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Entry 1 — Untitled
“Michael!” came a harsh whisper from around the corner. The street was quiet, the alleyway dark as pitch, and the whisper was louder the second time through to be heard over the rain’s sotto voce.
“It’s me, Charlie.” Was the reply a little ways off in the alley, and Charles strained to peer into the dark. Light crept in around Michael’s face as he drew a breath on his cigar, a beacon of red that lead him closer.
“Michael, have yeh got-” Charles began, but was hushed with a hiss.
“Don’t say it aloud. Not safe, bucko. It’s inside.”
Michael’s voice was draughty and hard, different to Charles, who had a sing-song melody in almost everything he said. East, he supposed, as opposed, to West.
Directly to Michael’s right, a door that Charles was just starting to see cracked open, and the dim oil lamp glow skirted around the lip. Michael’s wife stuck her head out.
“Hello Charlie. The lads are in bed, now, it’s safe to come in.”
They came in; and the still-warm stove from supper was a relief from the bitter-snip dizzle. Charles felt his nose coming back into life, and Lucy chidingly asked if he’d been down the Plague Rat already that evening.
She sat them down at the rickety kitchen table, made them tea, and Charles had it Irish. Michael wanted it Irish too, but Lucy thwacked the back of his good hand with a spoon and told him he’d had his Irish plenty not two nights ago. Then she left the room, at her husband’s request, and Michael slid the package out of his pocket. It was ever so small, Charles thought, as he handled the brown-paper wrapped parcel.
“Don’t just stare at it, bucko.” Michael urged, and Charles unwrapped it. There was a bright green glow that bothered his eyes, it out-shone the lamp, and he closed it back up again and winced.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Straight from Peru. The Heart-Stone, they called it. Fabled to charge up, and store, vast quantities of… Aether.”
Charles paled and leaned back heavily, the wooden chair creaking under him.
“Real Aether?”
“Real as you an’ me. That’s why it ent safe, everyone wants it, an’ as far as I can see, no one should have it. Scotland Yard is on full alert, an’ every dirigible that enters and leaves London is to be searched.”
The little rock- more a rough-cut gem, sat squarely in Charles’ palm. It was warm, and- holding still, closing his eyes- he could feel it thrumming like a tiny, quiet engine.
“That there little rock could power the whole of Britain fer an age, they said.” Remarked Michael, cool as crisp snow, nursing his tea while Charles dared to peek inside the paper again.
“I’m no scientist, Mikey, but that sounds like codswallop.”
“It’s not important, what it can an’ cannot do. What’s important is that everyone wants it. The Military, the Monarchy, Parliament… anyone who holds this has the potential to take over the Empire as we know it.”
Charles downed his tea, whiskey and all, and shuddered.
“Who do we give it to, then?”
“No one.” Michael replied, and when Charles choked, he raised a dismissive hand. “It’s to be buried and forgotten.”
“Couldn’t there… Isn’t there someone, somewhere that could use it for good? Unlimited power, why… I could fly around the world non-stop!”
“And what would you do wi’ that power, except viciously guard it from every Tom Dick an’ ‘Arry that wanted it for hisself? That’s the catch, Charlie. It’s no good to no one; Whoever has it is cursed, not because of some heathen Gods, but by the world’s greed to have it for themselves.”
Charles began to rattle off locations.
“Back to the jungle, then?”
“That’s the first place they’ll look.”
“What if I drop it in the sea?”
“Have yeh seen them new boats? Submersibles are the cuttin’ edge. They’ll find it.”
“Antarctica?”
“They’ll send a team, with readers an’ scanners.”
The pained expression on Charles’ still youthful face made Michael pause.
“It’s up to you, an’ your crew, to save Britain from herself. Hide it, Charlie, so it can ne’er be found.”
Entry 2 — Pilgrimage to the Past
"I am at home here among the scent of books, their dusty pages may be disquieting to some, suggesting rot and ruin. But to me, they signify the past, all the more glorious than the present as we continually close our eyes on substance. I sit here among the books and their yellowing pages, and the candles whose light illuminates the disarray. I sit and listen to the bustle of many a man and lady out for a stroll among the shops. For eons I had wished to find a place amongst them, but there seems to be no place in this world for someone of my tastes.
If you knew what those tastes were, you might shudder, or give a small shake of the head in disapproval. I have seen it all before as the graceful women and stately men enter my book shop and glance upon me, dust on my jacket and trousers. As of late no customers have entered, either to browse or to purchase from my small shop. The only thing I can currently hear is my pocket watch ticking out the minutes, and my fingers ticking out on this typewriter, worn with age, some of the keys sticking.
It seems like death in here, perhaps that's what keeps the noble society away. They enter and they are reminded of age, of the progress of all things, and of death. Do they not know the value in that which has passed? Of the marvelous inventions that, while constantly being replaced by newer models, still run with more efficiency than those models ever could. They seem oblivious, but I, in this dust, in this quiet, am transported back. Back to a place where I am comfortable, back to a place where sanity first breathed its breath. Care to step into my world pilgrim?"
