choosing the name of a friend. Blair’s eyebrow popped up over one lens.

  “Never met an Oriental with a name like that. I’m sorry, you’ll have to do better.”

  “It’s all you’re getting. You want my help or no?”

  “Right,” he sighed, all sign of cockney gone. “I couldn’t help but put two and two together. I’ve a good nose for perfumes, you see. You’re the famous air pirate, the Manchu Marauder.”

  “The Scourge of Shanghai, the Hanoi Highwayman, the Bandit of Budapest. In the flesh, nice to meet you.” I clicked the hammer, perfectly audible in our little booth. “Now call off your cronies.”

  “They would be why I need your help. If I may?”

  Elric Blair slowly opened his large coat, reaching into the inside pocket. He produced a small derringer, the cheap two-shot variety, and placed it on the table.

  As a show of good will, I put my own revolver on the table. My Victoria gouged a fresh gash in the worn oak, her sleek black barrel and heavy elm grip remaining firmly in hand. Blair’s gun, on the other hand, was well out of his grasp- inexperience with firearms, or a show of honesty?

  Fortunately, the pub’s high booth walls and dusky atmosphere gave us enough privacy.

  It also prevented the two toughs behind Blair from seeing the weapons. Blair whistled gently at Victoria.

  “Big gun. A Colt, is it, from the Americas?”

  “It was a gift. Now, come clean, Mr. Blair, or you will find my big gun making some big holes.”

  “It’s a Marlowe Scheme, Mr. Shaw,” Blair sighed. Ah- a good, old-fashioned mugging, so named because it involved three men and a dagger. A harmless-looking foil selected a green, preferably foreign target, presenting him with some attractive, illicit local consumable, likely a woman or substance. An invitation would be given. A throat would be cut. Simple.

  “Only, you picked me instead of an easy mark,” I filled in.

  “Right on the money,” he agreed. “Apologies, I believe I’ve forced you into this situation. As I’ve given you no alternative, an air pirate like yourself ought to be able to handle two common thugs.”

  “You seem used to this kind of coercion, but unused to violence. I am curious to know, what are you doing with street toughs like Clive and Staples? And in motley, as well.”

  “Not my color? Heh. You know them.”

  “I know of them. The Lewis brothers made their rounds up and down the coast, and with those ugly mugs it’s hard to mistake them for anyone else,” I remarked. Squatting in their own booth, the two looked like a Bulldog and a Doberman leering at an unfriendly pack, or a fresh bone.

  “It was how I found them as well. I’m sorry, Shaw, your speech is so…”

  “American?”

  “… correct. It is odd, hearing an Oriental with such perfect mastery of the Queen’s English. Your accent is undoubtedly Yankee, but the pronunciation, the grammar, and the diction…” the man seemed bemused, almost academic. His fingers scrabbled at an invisible pen.

  “You’ll find many today with the capacity for language, amongst other things, Master Blair. It is the steam age, after all, and a journalist should know the most valuable cargo aboard a dirigible is information.”

  Blair sat back at this, seemingly jolted out of his reverie. Credit must be given, for my revelation did not faze him much, only causing him to drop the last shred of pretense.

  “You’re right, of course. I’ve written volumes of London’s dirtiest ditches, but I must admit I am out of my element. I fully intended to apply an earlier method, of gett
ing… up close and personal with the unwashed masses, and thus learning something of their plight. I am afraid I’ve gotten mixed up with, quite literally, cutthroats. However hard pressed for one’s living we are, murder is never just. ”

  “I think I’ve read your work, actually. Changed my whole attitude towards cigarettes.”

  “Don’t believe that was the point of the piece…”

  “Hah! I like you, Mr. Blair.”

  “I am beginning to be fond of you as well, Mister… Shaw.”

  We sat there, two grinning baboons, until our pretty barmaid came to perch at the end of the booth, at the pretext of clearing away flagons.

  “When you lovebirds are done, your friends might be wanting a word with you,” she mentioned casually.

  One look over her shoulder confirmed the situation: Misters Clive and Staples were becoming uneasy. Clearly, something would have to be done.

  “Oy!” I cried, quite loudly. My aim was sure- several locals perked their ears. “You lot, are you going to stand for it? Those city toffs just called you backward, hillbilly wankers!”

  Instant flashpoint. Within moments a magnificent bar fight had broken out, stools and flagons and pint glasses flying by overhead. It was dockhands versus dandies, pirates versus bandits, and the Celts against everybody else, laughing like bloody hyenas as their teeth left their faces. The tarts fled for high ground, the pushers for low, and everyone else started dodging. Wisely, Blair, Blondie and I slunk down below the table, our flagons held perfectly level, apple-flavored breath pooling in the tight, safe space.

  “Wasn’t that an American insult?” our maid asked, between liberal sips from my flagon.

  “Not for anyone living south of Virginia?” I supplied.

  “Please, Master Pirate, we should be making for the door!” Blair cried.

  “In a moment. Wait for it… now!”

  Coarse wood swung shut behind us, casting us suddenly into a dense, brackish fog. Wet cobbles threatened to overturn our raggedy trio onto the road, but it was still better than the crossfire going on inside the Jilted Merman.