Lands Beyond Box Set: Books 1 - 3

by Kin S. Law

  The densely packed steerage was in the middle, and had merely skidded off the tracks, digging great trenches into the surrounding greenery. They’d slid up to the front of the train, and people were struggling to climb out, away from the burning engine. The boiler was still in one piece, but making rather distressing sounds.

  Hargreaves urged her iron titan closer to the burning wreck. Alphonse leaped down the hill, tires shredding on the rough rocks. No matter; his lumbering steps took her down amidst the rent sides of the train, and his lobstered armor came between her and the occasional rivet, fired hot from its seat like a bullet. Quickly, she identified the nearest tragedy; an overturned car, closest to the burning hulk of the engine. Passengers in various states of injury were struggling to climb out of the windows.

  “Tally-ho,” Hargreaves whispered, and toggled all the pressure into the automata’s legs. With a groan and a hiss, Alphonse answered by leaping completely over the car, his feet crushing out a coal fire about to lap at the plain washed wood. They were suddenly before the wreck of the train engine, waves of burning wind squeezing through Alphonse’s gaps.

  Hargreaves toggled pressure once more, flipping a line of switches that made pleasingly efficient clicks. She dumped it into Alphonse’s arms to give her the most torque possible around his shoulder joins. His limbs shot forward, punching dents into a thick boiler plate—but holding the sheet in place, even as its rivets gouged dents into his chest and shoulders. The trembling wall of steel threatened to loose all the pressure of the ruined boiler onto the passengers behind Alphonse.

  Heat from the burning engine and Alphonse’s own interior was overwhelming. Hargreaves stripped off her duster. She removed a piece of ribbon from her neat bun, tying it securely round one of Alphonse’s levers to keep him holding the plate in place. Only then did she climb out from between his head and shoulders, shielding the cockpit cavity with her duster as she did so. She heard it singe where hot sparks landed.

  “You three!” Hargreaves called toward the nearest people, two men and a stout looking matron gazing at the wreck, their mouths agape. They were scorched from their escape, but did not seem hurt. “Help me pull the injured from the car!”

  Hargreaves must have been a fright, with her leonine mane flying, bellowing orders like a general. The three survivors leaped into action, the men tackling a family just emerging from a broken window. The matron heaved herself at a bloody gentleman and hauled him out on her own. Hargreaves jumped down and helped to pull an elderly chap from the window nearest her before attending to the bloody gentleman.

  “A nasty gash to the head, nothing too horrible. Can you walk? Head for the line of trees, there, and help guide others to you. You there! Support his head; he’s got a neck injury!”

  As more and more passengers emerged, Hargreaves was able to commandeer more assistance. In the second car, she found the train doctor diligently binding wounds with makeshift tourniquets soaked in grain alcohol. He must have raided the bar meant for the first class. The locked cabinet doors swung from broken hinges nearby.

  “Zachary Methuselah Price, MD, at your service. I see you have first aid training?”

  The young, curly-haired healer put the patients Hargreaves brought through triage, but he was far from businesslike. Instead, the doctor spent more time asserting his authority, treating Hargreaves as a nurse, even when the panicked patients around him looked to her confident direction for assistance. The inspector knew this would not do, and grabbed Price bodily by the collar, lifting him up.

  “I am an inspector of Scotland Yard, and I have seen worse disasters than this. Make yourself useful. Tell these men to move the triage to the trees!” Suitably cowed, the doctor began to do so.

  Bashed skulls and sprained ankles were common, but some patients required immediate attention. Their makeshift triage soon ran out of the precious grain alcohol. Hargreaves bellowed bloody murder when she discovered why: some of the gentleman passengers had taken to drinking it.

  “What do you need them spirits for, eh?” the nearest of them protested when the inspector snatched the bottle out of his hand.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of germ theory, you backwards lump?”

  “It’s a conspiracy! Like coal-soot warming!” another lush declared drunkenly.

  “Don’t waste your breath! There’s more liquor in the dining car!” Doctor Price yelled over the general din of suffering.