Entry 3 — Construct
From what I have learned since that day, I am the only one to have seen the Knoxworths before they quit the city of Portal-Whitesmith. The name Knoxworth may be familiar to those that followed the work of the great construct designer, Desmond Knoxworth, also known for a sudden death surrounded by controversy. Before I took my leave of this city to study abroad in Albionoria, I was a casual acquaintance of their son, Clarence and had met the mother, Gwendolyn, once or twice. When I returned, I reestablished contact with the family. Desmond had passed away in the four years that I had been gone. Mrs. Knoxworth requested that I help move out some of the old constructs that laid around the place. Not having steady work, I took this job.
The house was old and musty. Mrs. Knoxworth seemed to be living in the garden, surrounded by overgrown rosebushes and a rounded construct with spidery arms that squatted beside her wrought iron garden furniture, and whirred near the endless stream of tea and tobacco that the old lady consumed. She chatted pleasantly, if inanely, apologizing for the odd absence of Clarence. She claimed him to be ill, and infectious at that. The entire third floor of the house seemed shut off. I strove to listen for sounds of him, but the whole house creaked and groaned with sounds that both baffled and unnerved me, so I could not determine if the boy even still existed.
One day, late in the afternoon, the Daymoon looming over the city's spires, I came to find the front door locked. I was alarmed, knowing that Mrs. Knoxworth had no appointments. I clambered over the garden wall, pricking myself on the roses as I found the back door ajar. I slowly walked inside, calling but receiving no reply, meeting only the silent host of brass effigies that still resided in the various corners of that house.
I ascended the stairs slowly. I was concerned. And this is the point where I opened the door and saw what I now report, though I doubt my words can capture it. How can I describe Clarence Knoxworth -what was left of him? A porcelain mockery of a face, painted white, with black straw bangs, a body that was but a shell of brass and wood. Skeletal arms and legs splayed on the bed, chest opened and the leather sacks heaving inside as they took in blood, from the arm of Gwendolyn Knoxworth, her arm placed in that semblance of a mouth, with it's sharpened teeth, the red life dripping down the throat of the thing that was not Clarence, to power the functions that only barely made it living: small, shaky gestures in it’s prison bed.
But I was wrong about it’s weakness, a mistake that may have cost lives. I rushed to pull Mrs. Knoxworth from the hellish device that was her son, prying apart the steel jaws to take her shrunken arm out. She screamed, struggling, telling me I did not understand. I looked at her to see desperation. Then I collapsed as a heavy weight hit my head, knocking me flat to the floor and to darkness. The last thing I recall is two terrible glass eyes, flickering with the few candles in the room, observing me as the thing that was not Clarence creaked to a sitting position in the bed, half supported by, and half supporting his hysterical sobbing mother.
When I awoke, they both were gone. As far as I can tell, they are no longer in the city. A watchman claimed to have spotted an old woman carrying a thin figure wrapped in cloth out the south gate. That means they went into the forest.
Mrs. Knoxworth is old and sick – the forest, I suspect, will kill her within a month or two. But Clarence -what can stop a thing like that? And when his mother’s blood ceases to fuel him, where shall he get his driving force? The forest holds even more horror for me, knowing that the brass vampire must soon stalk its boughs. Was that where Desmond ended up? Is that the immortal life he chose?
Entry 4 — The Mesmerist’s Curse
I just can’t compete with her. She is so beautiful, and clearly very good at what she does. She always peaks at the perfect moment, and by the time I have picked up steam, its all over and done with, and I feel so useless. My performance could never match hers. Oh well, the audience seem happy, the applause seems to get louder and louder with each show. It used to be me that got that applause, and now it is her. She does deserve it, she is the most talented woman I ever “mesmerised“, a great actress. I make a few passes in front of her face, close her eyes, and she disgraces herself in front of the crowds for a penny a head. The great unwashed love her. But I have the talent, I’M the one with the power! It feels so frustrating, knowing that this harlot does nothing but remove her clothes seductively, and yet gets more applause than me! I suppose it’s only matter of time before my name is erased from the advertising posters altogether, not longer “The Marvellous Mesmerising Morvo, and assistant”, but “See the beautiful Vanessa be mesmerised!”. What happened? Somewhere along the line, my dark art has become a mere joke, a bawdy night out for the idiotic masses pouring out of the gin dens and workhouses. Where did it all go wrong? I know the answer to that, as much as it pains me to admit it. I used to be the chief anaesthetisist at Eliotson’s Mesmeric Hospital, I earned more I could spend in a year, my medical and scientific contemporaries adored me, and my future was mapped out. I would make a few passes over the patients, and put them into the deepest of trances. The doctors could perform their surgeries while the patient was out, and they would come to with no pain, no sleepiness or nausea. It was fool proof. I witnessed limb amputations, childbirth, the removal of tumours from the deepest recesses of the inner human body. But then one day there was some….unpleasantness. I found myself the hospital library between surgeries. I had no idea why I was there, I rarely ventured far from either my theatre or the courtyard, the matron was a fearsome woman and not a force to be reckoned with, but I felt drawn to this room I had never seen before. All at once I felt the familiar ringing in my ears, the pounding pulse in my temples that only a mesmerist would recognise, I felt as if I was being called. I closed my eyes, walked around the small space, and my hand fell on a book. Truly it was meant for me. It was hidden at the back of a shelf, behind a number of dusty bibles and other religious texts. I don’t know what drew me to it, but I read a few passages, and it became clear this book was pure evil. It was written in some heathen Eastern script and peppered with illustrations of hideous demons, and although I did not understand the language on he page, the words stung me, the pain was excruciating, as if the devils from hell themselves were burrowing into my eyes! I slammed the book shut, and hurried back to my theatre, I was to mesmerise another childbirth, a young woman giving birth to twins. I don’t feel I can discuss what happened next, but there were some unexpected side effects I never wish to relive, all I can say is I hope the poor woman had the love of God in her soul. I was immediately expelled from the hospital. And now, here I am, with a blonde nymph I scooped from a brothel in Whitechapel, who pretends to be mesmerised by me in front of these cretins. And I could, I could mesmerise her, I could make her do whatever I want. I have more power in my littlest finger than every other mesmerist in London put together! But I am frightened, far too frightened, what happens if it happens again……?
