Clockwork Universe

by Seanen McGuire

  Other Anthologies Edited by

  Patricia Bray & Joshua Palmatier

  After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar

  The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity

  Clockwork Universe:

  Steampunk vs. Aliens

  Edited by

  Patricia Bray

  &

  Joshua Palmatier

  Zombies Need Brains LLC

  www.zombiesneedbrains.com

  Copyright © 2014 Patricia Bray, Joshua Palmatier, and Zombies Need Brains LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Interior Design (ebook): April Steenburgh

  Interior Design (print): C. Lennox

  Cover Design by C. Lennox

  Cover Art “Steampunk Octopus” by Alex Broeckel

  ZNB Book Collectors #1

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

  First Printing, June 2014

  ISBN: 1940709016

  ISBN 13: 978-1940709017

  Copyrights:

  Introduction copyright © 2014 by Patricia Bray

  “The Cavorite Job” copyright © 2014 by Ian Tregillis

  “Gracie’s Fire” copyright © 2014 by Leah Cutter

  “Quinta Essentia” copyright © 2014 by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “When Comrade Ekaterina Died for the Motherland” copyright © 2014 by J.R. Hargenrader

  “A Clockwork Alien” copyright © 2014 by Jeanne Cook

  “Heart of the Empire” copyright © 2014 by Jason Palmatier

  “The Red Queen and the White” copyright © 2014 by C.B. Pratt

  “The Wizard of Woodrow Park” copyright © 2014 by Jean Marie Ward

  “Of War and Wings” copyright © 2014 by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Airship Down: A Sound and Fury Adventure” copyright © 2014 by Gail Z. Martin & Larry N. Martin

  “Steamsuit” copyright © 2014 by David J. Fortier

  “Fingers of Steam, Veins of Gold” copyright © 2014 by Brad Hafford

  “Heart of Clockwork” copyright © 2014 by S.C. Butler

  “Lady Antheia’s Guide to Horticultural Warfare” copyright © 2014 by Seanan McGuire

  Table of Contents:

  Introduction by Patricia Bray

  “The Cavorite Job” by Ian Tregillis

  “Gracie’s Fire” by Leah Cutter

  “Quinta Essentia” by Bradley P. Beaulieu

  “When Comrade Ekaterina Died for the Motherland” by J.R. Hargenrader

  “A Clockwork Alien” by Gini Koch

  “Heart of the Empire” by Jason Palmatier

  “The Red Queen and the White” by C.B. Pratt

  “The Wizard of Woodrow Park” by Jean Marie Ward

  “Of War and Wings” by Tansy Rayner Roberts

  “Airship Down: A Sound and Fury Adventure” by Gail Z. Martin & Larry N. Martin

  “Steamsuit” by David J. Fortier

  “Fingers of Steam, Veins of Gold” by Brad Hafford

  “Heart of Clockwork” by S.C. Butler

  “Lady Antheia’s Guide to Horticultural Warfare” by Seanan McGuire

  About the Authors

  About the Editors

  Introduction

  When I first discovered science fiction, I was drawn to it by a sense of wonder. And of course there was the appeal of all the cool toys—ray guns and spaceships, robots and time machines, all the things my teenage life was sadly lacking. Steampunk has that same feeling of endless possibilities. What if things had turned out just a bit differently, or Jules Verne had been writing science fact instead of science fiction?

  When it came time to propose the first anthology project for Zombies Need Brains press, Joshua Palmatier and I were immediately drawn to the idea of a steampunk project. Taking our inspiration from classic nineteenth century science fiction adventures stories, we asked authors to imagine what would happen when aliens discovered a Steampunk Earth. Would the first encounters be peaceful or violent? Would humanity emerge triumphant or be defeated? Would Earth even recognize the threat before it was too late?