  “Ugh,” Hargreaves said, as she hurled the sturdy bottle at a man who was still sober enough to try beating her to the dining car. The glass shattered against his crown, putting him down. “Head trauma!” she cried to the doctor.

  By now, they had recruited enough of the passengers, and the train was crawling with rescuers. The extent of injury did not abate as they moved down the line, it merely changed; there were more shattered items here, and more cuts and bruises. By the time Hargreaves reached the dining car, the train was not the Jacob’s ladder of toppled cars near the front, but a more manageable queue of upset second-class cabins. Some of them were still upright, and the more enterprising passengers were using those beds to seat some of the steerage patients.

  For a second, Hargreaves thought she saw a spiky Roman candle poke up from the cacophony, but she denounced it as a disaster mirage. She was tired, thirsty, and beginning to see things. Her chemise had long soaked through, the stays of her undergarments showing through the thin white fabric. She had chosen a reasonably thin spring skirt from a small shop some miles back, but to hide the gun tucked in a garter, she required the material to be opaque. The garment clung, itching like the dickens, until she had a moment to tie it up by her thighs. As for her ruffled top, she simply ripped the sleeves up to the bicep, tying off the excess. There were no complaints about decorum in the disaster; most of the older gents were simply glad for the sight, both of Hargreaves coming with first aid and of her long, shapely calves.

  When she got to the dining car, she discovered a scene of utter chaos. The train had taken the brunt of the impact in the engine and first cars, but the shock had traveled down the remainder to end up in the rearmost cars. Like a whip, the force of the crash had run down the line of cars throwing the caboose and the dining car completely off the rail. Even from a distance, Hargreaves saw blood. Quickly, she climbed through a roof access into the car. Only a few decorative gaslights were still operating.

  “Oh, God…Are you hurt, ma’am? I have field training; you’re going to be just fine…”

  Hargreaves was so involved in extracting the lady trapped beneath a heavy tea trolley she nearly did not see the man behind her. She turned to ask for assistance, but found herself suddenly under attack from a heavy truncheon. It was take the hit or drop the woman, so she turned her head and took the blow at her cheekbone. Stars swam into view.

  “You ruffians!” the woman under the tea trolley screeched, rousing Hargreaves, as the pain started to dull her consciousness. More importantly, she got an arm free, bracing herself. Hargreaves threw up her hands to catch the next blow before it could connect with her head. Her block was clumsy, but effective; instead of knocking her unconscious the blow merely slid her down the aisle.

  Hargreaves howled in pain but collected herself well enough to parry the next attack. The limited space made it difficult to avoid her attacker, but Hargreaves managed to avoid his advances long enough to get in a lucky punch to the figure’s face. She felt wool—a mask? In any other fight she would have pulled her .22 and fired into the assailant’s knee, but some foggy part of her recognized the smell of gas from the smashed lights. One shot might set the whole place ablaze.

  Instead, the inspector went in for a sweep, taking out the man’s leg from under him. Hargreaves felt the man fall, and also hesitate, not used to his prey fighting back. She was all ready for a punishing kick, but something hard struck her in the back of the head—a second villain!

  The inspector was known through the Yard for being hardheaded, but even Hargreaves’ thick noggin could not
withstand repeated hammering. She went down like a sack of bricks, the world spinning around her. A dull lead weight in her side was a hateful boot. Dimly, she heard her assailants speak, but she found she could only weakly reach out, both depth perception and breath gone.

  “Nubs, you lecher. Could have left the blonde well enough alone.” A man’s voice, deep and gurgling from a barrel chest.

  “Look at the gams! The tart is asking for it in that outfit.” A second voice; reedy, whispery. Probably the first assailant. Were they opportunistic bandits? Had they derailed the train? The voice gave her chills. Hargreaves was suddenly very aware of the open button on her chemise, the way it clung to her front.

  “Get on with it, then. Stroke of luck she left the box with her gear,” Barrel said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have the time to have your fun.” Reedy giggled. There were heavy footsteps, leaving the car. The inspector could hear the tinkling of broken glass being trodden.

  Suddenly Hargreaves felt hands on her. Realizing what was happening, the inspector managed to roll her eyes up, thinking, “Not again!” before her ankles were picked up. Didn’t the menfolk have anything else on their minds?