Entry 5 — The Fall Over Chicago
You know of the many adventures of the Professor. I have dedicated my life to their retelling, and have profited in no small way from my time with that man. It is his final battle with his arch-nemesis the Count that is the most famous. But there is a secret to that story I have kept these long years.
The mad Count von Bluchenwald had come to Chicago, his cog-work soldiers ready to descend from his dirigible fleet and destroy the city. The Professor had hastily designed and built an energy projector powered by the inherit static electricity of Lake Michigan. But even as the beam lay waste to the dirigible fleet, the Counts flagship was untouched, protected by his Lightning Shield.
With a canny use of the Professors glide-wings, we made our way aboard the flagship, the Shields useless against slow-moving natural materials.
As you well know, the cog-men were helpless against the Professors improved pulse gun. I easily disabled them with sonic pulses as we made our way to the control cabin.
“Careful, old chum,” the Professor said. “Who knows what madness lies beyond this door. I had best go first,” he said as he pushed me aside and threw the door open.
“Get them,” the Count screamed. The remainder of his troops steamed forward. The Professor slid through the cog-men with his customary cat-like grace, leaving me, once again, to do the dreary work of cleaning up. As he and the Count dueled with their super-heated steamblades and pithy quips, I was left to deal with the machine-men like some drudge.
“Careful, old chum!” The Professor said, slicing the head off the last of the mechanical soldiers, as if here were doing me some grand favor. Off he spun, blade twirling as he drove the Count back against a command console, pinning him down with a flurry of attacks. He shouted over his shoulder, “Smash the shield generator!”
It was as if he thought I were some simpleton that could not be trusted to be out from behind the skirts of his nursemaid! Without out a word or glance at the two men prancing about the front of the cabin, I walked to the crystalline gears churning in the center of the room. The gear-works were crafted of some opalescent substance known only to the Count and encased in a translucent dome. It generated the field that deflected any projectile or beam of energy away from the ship.
With my pipe wrench, I smashed it to fractal shards.
“Well, done!” the Professor cried, as he bludgeoned the count into unconsciousness. He grabbed the steering wheel, and locked the ship to a course headed straight out over the lake. “All according to plan, my friend. Now,--“ I hit him in the back of the head with my wrench. He crumpled to the ground like a paper mache man.
He had his plan. I had mine. I caved the Counts head in to be thorough.
I jumped from the craft, the glide-wings turning my fall into a slow descent. No one followed me. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the flare. The original plan was to use it to signal when the Professor and I were clear and the shield destroyed. I fired it without hesitation. It shot up into the sky, a murderous red star.
Without the shield the beam cut through the ship like a knife slipping between a mans ribs, igniting the hydrogen chambers inside. The dirigible was engulfed in flames in a matter of seconds. Undaunted, the great ship struggled against gravity and the hell raging in its own belly. The skin melted away, exposing the skeleton to the world. Again the beam of light lanced out, piecing the flaming aircraft. The ship exploded long before it reached the ground.
The shock-wave sent me plunging towards the ground like Icarus. Luckily, I suffered only some small injury to my body. The worst of which has caused my now famous limp. Of all the scars that I bear from my time with that man, I find the limp bothers me not one whit.
Entry 6 — Kenna’s Dream
“This will not work,” Kenna shouted, slamming the book shut. “How will I find the answers I need, if they, themselves, have not a clue where to look?”
She leaned back in her chair, watching her lover, Elsbeth, struggle with the sewing contraption a friend brought over for her to try.
“This is to make my job easier?” Elsbeth questioned as she pumped the the pedal under the table with her foot.
“Supposed to.”
The machine whirred and sputtered as Elsbeth struggled with the thread coiling around the metal beast. It is quite ingenious, Kenna thought as she watched the shaft move up and down with each press of Elsbeth's foot.
An idea began to surface.
She scooted across the floor on her hands sand knees, crawling under the table, looking for the finer details of how the machine worked.
“Maybe--,” her voice drifted off as she ran out the door to the carriage house.
Kenna pressed the buttons on the metal box beside the door and waited for the deep click of release. As the steam pressure built, the door eased open allowing Kenna access to her workshop in the back.
Hours passed as she drew out her plans, watching as they sprang to life on the faded parchment roll. Across the top she scribed, in her best calligraphy, Blood Purifying Machine.