  We found a half-dozen authors who agreed to anchor the project, and inspirational cover art by Alex Broeckel. Then we solicited submissions to fill out the anthology. Choosing the final story list was incredibly difficult, we had far more good stories than we could use. In the end we narrowed it down to fourteen stories which best fit the original concept, while representing a range of settings and themes. You’ll find stories from bestselling authors to those making their professional debut. From steampunk cities to remote wildernesses, with stories ranging from light-hearted humor to horror, there’s something for everyone.

  Enjoy!

  Patricia Bray

  The Cavorite Job

  Ian Tregillis

  It wasn’t until the alien tripod burst forth from the mountainside forest, lambent energy beams sizzling through the monsoon-soaked air like billion-candela spotlights celebrating a West End premiere, and rather inconveniently piercing the Black Shiva’s envelope of hydrogen lifting gas—the very same airship from which, it was important to note, she currently dangled by swollen fingertips from a rain-slick rope ladder—that Captain Sujata Malhotra finally accepted what others on the crew had sensed from the beginning: they never, ever should have taken this job.

  “Wellington!” she bellowed into the teeth of the storm. “You thrice-damned scalawag! I’ll cut your—”

  But she had scant opportunity to express her displeasure, for the very next moment the remnants of a tropical cyclone in the Bay of Bengal slammed into the Shiva. The ship, already spiraling earthward like a wounded pigeon, now jinked to port hard enough to snap the ladder like a whip. And, not inconsequentially, tearing said ladder from her grip.

  It was later remarked, by those in a unique position to witness these events, that Captain Sujata fell less like a wounded pigeon and more like an anchor weight filled with piss and rage.

  * * *

  The setting sun had turned a dusky red to port, like the meat of a blood orange suspended abeam of the Shiva, as they crossed the last few miles of ocean between Ceylon and the mainland. It was the final leg of a long loop around the Indian Ocean to meander through the Malay Archipelago. The Malay route was a favorite, combining as it did two of Sujata’s favorite things: a plethora of ships fat with trade, and a dearth of octos. For now, at least, the aliens and their chromium-plated tripods seemed to avoid the deep ocean around the Spice Islands.

  As usual, they had crossed paths with several airships of foreign registry; these they relieved of troublesome ballast. It was a purely humanitarian gesture, of course, aiding ships in danger of sinking to the bottom of the sky. The Shiva had a moral obligation to help given its active role in the sinkings, and the fact that naval vessels had become a rare sight ever since the octo invasion had sent so many loyal tars to the darkness above and below. As a result of its humanitarian largesse, the Shiva lumbered to port with holds near to bursting.

  Sujata watched from the bridge, feeling the thrum-thrum-thrum of the engines through the soles of her boots.

  Turcotte, her helmsman and navigator, eased the Shiva toward port with one hand on the wheel and the other holding a shaving mirror. He’d spent half the voyage admiring the tattoo he’d acquired in Sumatra to commemorate winning a no-rules Kuntao cage tournament held behind a particu
larly colorful house of ill-repute outside Bandar Lampung. It was, she had to admit, a noteworthy accomplishment given that Turcotte had entered the competition armed only with a vague knowledge of the Malaysian martial art that barely extended beyond its pronunciation. On the other hand, they were entering some of the most crowded airspace she’d seen since before the first tripods had landed in London. Seemed like half the empire had fled to India to prop up the Raj.

  “Mr. Turcotte! If I see that looking glass in your hand one more time before we dock, I swear upon all that is good and holy that I will personally insert it so far up your nethers that you will shit marbles from now until Boxing Day.”

  The mirror disappeared into a pocket of Turcotte’s cargo trousers. He turned a dial on the helm and muttered into a speaking tube; moments later the engine rhythm slowed to a lethargic whoom-whoom-whoom. The lowering sun sent the Shiva’s shadow lancing across the ocean. And it evoked little flashes of light from the darkening continent. Like the glint of sunlight on cavalry sabers. Or alien tripods.

