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

by Kin Law

  “I’m fine!” Rosa called back. One chance, she thought- she would create a distraction, and in the one moment of opportunity, throw three knives in succession. Hopefully the number of missiles would make up for the low accuracy. If not, she would think of something else, though with this leg, there weren’t many options.

  “Moore says there’s something on the track!” Hargreaves relayed. Again with this nonsense!

  “Likely a train!” Rosa responded.

  She did not need this right now. Instead, she looked about her- mirror, mirror, never more did she miss her vanity mirror, tucked away in her locker aboard the ‘Berry. Finally, she found a reflective bit of glass, in which the gunman’s hunched figure appeared quite clearly. He was wearing ordinary clothes- a three-piece suit, no armor. He even had a top hat.

  For a moment, the glass showed a glimpse of a buccaneer coat, and a flash of British racing green. Rosa shook it off as a mirage. Battle fever, yes, that was it. There was no way Albion Clemens would come to her rescue, no matter how much she wished it. He always was an insensitive lout.

  “Oy!” Rosa called. “You, twat!”

  It was now or never. Rosa waited until the gunman straightened; then, in a flash, she threw one sliver of metal away with her left hand, spun, and launched three more with the momentum out of her right hand.

  The left knife struck first, and the flintlock in the core slipped back, setting the gun cotton in the handle aflame. It was her especially flashy mixture, designed to provide an instant spotlight for her particularly glamorous outfits.

  Whatever her original intention for the invention, it did its job, exploding into a star of white-hot sparks. The gunman’s aim shifted infinitesimally away from Rosa, as he turned to look at the fireworks. The train seemed to slow, the scenery coming back from a blur into cohesion.

  She sighted the three knives as they left her fingers. The leftmost would never make it- it had been a Hail Mary, anyway. The other two were promising. Her bet was on the middle, on a straight trajectory for the man’s jugular.

  Her focus was so intent, she nearly didn’t see the 1890’s Chapman Eight in British racing green, filling one of the train’s windows with its charming, oblong-shaped grille.

  “How was the crawl?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The pub, the pub crawl, how was it? Any good stouts up here?”

  Captain Albion looked at Hargreaves, the circles where his goggles shielded his eyes from the soot of the road. They were the wide eyes of an owl.

  Lacking any coherent answer, the Inspector ignored him. Albion Clemens was standing before her, just beside Rosa Marija, who was examining her shin where a red welt was beginning to form.

  The Captain had offered to look at it for her, but Rosa Marija seemed to be annoyed, perhaps at the method of the Captain’s entry.

  Elric Blair was still extracting himself from the straps of what looked to be a very long, narrow vehicle, of the wealthy, young pleasure-seeking persuasion, in a pleasing shade of green. Behind her, the elderly Jonah Moore was approaching, having followed the Inspector forward through the cars. All the while, the train was still moving, trundling along as if nothing had happened. Hargreaves supposed the engine tenders hadn’t heard over the routine operation of the train.

  Albion was still looking for an answer.

  “Um... fine, I guess. Ale was a bit light for my taste,” Hargreaves managed, if only to get rid of the Captain’s persistent stare.

  “Ah. A shame, I guess,” Clemens said, but at least he turned away.

  Seeing Jonah Moore, he looked him up and down.

  “Well now! Old timer, how have you been? Please, sit, it’s a little dicey up in the front here, though, the chairs are all messed up. You know the engines today, so fragile, not safe at all.” One wheel fell off the front of the Chapman, rolling to a stop near Albion’s feet.

  Clearly, the crash had been enjoyable for the Captain. Hargreaves walked over to Rosa, and knelt.

  “How are you doing?” Hargreaves asked.

  “I lost three good knives. Damn,” Rosa replied.

  “Are all pirates thrill-seeking madmen?” sputtered Hargreaves. To her surprise, both Rosa Marija and Albion Clemens laughed.

  “Right, then. We had better leave immediately. Old timer, you never saw us!” Albion declared.

  “Wait, he’s with us,” Hargreaves protested. She took a moment to explain, and the Captain related the journey underground as well.

  “THE Jonah Moore? Holy Akashic, I was just reading about you,” Albion exclaimed once he had it straight.