She signed and dated the bottom of her plans before slipping them into a solid tube for safety. Tomorrow she would bring them to Lord Ashton, and together they would bring her plans to action. But, for tonight, sleep called to her, stretching into her soul, pulling her back to her resting place.
As Elsbeth pulled open her coffin lid, Kenna's heart began to beat. She stretched the sleep out of her unyielding limbs before climbing over the edge of the mahogany box.
Within an hours time she stood in Lord Ashton's home to work on her idea of progress. He was not as taken by this idea of hers, but would do anything for her, his true love.
Together they worked, each knowing what had to be done. Before long it was done and they stood, each admiring their work in silent awe.
Copper tubes wrapped around many glass jars, each one having a specific purpose. The smaller one on the right would hold the non-purified samples. The one to the left would hold the herbal and salts needed to cleanse and stabilize the blood. The larger of the jars sat just below the machine where the finished product would be stored till needed. Around each jar was a metal tub, large enough to hold the ice needed to protect the blood from spoiling. To the back was their idea of a modified sewing machine, minus the needle and thread. It would drive the machine to mix, heat, and control the amount of blood flowing through the tubes at any given moment.
All that was left was to try their tinkering, so Kenna headed to town to gather the blood needed, while Lord Ashton brought the machine back to her house.
The town was still, most at home for the night. Kenna continued to the tavern on the edge of town. A man stood, leaning against the side of the building watching as a woman climbed into a carriage alone.
Kenna moved in the shadows till she stood just behind the man. The smell of malt liquor and hard work made her stomach retch, but at this late hour there would be no other choice. Kenna walked up behind him, looping her arm in his, pulling him into the shadows between two buildings. Before he had a chance to shout she pulled him to her chest and sank her teeth into his neck.
Tonight she would not have time to savor his life as it ran down her throat, nor repay him for his generous donation. She gathered what she needed into a metal flask, leaving him passed out in the shadows of the bar.
Kenna smiled as she hurried home. No matter if this worked or not, she was now one step closer to her dream—to be human again.
Entry 7 —(Removed at Author's Request)
Entry 8 — Breaking the Eyes
There was a firm knock on the door. Pat had been waiting for this. He
stood up and grabbed his bag. Another impatient knock made him move to the
door quickly. With a last glance behind him, he said a silent goodbye to
his wife and children, who were sound asleep.
The moon looked reddish in the midnight sky. The knocker coughed in the
damp air. Pat could barely see his companion. He knew it was all caused by
the dirt that was blast into the air from the chimneys of the factory. The
air was polluted and sometimes seemed thick as a brick.
“Let´s go, Ned,” Pat whispered.
“You brought the gear?” Ned pointed his lantern at Pat.
He shook the bag. There was clearly something made of metal inside.
They headed to the valley. Their target was situated on the banks of the
Mercey. From a distance, it looked like a dragon, crouching in the dark.
Pat hestitated. He entered the jaws of the monster every day in order to
feed the belly of the beast. He had been angry, but never afraid in
daytime. However, now, close to midnight, with the glowing red from the
boiler room and the low frequent droning of the engines, it felt
uncomfortable to see the brick cathedral with the fire spitting chimneys.
The cogwheels screamed like banshees to be oiled.
And it was, Pat thought, as if the factory was looking at him. He held his
breath.
“Come on,” Ned whispered. “We have to do this. In name of humanity and the
environment!”
Pat did a step forwards. The tools he had in is bag made an aweful noise.
He held that uncomfortable feeling. Was their action still secret or were
there people lurking in the bushes? He shrugged to get the impression of
eyes sticking at his back from him.
It was his first time out with Captain Ludd. He had heard stories from
other workers, how they lost their jobs and joined Ludds army. How they
smashed the engines of the factories they used to work in. Investors were
forced to hire traditional craftsmen. That was good for the villages
filled with craftsmen, and better for the environment.
Ned Ludd had reached the outer fence of the factory. A shadow fell over
him. The light of his latern moved with the Captain when he climbed the
fence. It was clearly visible, now the moon hid behind the darkness. He
crossed the darkness behind the fence, swift and elegant.
Pat followed the Captain. He threw his bag over the fence, which made an
aweful noise in the silent night. It was followed by the loud beating of
Pats heart. He climbed the fence and let himself drop. He had to search
for his bag.
The red moon had looked spookey, Pat thought, but it wasn't half as bad as
the darkness. That single bloody eye had something comforting, but the
eyes looking at him from the darkness made him shiver once again. Yet the
only thing he could see was the lantern the Captain had in his hands. He
hurried towards the light.
The bag in Pats hand was heavy with metal tools. But when he got closer to
the factory, the bag seemed to be of less weight. Just when Pat thought it
was his more positive approach, he felt the bag actually pulled his hand.
"What the...?" he uttered in surprise. He fastened his grip on the bag. It
definitely pulled at him, in an upwards direction.
He pulled back.
The bag wouldn't let go.
Pat clung his other hand to the bag too, only to feel how his feet lost
connection with the earth.