  “Scoundrels! Demons!” the tea trolley lady began to scream. She was certainly in pain, punctuating her accusations with groans, but whatever injury she had was overridden by the outrage of what was happening to her rescuer. Hargreaves herself busily swatted at the fleshy vices at her ankles, but the angle was all wrong, and her head still swam with mollywobbles. She heard someone, a man, come to investigate at the door, and receive a harsh rebuke.

  “I say, why aren’t you helping with the—what are you doing to that woman?”

  There was a crack, and Hargreaves would bet her last shiny penny the Good Samaritan’s jaw had been broken.

  The hands at Hargreaves’ ankles stopped dragging her and pulled her roughly to her feet. They stood her up and slammed her over onto her stomach on some surface, likely a dining table. She felt a boot slip between her toes and start pushing apart. There was a crash—the ruffled lady had thrown a teacup, or a saucer, with very poor aim.

  Hargreaves felt the first pangs of fear. Certainly, sexual congress was nothing new, but this was not of her choosing. She was tough, trained, toned, deadly, a lean peacekeeping engine, which somehow made it worse. Every skill was a brick, every moral mortar holding together a fortress. The thought that low scum could best her was anathema. It made everything she had built seem worthless.

  But the moment passed, and she rallied, fighting back with renewed vigor. She experienced something like what gamblers must feel when they back a good horse but still lose. Training, experience, even rage she had, but because she had been caught off-guard in a moment of kindness for others, this simpleton was about to have his way with her. She growled in frustration, but the beast simply redoubled his efforts.

  Hargreaves was about to give up when all of a sudden there was an odd metallic thunk, and a cry of pain. She felt the weight fall from behind her and inhaled, hoarsely, drawing in all the hot, scorching air in the room. The edge of the table had been pressing on her stomach, and now her head cleared in a great rush. Coughing, she whirled round to see her attacker laid out on the debris of the floor. His head was caved in, obscuring whatever grotesque features he possessed before. He had been a thin, swarthy cretin. His penis lolled, still partially engorged.

  When a supportive arm came round her, Hargreaves nearly threw her rescuer to the ground. It was only when she looked a second time did she see the unbelievable phantasm of Cezette Louissaint, holding her up with some difficulty.

  “Maman! It really is you! Are you hurt?” Cezette gasped. Another look showed the girl was limping, one of her shins was bent at an unnatural angle. Her face was scrunched up, and she appeared to be twitching. Could she feel what went on in her legs?

  “Cezette, how…? Why? Your leg, it’s…”

  “Do not worry, Maman. I broke it hitting that…cretin,” Cezette said. “Do you think I killed him?” For a time, the two simply stood there, standing over the limp, crushed form of the would-be rapist. They held their breath, Cezette, out of innocence, and Hargreaves, out of nausea. Then the body shuddered, and a great wet snort erupted from it, and the women let out a long breath together.

  Hargreaves’ clothing was in disarray, but it was unimportant, a breach of decorum easily mended. She thought she would cry, in relief, or fear, or something, but the moment juddered to a halt as the tea trolley woman groaned once more.

  “Your English, it is much better,” Hargreaves managed to Cezette. “Sit over there. Let me help that poor woman before the trolley crushes her further.”

  “I had a friend…” whispered Cezette. She looked around, but nobody besides the corpse of a couple occupied the diner car. Evidently, the others were already evacuated.

  “Had I known my end would come by afternoon treats, I might have ravished the lemon cakes with more gusto,” the ruffled woman in question interrupted, with as much dignity as she could muster. The trolley had a small boiler for hot teas, and it was doing quite the number on her lower body. After some inspection, Hargreaves estimated if the matron’s conservative skirts hadn’t intercepted the blow, the trolley might well have broken the leg.

  “You are very brave, my good lady. Now hold still,” Hargreaves said. She waved Cezette over, and after bracing the young girl by the shoulders, used her powerful artifice leg to heave the trolley aside. The ruffles woman screamed, but it was a scream of panic, and the leg appeared only sprained. Hargreaves helped her up, and suddenly the three of them were looking at each other, marveling at the fact they were unharmed amidst the destroyed diner car. Hargreaves’ temples were beginning to clear, and now the ringing was no worse than the migraines she got sometimes from her monthly dues.