  “The honor is mine,” Moore replied, finally able to get a word in edgewise. “A real-life aeronaut, and a pirate to boot. I feel our aeon work was not for nothing, after all.”

  Albion Clemens grasped the old gentleman’s hand and began pumping it like he was filling a tire.

  “I suppose you had better come with us, then!” The Captain said, and began to stride away from the Chapman.

  Hargreaves looked around, shrugged, and followed the swish of Albion’s buccaneer coat.

  As they pulled into the station, the group was able to sneak off the rearmost car, walking up another set of stairs until they were once more on the surface.

  There were knots of Clankers treading heavily towards the chaotic station. As they passed the worst of the crowd, they saw a brace of Kobolds arrive at the stairway, as well as a shadow pass overhead, some kind of agile dirigible adapted for tall buildings.

  Captain Clemens began to caution everyone to be like a rock before a waterfall, serene and placid in the face of a maelstrom, but nobody seemed to understand him except Rosa Marija.

  “How about it, Jonah Moore? Would you like to leave Leyland with us?” The Captain asked once they were in a relatively deserted alley. They had actually come up not too far from the Fjord, though between them and it lay five or six busy thoroughfares full of blind corners and tall factories. There were certainly more Clankers, and more Kobolds patrolling the main streets.

  Moore looked a little taken aback, as if the thought of leaving had never once crossed his mind.

  “There were probably a lot of people who saw you with us. You wouldn’t be safe here anymore, once Mordemere finds out,” Rosa said.

  “There’s always room on the Huckleberry,” the Captain said. Moore looked around to see Hargreaves and Blair both nodding agreeably.

  “I don’t see why not. I can help you dismantle Mordemere’s plans… My word, I haven’t seen London in years… think of the photogram opportunities!” Moore proclaimed. “A real airship! Yes, I think I rather will.”

  “We had just gotten round to asking what exactly Mordemere was planning,” said Rosa Marija, getting into the swing of things.

  “You’ll have to explain further once we get to our transport. It might get a little rough.”

  Hargreaves agreed, thinking on Westminster.

  The Houses of Parliament, not to mention Big Ben, were the focal points of the devotion and faith of the entire Commonwealth, not simply the Pax Brittania.

  If Moore had been telling the truth, then so far Mordemere had three such symbols on his hands: The Houses, Paris’ Eiffel Tower, and the most part of the Vatican. He must have a veritable island fortress floating in the sky by now, positively brimming over with aeon power.

  The group marched off as one, headed roughly towards their old Fjord. Following Clemens’ lead, they took cover before the roving Clankers. Thankfully, the racket at the station was an efficient decoy, drawing enforcers from all directions. The Kobolds crunching the roads to powder were loud, and easy to avoid.

  As the pirate gang snuck past street after street, Hargreaves noticed the ever-observant Elric Blair with a far-off look in his eye.

  “A penny for your thoughts?” Hargreaves whispered, drawing up level with the journalist.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Blair answered distractedly. The Clankers had an unnerving effect on most, but on Blair most of all
. He carried no real defenses, save his quick thinking. Even Jonah Moore was calmer. After all, they would simply detain and return him if caught. “But when we ran into the Ottoman Balaenopteron warship below Leyland, they were transporting something heavy into Mordemere’s stores. They hid it in the boots of the engines, and it wasn’t weapons, those were out in the open.”

  “Most likely some currency not likely to depreciate during an armed conflict, like gold,” Hargreaves replied.

  “The Ottomans are pushing outward every day, and their raiders threaten all dirigible traffic on the Eastern Mediterranean. War might be the only option in a few months.” When it came to pirating, clandestine investigating and wanton acts of civil vandalism, she was an amateur, but as to the tactics of common criminals, even those working on a global stage, Vanessa was positively a pundit.

  “Or aeon stones,” Blair continued. “Think of it, how many stones would it take for Mordemere to lift one building? Let alone several city blocks? Is it even possible?”

  “And unless he’s setting it down very near to its original destination, he would have to keep the piece of real estate hovering in the air long enough to work it with his alchemy somehow,” Hargreaves agreed.