Lord Cunard watched how the airmen took in the Luddite. They released him
from the strong magnet, so he could stand on the deck of the airship. A
smirk attached itself to Lord Cunards mouth. He had just found himself
another member for his transatlantic airship line. He had something to
offer the Luddists couldn't: a bright and shiny future. And the craftsmen
were an easy catch in the sea surrounding the factories below. One just
had to observe.
Entry 9 — Difference Between Moments
The rattle of a triple-piston steambike echoed across the pavestones of the desolate main street. The flicker of light from the dying gas lamps danced on the oversized lenses of the stranger's elaborate goggles.
The stranger halted the bike before a young man crossing the street.
"Good evening, young man," said the stranger as he tipped his plush purple top hat. The laced cuff of his wool overcoat accented his affluent tone.
"Evening, sir," said the young man.
"What calls you out at this hour, lad?"
"I'm a coal whipper, sir."
"A bit late for unloading the ships, is it not?"
"It was quite a payload, sir."
"I've lost something," the stranger blurted. He took a breath to collect himself. "So long as we're well met, I suppose you wouldn't mind helping me find it." He rocked himself from the steambike and stuffed his hand into a leather saddlebag. He brought forth a rather modern camera.
"This here is true magic, lad." The stranger twisted a brass knob on one side of the device and cogs mingled on the opposite side. Tiny geared wheels influenced one another to create a curious clatter within the box.
"Is it not a camera?" asked the young man.
"A camera? No, not in the least." He stopped twisting and a hum rose in the air. Soft, at first. Then, vibrant and alive and filling the space surrounding them. "But what I have lost has been captured by this as would a face in a photograph."
The stranger set the queer device on the steambike's seat and returned his hand to the saddlebag. He brought out two thin iron plates set in worn cherry frames.
"The object of my desire has been deconstructed and delivered to another...moment."
"You mean it's lost in time?"
"Precisely." The stranger held flipped the two plates under the young man's gaze as would a magician demonstrating that his cards were true.
"This plate represents a moment in the past," said the stranger as he jiggled the plate in his right hand. "This other plate represents this moment."
"Which moment?"
"The 'now' moment."
"You mean, right now."
"Precisely." The stranger gave the plates to the young man with explicit instructions. The idea, the stranger explained, was to retrieve the object as it passed between then and now.
The young man held the two plates as instructed and waited. "What, exactly, are you trying to intercept?"
At that moment, a voluminous airship crept above the meager skyline. From it, that omnipresent hum reverberated.
"Nevermind the dirigible," said the stranger. "Concentrate on the plates."
An audible crack broke the monotony of the hum. The stranger groped at the hole that appeared in his chest.
"Sir!" The young man helped the stranger as he crumpled to the stone street. "You've been shot!"
"Indeed," said the stranger.
The hum warbled louder and the young man looked behind him to find the airship closing the distance between them.
"Lad," gasped the stranger. "The difference between this moment and the last is all you need."
"What?"
"Take the box," said the stranger as he pointed weakly over his shoulder. "It will bring you...."
The old stranger exhaled the last of his breath, and he slipped into eternal rest.
The airship let down a steep ladder. A man fit for military occupation stepped out of the airship by way of the ladder. He carried a beast of a rifle.
The young man gathered the plates and the device and headed around the corner of a coffee house. He turned the device over in his hands and found two slots that could hold the plates. He slid the plates into the device, unaware of which needed to be where, and he pulled the lever on the top.
The gears turned and the hum became a screech and then a loud pop blew it all away.
The young man stood in the darkness of the shadows cast to the side of the coffee shop. He recalled that he just left his shift on the docks, unloading coal. Then, he heard something familiar.
Again, the rattle of a triple-piston steambike echoed across the pavestones of the desolate main street.
***
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Happy reading!!
Entry 1 — Untitled
“Michael!” came a harsh whisper from around the corner. The street was quiet, the alleyway dark as pitch, and the whisper was louder the second time through to be heard over the rain’s sotto voce.
“It’s me, Charlie.” Was the reply a little ways off in the alley, and Charles strained to peer into the dark. Light crept in around Michael’s face as he drew a breath on his cigar, a beacon of red that lead him closer.
“Michael, have yeh got-” Charles began, but was hushed with a hiss.
“Don’t say it aloud. Not safe, bucko. It’s inside.”
Michael’s voice was draughty and hard, different to Charles, who had a sing-song melody in almost everything he said. East, he supposed, as opposed, to West.
Directly to Michael’s right, a door that Charles was just starting to see cracked open, and the dim oil lamp glow skirted around the lip. Michael’s wife stuck her head out.
“Hello Charlie. The lads are in bed, now, it’s safe to come in.”
They came in; and the still-warm stove from supper was a relief from the bitter-snip dizzle. Charles felt his nose coming back into life, and Lucy chidingly asked if he’d been down the Plague Rat already that evening.
She sat them down at the rickety kitchen table, made them tea, and Charles had it Irish. Michael wanted it Irish too, but Lucy thwacked the back of his good hand with a spoon and told him he’d had his Irish plenty not two nights ago. Then she left the room, at her husband’s request, and Michael slid the package out of his pocket. It was ever so small, Charles thought, as he handled the brown-paper wrapped parcel.