  “We must do something about your hair! C’est quel horreur! Was there a fire? Your chemise, it will not do,” Cezette finally broke the silence, feigning a quibble over Hargreaves’ attire. Her bottom lip wobbled. “Maman, we have been trailing you in America for weeks! Arturo thinks…oh, what is it…that, ‘someone lit a fire under your derriere.’ You simply disappeared!”

  “Fire…fire! We must leave, quickly! The gas!” Hargreaves gasped. “My lady, I am afraid the two of you must help hold one another. Be careful picking over the glass!”

  “And you?” the ruffled matron asked with urgency.

  “I must take this ruffian outside. You’ve done quite a number on him, ’Zette, but he is still breathing,” Hargreaves answered.

  Hargreaves was aching all over, but her breathing came steadily, and she was quite hale still. She looked down, delivered a sharp kick to the lout’s side, then grasped one of the prone legs and began to pull, careful to hit every patch of sharp china or broken lantern along the way. Her steadfast ethic required her to rescue him, but she certainly did not have to make his awakening pleasant. Besides, she doubted anything would penetrate the many layers of grimy clothes. The hodgepodge aesthetic was vaguely familiar—an air pirate? A plains pirate…perhaps.

  A second, well-manicured hand reached to grasp an offensive appendage.

  “Petunia Arnold,” the ruffled woman said. “Very good to meet you.”

  “Inspector Vanessa Hargreaves, MD6 Scotland Yard,” Hargreaves replied automatically. Then, more sincerely, “Thank you.”

  Just before they reached the exit, a shattered deck-to-ceiling window, the ground shook with some inexplicable boom. The three women halted, looking around for an explosion. The remaining gas flames flickered alarmingly, but they were well contained in their glass tulips. A second boom sounded, and a third, in regular succession.

  “The louts had an automata!” said Hargreaves, recognizing the sound of metal footsteps.

  They finished dragging their unfortunate baggage outside, tossing him summarily into a bush. It did not take long to spot the hulking engine in question, for its foot nearly came down on raven-haired Cezette, limping about like an injured blackbir
d.

  The automata had been some ways behind the last car of the train, and was now walking to the front. The ladies rushed away from the car, and finally laid eyes on the beastly contraption; one huge cylinder of black iron sprouting thick, round limbs in a rough analogue to human form. Stovepipes bled a thin stream off the back of the torso where a gap in the plate allowed a collection of cogs, chains and cams to spin freely. In fact, there were gaps all over the walking engine where armor had been supplanted by moving parts, like the giant had been cobbled together from a dozen different machines.

  Cezette made to follow, but her leg suddenly gave a twitching motion and dumped her in a bush along the rails. “Merde! Never mind me, Maman, allons-y!”

  “I will mind your child. Go, Inspector!” Petunia Arnold said gamely.

  “Madam Arnold, she isn’t—oh, bugger it all!” said Hargreaves. She began to lope, a little lamely at first, but picked up speed. The automata might be large, its gait long, but it was also heavy, and it had to pick its way through the debris of the wreck. Hargreaves caught up with it two cars up.

  “Hey! You! Stop!” Hargreaves yelled at the top of her lungs. They hurt from the dry, smoky air. When her hoarse croak received no response, she drew her .22 and left a few tiny dents in the carapace far above.

  “The blonde?” a tinny rumble rolled down from the top of the automata. The hulk turned, just enough for Hargreaves to see the pilot behind a layer of steel mesh in the front of the cylinder. “Look, I’m real sorry about Nubbins, but with your outfit, it’s hard to blame him.”

  “His name was Nubbins? I was about to be…by a Nubbins?” Hargreaves was astounded, both by the ridiculous situation and the callous objectification. Everything felt just a little surreal, like she’d been having mushrooms again. “I’ll wear whatever I damn please! Never mind! You’re headed for the Cook box, aye?”