  It was certainly an interesting problem, but she knew little about lift compound. She made a note to look into it with the pirates, perhaps Cid, at a later date.

  Meanwhile, the group was very close to where they had parked their Fjord steamer. Clemens drew up to a halt, behind some old rubbish bins, and peeked over the edge while everyone else held a painful crouch. It was certainly difficult to do in a form-fitting outfit, Hargreaves thought. Perhaps Rosa Marija had the right of it with her more liberal dress sense: extra exposure also meant extra wiggle room.

  “All right,” Captain Albion was saying. “The Fjord is across the street, but they’re trying to commandeer it as we speak.”

  “Have they made the connection to us?” Vanessa asked, already scouting an escape route.

  “No. I think I may have parked in an illegal zone,” Albion admitted sheepishly.

  The look went away as soon as he drew his Victoria, the big black gun making both Blair and Moore cringe.

  “Anyway it’s two Clankers. I say we take them.”

  “Captain Albion Clemens, shame on you!” Inspector Hargreaves hissed.

  “We will shoot to wound, and aim for any exposed mechanical components. I think I can put a leak in the tank from here, and Rosa can gum up any steamworks. I’ve seen her throw more than one propulsion screw out of alignment.”

  Rosa Marija blew a silent raspberry.

  “All right. I will endeavor to do the same,” the Inspector agreed, pulling her Trantor. The little gun was small caliber and very unlikely to penetrate armor.

  “Wait, wait!” Blair whispered, just before the armed members of the party launched an all-out attack. “We might draw others. Just… just wait here!”

  Before anyone could stop him, Blair had run around the corner. The Captain pointed at the ginger fellow, jogging up to the two Clankers huddled near the bonnet of the Fjord. There was a moment when everyone held their breath, except for Blair, who seemed to be gesticulating wildly and talking very quickly to the hooded peacekeepers. Then, miraculously, the two Clankers looked to one another and ran off away from the Fjord.

  “What did you tell them?” Clemens asked as the group ran up to Blair.

  “I said I saw Jonah Moore, running from pirates in the other direction. We should probably hurry, they won’t have to go far before they realize they’ve been bamboozled.”

  “Flavoring a lie with the truth. I like you more every day, gorgeous,” Rosa Marija said, and punched Blair in the arm before climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “Aw, Rosa!”

  “You had your fun with the Chapman, Alby, now I get to drive!”

  Winking at Blair, Hargreaves also climbed aboard, helping Jonah Moore with his cane. He was perfectly able to ascend into the Fjord, moving smoothly and surely. It was something Vanessa had noticed since the Leyland Cross, and except for having oddly cool hands, Moore seemed a hale old man.

  The old Fjord had a few problems starting up, but Rosa Marija managed to stoke the boiler into life with only a few cranks of the embers.

  “Change out the fuel! And start her in neutral, on the first compartment, you get better pressure that way,” Albion said, being a complete back seat driver.

  In response, Rosa simply cracked him over the head with a heel, before putting her bare foot down and easing the Fjord into motion. The Captain didn’t seem to mind, but Hargreaves felt a pang. Was she jealous? No, impossible! The very idea! Her, and Rosa? Or was it Albion?

  There wasn’t time to think through the incomprehensible feelings rushing through her middle.

  Rosa was putting the Fjord into a reasonable gear, and the three stuck together in the rear of the sedan would have to hide Jonah Moore in the center. In the street, the sedan would look like any other civilian steam engine, but once they got to the checkpoint, it would be a whole other can of worms.

  Would the Clankers be busy dealing with the situation in the center of Leyland, and leave the checkpoint unattended?

  A train had collided with an expensive automobile, and an agent of Mordemere’s had fallen to his death from one of the majestic aqueducts. Not to mention, who was dealing with the situation underground?

  Everything was in flux, and Vanessa’s nerves were wound tighter than a broken heart spring. Even her braid had come all fuzzy as the strands of gold came out of their bonds.

  “Moment of truth, everyone,” Rosa Marija announced, all too soon for the Inspector’s liking.