“Don’t just stare at it, bucko.” Michael urged, and Charles unwrapped it. There was a bright green glow that bothered his eyes, it out-shone the lamp, and he closed it back up again and winced.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Straight from Peru. The Heart-Stone, they called it. Fabled to charge up, and store, vast quantities of… Aether.”
Charles paled and leaned back heavily, the wooden chair creaking under him.
“Real Aether?”
“Real as you an’ me. That’s why it ent safe, everyone wants it, an’ as far as I can see, no one should have it. Scotland Yard is on full alert, an’ every dirigible that enters and leaves London is to be searched.”
The little rock- more a rough-cut gem, sat squarely in Charles’ palm. It was warm, and- holding still, closing his eyes- he could feel it thrumming like a tiny, quiet engine.
“That there little rock could power the whole of Britain fer an age, they said.” Remarked Michael, cool as crisp snow, nursing his tea while Charles dared to peek inside the paper again.
“I’m no scientist, Mikey, but that sounds like codswallop.”
“It’s not important, what it can an’ cannot do. What’s important is that everyone wants it. The Military, the Monarchy, Parliament… anyone who holds this has the potential to take over the Empire as we know it.”
Charles downed his tea, whiskey and all, and shuddered.
“Who do we give it to, then?”
“No one.” Michael replied, and when Charles choked, he raised a dismissive hand. “It’s to be buried and forgotten.”
“Couldn’t there… Isn’t there someone, somewhere that could use it for good? Unlimited power, why… I could fly around the world non-stop!”
“And what would you do wi’ that power, except viciously guard it from every Tom Dick an’ ‘Arry that wanted it for hisself? That’s the catch, Charlie. It’s no good to no one; Whoever has it is cursed, not because of some heathen Gods, but by the world’s greed to have it for themselves.”
Charles began to rattle off locations.
“Back to the jungle, then?”
“That’s the first place they’ll look.”
“What if I drop it in the sea?”
“Have yeh seen them new boats? Submersibles are the cuttin’ edge. They’ll find it.”
“Antarctica?”
“They’ll send a team, with readers an’ scanners.”
The pained expression on Charles’ still youthful face made Michael pause.
“It’s up to you, an’ your crew, to save Britain from herself. Hide it, Charlie, so it can ne’er be found.”
Entry 2 — Pilgrimage to the Past
"I am at home here among the scent of books, their dusty pages may be disquieting to some, suggesting rot and ruin. But to me, they signify the past, all the more glorious than the present as we continually close our eyes on substance. I sit here among the books and their yellowing pages, and the candles whose light illuminates the disarray. I sit and listen to the bustle of many a man and lady out for a stroll among the shops. For eons I had wished to find a place amongst them, but there seems to be no place in this world for someone of my tastes.
If you knew what those tastes were, you might shudder, or give a small shake of the head in disapproval. I have seen it all before as the graceful women and stately men enter my book shop and glance upon me, dust on my jacket and trousers. As of late no customers have entered, either to browse or to purchase from my small shop. The only thing I can currently hear is my pocket watch ticking out the minutes, and my fingers ticking out on this typewriter, worn with age, some of the keys sticking.
It seems like death in here, perhaps that's what keeps the noble society away. They enter and they are reminded of age, of the progress of all things, and of death. Do they not know the value in that which has passed? Of the marvelous inventions that, while constantly being replaced by newer models, still run with more efficiency than those models ever could. They seem oblivious, but I, in this dust, in this quiet, am transported back. Back to a place where I am comfortable, back to a place where sanity first breathed its breath. Care to step into my world pilgrim?"
Entry 3 — Construct
From what I have learned since that day, I am the only one to have seen the Knoxworths before they quit the city of Portal-Whitesmith. The name Knoxworth may be familiar to those that followed the work of the great construct designer, Desmond Knoxworth, also known for a sudden death surrounded by controversy. Before I took my leave of this city to study abroad in Albionoria, I was a casual acquaintance of their son, Clarence and had met the mother, Gwendolyn, once or twice. When I returned, I reestablished contact with the family. Desmond had passed away in the four years that I had been gone. Mrs. Knoxworth requested that I help move out some of the old constructs that laid around the place. Not having steady work, I took this job.
The house was old and musty. Mrs. Knoxworth seemed to be living in the garden, surrounded by overgrown rosebushes and a rounded construct with spidery arms that squatted beside her wrought iron garden furniture, and whirred near the endless stream of tea and tobacco that the old lady consumed. She chatted pleasantly, if inanely, apologizing for the odd absence of Clarence. She claimed him to be ill, and infectious at that. The entire third floor of the house seemed shut off. I strove to listen for sounds of him, but the whole house creaked and groaned with sounds that both baffled and unnerved me, so I could not determine if the boy even still existed.
One day, late in the afternoon, the Daymoon looming over the city's spires, I came to find the front door locked. I was alarmed, knowing that Mrs. Knoxworth had no appointments. I clambered over the garden wall, pricking myself on the roses as I found the back door ajar. I slowly walked inside, calling but receiving no reply, meeting only the silent host of brass effigies that still resided in the various corners of that house.