  The captain sighed. Everybody knew it was only a matter of time before the octos turned their tentacles to the more far-flung corners of the Empire.

  Damn you, Jack Scaly.

  Turcotte saw it, too. “Bloody octos,” he muttered.

  Sujata yanked the speaking tube from its clamp above the helm. “Vi! Ready the guns.”

  The deck lurched four times in rapid succession. A quartet of armaments each the size of an elephant’s thigh slid out of recessed compartments around the airship. Turcotte adjusted the trim. If the weaponeer lost the reins, the kick from those buggers could overpower the engines and push a ship like the Shiva halfway to the stars. If loaded with white phosphorus rounds and a bit of luck, they could pierce an octo tripod and set it ablaze. Merely loaded with regular munitions, as they were at the moment, they could shoot clean through the House of Lords. Or so it was said; fortune hadn’t favored them with an opportunity to try it.

  The chain guns were, technically, illegal for any ship not on the naval register. But navy scrap could be had for a song these days. At least, those bits that hadn’t burned up in the atmosphere or been melted by Jack Scaly’s energy beams. (Damn you twice, Jack Scaly.) Besides, the Shiva’s letter of marque afforded them a certain amount of latitude.

  The speaking tube turned the weaponeer’s voice into a raspy whisper. It said, “Guns away, captain. Trouble?”

  “None whatsoever. But load whatever’s left of the phosphorus belts before going to regular shot.”

  Meanwhile, Turcotte used another to speak to the engine room. “Spin ‘em up, de Vries. Full power on standby.”

  The engineer’s response came out of the tube clearly enough for Sujata to hear: “Really glad there’s no trouble whatsoever up there.” The deck rattled in time to the turbines’ acceleration.

  By now the sun had melted halfway into the horizon. The ruby-red sky cast a softer illumination across the source of the metallic flashes. An array of cannon and the gleaming spires of a new Tesla palisade ringed the Madras aerodrome. No tripods, no octos. Just new preparations for their arrival. Turcotte exhaled.

  Sujata issued the order to stand down. “Mr. Turcotte, find us a berth so we can get down there and get rich off our hard-earned and entirely legal cargo.”

  The whine of turbines shook the deck as one by one the guns flopped back into their niches, unused and unneeded. But Sujata’s gaze didn’t waver from the perimeter defenses as the gloaming draped them in shadow. The Madras ‘drome hadn’t been armed to the teeth when they departed two months earlier. But now it was, meaning the octos had landed on the subcontinent. It was only a matter of time before the tripods thrashed their way across the Raj, tearing bloody great furrows in civilization as they had in Europe.

  Damn you thrice, Jack Scaly.

  * * *

  A sweaty man in a tweed suit, grossly overdressed for the subtropical heat, met them at their birth. Wellington was their contact with HM’s government, or what was left of it, back in London.

  First the ‘drome gets new anti-octo defenses. Then Wellington drops in unannounced, thought Sujata. All the shit is rolling downhill, isn’t it?

  Body language reflected a similar wariness among her lieutenants as they gathered around Wellington. It ranged from scowls and glowering (Turcotte, though to be fair the tattoos did much of the heavy lifting for his face) to a carefully affected loucheness (Violet, her weaponeer, who at the moment smelled of black powder and sulphur), to icy civility (de Vries, her engineer, and one of the best things she’d ever stolen from Malaysia).

  Sujata said, “Mr. Wellington. It’s not that I don’t enjoy surprises—I don’t—but surely you haven’t come all the way from London just to see us? Flattered as we would be to think otherwise.”

  “Aha,” said the bureaucrat. It was his nervous tick, something he did when lying, or stalling for time, or both. “A pleasure as always, captain.”

  He’s been relocated, she realized. The situation in Europe hasn’t improved.

  “What’s this about? We have cargo to unload and mind-altering liquids to drink.” This met with grumbling approval from the crew.