  The Fjord pulled to a stop before the checkpoint. Hargreaves noticed were no Clankers. Instead, a Kobold loped over, shaking and thundering, to lean over the Fjord. To her horror, this one carried a massive, triple-barreled gun, belt-fed to a drum of ammunition on the horrible thing’s back.

  “The city’s on lockdown. Turn around, civie,” a tinny, amplified voice thundered from above.

  “He’s a contractor, he’s a civilian as well,” Vanessa heard Blair mutter.

  To Vanessa’s further horror, she saw Rosa lean out of the Fjord, her creamy chocolate bosom clearly showing through one undone button.

  “Hello gorgeous,” she said, and then she was leaning out too far for Hargreaves to catch what she was saying. There seemed to be a lot of wiggling about, but the gist of it was painfully clear.

  “No. You’ll have to wait with the rest, there. I don’t much care how badly you need to get out of that bodice,” the tinny voice boomed.

  “All right, don’t get snippy,” Rosa said, now perfectly audible. Smooth as silk, Rosa’s hand came up armed with three of her patented knives.

  Vanessa recognized in a split second the dead useful sparkling fire variety, before the hand snaked out of sight.

  There was a bit of clinking, and a stabbing motion to Rosa’s arm, and suddenly the window was full of multi-colored sparks. The ground shook as the Kobold pilot struggled to free his view of the festive inferno, stamping and scraping with one deadly claw.

  “Go, go, go!” Rosa called, and suddenly Albion was there, in the driver’s seat with his helmswoman still hanging outside the window. His foot came down in a stomping motion, along with a nearly invisible series of hand motions. The Fjord felt like it reared up, and suddenly they were off, rocketing forward towards the woefully inadequate barrier ahead. As they splintered the wooden plank, the Fjord gave a little heave and Rosa tumbled back down into Albion’s lap.

  “Hello gorgeous…” Rosa purred, index finger tracing here and there.

  “Right! We’re running away from bloodthirsty mercenaries in steamwork giants, let’s at least die with decorum!” Hargreaves protested.

  She yanked Rosa off, and pressed Albion’s gun into her hands, freshly appropriated from his hip. Not one to leave the fighting to others, Hargreaves whipped her Tranter out and leaned out the opposite pas
senger window as well, to behold a truly horrifying sight.

  A Kobold, a different one, was joined in full pursuit of them, two lumbering giants. The first was open at the chest. It was burned all over, and the exposed pilot looked, in a word, pissed. Both of them were loping all out, weapons clutched in their claws already spinning up.

  “Albion….” Vanessa said.

  “DRIVE FASTER!” Rosa Marija finished for her.

  Were there any denizens of Leyland, headed home work weary, or idly staring out of their window near the main thoroughfare southeast out of the city, they might have remarked a surprising amount of Clanker activity.

  Tooling around in their specially lifted convoys and those terrifying Kobolds, they were the everyday bane of any Leylander foolish enough to question commands. This evening, the Wankers seemed to have run up against a challenge equal to them. The fact put a smile on one old man’s face as he witnessed the source of the Clankers’ troubles whisk past, hooting and hollering. Despite the marks on their beater Fjord’s loose fender, despite the bullet holes punched into the metal in long riveting strings, the faces in the windows of the Fjord looked like jolly good fun.

  If the everyday folk were ever urchins living in a dead-end, iron-cast world of labor and worthlessness, they forgot it that night, for a few hours, watching a chase where their oppressors were helpless to stop people who were ostensibly spitting in their faces.

  10: Secret of Leviathan

  The ominous cloud of Mordemere had last been spotted headed over Eastern Europe. Thanks to Jonah Moore’s information, the crew of the Berry now had a handle on possible locations Valima Mordemere might strike. A pool had been established, with Rosa Marija betting heavily on St. Petersburg’s historic churches, while the men of the ship were dead set on the Kremlin as the only possible target. Inspector Hargreaves kept a suspicious silence.

  Rosa Marija had changed to a long turquoise dress, well ruffled, that hung off her crema espresso shoulders like a lover. Embroidered all over the dress and matching headscarf were moons and stars, and when she moved little bells jangled a bewitching tune. She looked like a monarch’s courtesan, Albion thought, which was often his reaction to her outfits. It would take a battalion of cavalry to drag it from him, though.