I ascended the stairs slowly. I was concerned. And this is the point where I opened the door and saw what I now report, though I doubt my words can capture it. How can I describe Clarence Knoxworth -what was left of him? A porcelain mockery of a face, painted white, with black straw bangs, a body that was but a shell of brass and wood. Skeletal arms and legs splayed on the bed, chest opened and the leather sacks heaving inside as they took in blood, from the arm of Gwendolyn Knoxworth, her arm placed in that semblance of a mouth, with it's sharpened teeth, the red life dripping down the throat of the thing that was not Clarence, to power the functions that only barely made it living: small, shaky gestures in it’s prison bed.
But I was wrong about it’s weakness, a mistake that may have cost lives. I rushed to pull Mrs. Knoxworth from the hellish device that was her son, prying apart the steel jaws to take her shrunken arm out. She screamed, struggling, telling me I did not understand. I looked at her to see desperation. Then I collapsed as a heavy weight hit my head, knocking me flat to the floor and to darkness. The last thing I recall is two terrible glass eyes, flickering with the few candles in the room, observing me as the thing that was not Clarence creaked to a sitting position in the bed, half supported by, and half supporting his hysterical sobbing mother.
When I awoke, they both were gone. As far as I can tell, they are no longer in the city. A watchman claimed to have spotted an old woman carrying a thin figure wrapped in cloth out the south gate. That means they went into the forest.
Mrs. Knoxworth is old and sick – the forest, I suspect, will kill her within a month or two. But Clarence -what can stop a thing like that? And when his mother’s blood ceases to fuel him, where shall he get his driving force? The forest holds even more horror for me, knowing that the brass vampire must soon stalk its boughs. Was that where Desmond ended up? Is that the immortal life he chose?
Entry 4 — The Mesmerist’s Curse
I just can’t compete with her. She is so beautiful, and clearly very good at what she does. She always peaks at the perfect moment, and by the time I have picked up steam, its all over and done with, and I feel so useless. My performance could never match hers. Oh well, the audience seem happy, the applause seems to get louder and louder with each show. It used to be me that got that applause, and now it is her. She does deserve it, she is the most talented woman I ever “mesmerised“, a great actress. I make a few passes in front of her face, close her eyes, and she disgraces herself in front of the crowds for a penny a head. The great unwashed love her. But I have the talent, I’M the one with the power! It feels so frustrating, knowing that this harlot does nothing but remove her clothes seductively, and yet gets more applause than me! I suppose it’s only matter of time before my name is erased from the advertising posters altogether, not longer “The Marvellous Mesmerising Morvo, and assistant”, but “See the beautiful Vanessa be mesmerised!”. What happened? Somewhere along the line, my dark art has become a mere joke, a bawdy night out for the idiotic masses pouring out of the gin dens and workhouses. Where did it all go wrong? I know the answer to that, as much as it pains me to admit it. I used to be the chief anaesthetisist at Eliotson’s Mesmeric Hospital, I earned more I could spend in a year, my medical and scientific contemporaries adored me, and my future was mapped out. I would make a few passes over the patients, and put them into the deepest of trances. The doctors could perform their surgeries while the patient was out, and they would come to with no pain, no sleepiness or nausea. It was fool proof. I witnessed limb amputations, childbirth, the removal of tumours from the deepest recesses of the inner human body. But then one day there was some….unpleasantness. I found myself the hospital library between surgeries. I had no idea why I was there, I rarely ventured far from either my theatre or the courtyard, the matron was a fearsome woman and not a force to be reckoned with, but I felt drawn to this room I had never seen before. All at once I felt the familiar ringing in my ears, the pounding pulse in my temples that only a mesmerist would recognise, I felt as if I was being called. I closed my eyes, walked around the small space, and my hand fell on a book. Truly it was meant for me. It was hidden at the back of a shelf, behind a number of dusty bibles and other religious texts. I don’t know what drew me to it, but I read a few passages, and it became clear this book was pure evil. It was written in some heathen Eastern script and peppered with illustrations of hideous demons, and although I did not understand the language on he page, the words stung me, the pain was excruciating, as if the devils from hell themselves were burrowing into my eyes! I slammed the book shut, and hurried back to my theatre, I was to mesmerise another childbirth, a young woman giving birth to twins. I don’t feel I can discuss what happened next, but there were some unexpected side effects I never wish to relive, all I can say is I hope the poor woman had the love of God in her soul. I was immediately expelled from the hospital. And now, here I am, with a blonde nymph I scooped from a brothel in Whitechapel, who pretends to be mesmerised by me in front of these cretins. And I could, I could mesmerise her, I could make her do whatever I want. I have more power in my littlest finger than every other mesmerist in London put together! But I am frightened, far too frightened, what happens if it happens again……?
Entry 5 — The Fall Over Chicago
You know of the many adventures of the Professor. I have dedicated my life to their retelling, and have profited in no small way from my time with that man. It is his final battle with his arch-nemesis the Count that is the most famous. But there is a secret to that story I have kept these long years.
The mad Count von Bluchenwald had come to Chicago, his cog-work soldiers ready to descend from his dirigible fleet and destroy the city. The Professor had hastily designed and built an energy projector powered by the inherit static electricity of Lake Michigan. But even as the beam lay waste to the dirigible fleet, the Counts flagship was untouched, protected by his Lightning Shield.