  “Well. I wonder if you’d be interested in a commission? Nothing dangerous, I assure you. A bit of a change of pace for you, perhaps, something inland rather than over the open sea.”

  “What’s so interesting inland?”

  “A warehouse.”

  “Uh-huh. And would this warehouse also be of interest to Jack Scaly?”

  “Oh, goodness, no. Aha. I rather doubt the octos would find it the least bit interesting, if they even knew of this place. Which I’m rather sure they don’t. Aha.”

  That made two ahas in the same utterance and three in the half minute since he greeted them. Only a fool would take him at his word.

  “Well, Mr. Wellington, I’ve truly enjoyed our chat, aha, as I always do, aha. But I’m afraid I’ll have to decline your very kind offer to spice up our working routine with variety and a complete lack of adventure or danger.”

  “Ah,” said Wellington. He plucked the pince-nez from his face. Then he produced a cotton handkerchief and set about wiping the sweat from the spectacles. The hypnotic pattern on the cotton indicated it had been woven on one of Mr. Babbage’s modern successors to the Jacquard loom, according to a mathematical pattern discovered by the Countess Lovelace. It was said the duo turned a pretty penny licensing spinoffs from their mathematical endeavors applying computational engines to orbital calculations for the Royal Navy. They probably had little else to occupy them in the wake of the octo invasion and the rout in orbit.

  The government man ran the cloth over the lenses in slow spirals, saying, “Well. I would be a liar if I said I was surprised. An eminently reasonable decision on your part, captain. And, may I just take this opportunity to say that were I in your rather colorful shoes I would doubtless make the same choice.”

  A look of confusion, tinged with greater or lesser amounts of skepticism, ricocheted from one lieutenant to the next. Sujata intercepted it. “So we’re not to be punished for turning down your offer?”

  Wellington looked as though she’d just accused him of killing a man for his brolly. “Dear heavens! I should hope not. We in Whitehall are not savages, in spite of what you may have heard. If we were to compromise our principles at the first sign of duress, why, we’d be little better than animals. We were the queen’s subjects prior to the octo invasion, we’re her subjects now, and we’ll still be her subjects when we’ve driven Jack Scaly back to the inky void between the stars.”

  Turcotte clapped. “Hear hear!”

  “Yes, yes. No doubt,” Sujata said. “Well, I wish you luck in that endeavor, Mr. Wellington. Meanwhile we’ll be doing what we do best. Good day to you.”

  She’d turned and gone three strides when Wellington made a single embarrassed cough into his handkerchief. He sounded, for all the world, like a man struggling to put the very best light on the fact his dog ha
d just diddled in the queen’s handbag. The crew heard it. Shoulders slumped.

  “On a completely unrelated note,” he said, “there is, I’m sorry to say, the issue of your letter of marque.”

  Sujata remembered that she carried a pistol and a saber. But she ran her hands down her braids, counted to ten, and turned to face the government man again. “I’m sure I don’t understand. The terms of our agreement are, I’m quite certain, in perfect order.”

  “Indeed. Indeed,” he said. “There can be little question the Black Shiva has adhered to the terms of the original letter quite admirably, performing along the way great service to the queen.”

  “Original letter?” Her hand fell to the pistol at her waist.

  “Yes. This is a somewhat, aha, delicate issue. Not something we’re proud to admit. But the fact is that the resources required to fight the octos have put quite a strain on the national coffers. The Foreign Office has seen fit to reach out to our continental cousins to strike an alliance that we might together marshal our forces and bring an end to this tiresome invasion rather sooner than later.” Wellington brought the handkerchief to his mouth and again emitted that delicate cough. “However, and this is a bit embarrassing, as I’m sure you can imagine, the fact that HM government has sanctioned patriotic privateers such as yourselves to scavenge what you can from the holds of ships flying under foreign colors—the very same colors we now court for this alliance—is, well, awkward. So it has been decided that any active letters of marque shall be rescinded.”