With a canny use of the Professors glide-wings, we made our way aboard the flagship, the Shields useless against slow-moving natural materials.
As you well know, the cog-men were helpless against the Professors improved pulse gun. I easily disabled them with sonic pulses as we made our way to the control cabin.
“Careful, old chum,” the Professor said. “Who knows what madness lies beyond this door. I had best go first,” he said as he pushed me aside and threw the door open.
“Get them,” the Count screamed. The remainder of his troops steamed forward. The Professor slid through the cog-men with his customary cat-like grace, leaving me, once again, to do the dreary work of cleaning up. As he and the Count dueled with their super-heated steamblades and pithy quips, I was left to deal with the machine-men like some drudge.
“Careful, old chum!” The Professor said, slicing the head off the last of the mechanical soldiers, as if here were doing me some grand favor. Off he spun, blade twirling as he drove the Count back against a command console, pinning him down with a flurry of attacks. He shouted over his shoulder, “Smash the shield generator!”
It was as if he thought I were some simpleton that could not be trusted to be out from behind the skirts of his nursemaid! Without out a word or glance at the two men prancing about the front of the cabin, I walked to the crystalline gears churning in the center of the room. The gear-works were crafted of some opalescent substance known only to the Count and encased in a translucent dome. It generated the field that deflected any projectile or beam of energy away from the ship.
With my pipe wrench, I smashed it to fractal shards.
“Well, done!” the Professor cried, as he bludgeoned the count into unconsciousness. He grabbed the steering wheel, and locked the ship to a course headed straight out over the lake. “All according to plan, my friend. Now,--“ I hit him in the back of the head with my wrench. He crumpled to the ground like a paper mache man.
He had his plan. I had mine. I caved the Counts head in to be thorough.
I jumped from the craft, the glide-wings turning my fall into a slow descent. No one followed me. I reached into my jacket and pulled out the flare. The original plan was to use it to signal when the Professor and I were clear and the shield destroyed. I fired it without hesitation. It shot up into the sky, a murderous red star.
Without the shield the beam cut through the ship like a knife slipping between a mans ribs, igniting the hydrogen chambers inside. The dirigible was engulfed in flames in a matter of seconds. Undaunted, the great ship struggled against gravity and the hell raging in its own belly. The skin melted away, exposing the skeleton to the world. Again the beam of light lanced out, piecing the flaming aircraft. The ship exploded long before it reached the ground.
The shock-wave sent me plunging towards the ground like Icarus. Luckily, I suffered only some small injury to my body. The worst of which has caused my now famous limp. Of all the scars that I bear from my time with that man, I find the limp bothers me not one whit.
Entry 6 — Kenna’s Dream
“This will not work,” Kenna shouted, slamming the book shut. “How will I find the answers I need, if they, themselves, have not a clue where to look?”
She leaned back in her chair, watching her lover, Elsbeth, struggle with the sewing contraption a friend brought over for her to try.
“This is to make my job easier?” Elsbeth questioned as she pumped the the pedal under the table with her foot.
“Supposed to.”
The machine whirred and sputtered as Elsbeth struggled with the thread coiling around the metal beast. It is quite ingenious, Kenna thought as she watched the shaft move up and down with each press of Elsbeth's foot.
An idea began to surface.
She scooted across the floor on her hands sand knees, crawling under the table, looking for the finer details of how the machine worked.
“Maybe--,” her voice drifted off as she ran out the door to the carriage house.
Kenna pressed the buttons on the metal box beside the door and waited for the deep click of release. As the steam pressure built, the door eased open allowing Kenna access to her workshop in the back.
Hours passed as she drew out her plans, watching as they sprang to life on the faded parchment roll. Across the top she scribed, in her best calligraphy, Blood Purifying Machine.
She signed and dated the bottom of her plans before slipping them into a solid tube for safety. Tomorrow she would bring them to Lord Ashton, and together they would bring her plans to action. But, for tonight, sleep called to her, stretching into her soul, pulling her back to her resting place.
As Elsbeth pulled open her coffin lid, Kenna's heart began to beat. She stretched the sleep out of her unyielding limbs before climbing over the edge of the mahogany box.
Within an hours time she stood in Lord Ashton's home to work on her idea of progress. He was not as taken by this idea of hers, but would do anything for her, his true love.
Together they worked, each knowing what had to be done. Before long it was done and they stood, each admiring their work in silent awe.
Copper tubes wrapped around many glass jars, each one having a specific purpose. The smaller one on the right would hold the non-purified samples. The one to the left would hold the herbal and salts needed to cleanse and stabilize the blood. The larger of the jars sat just below the machine where the finished product would be stored till needed. Around each jar was a metal tub, large enough to hold the ice needed to protect the blood from spoiling. To the back was their idea of a modified sewing machine, minus the needle and thread. It would drive the machine to mix, heat, and control the amount of blood flowing through the tubes at any given moment.
All that was left was to try their tinkering, so Kenna headed to town to gather the blood needed, while Lord Ashton brought the machine back to her house.
The town was still, most at home for the night. Kenna continued to the tavern on the edge of town. A man stood, leaning against the side of the building watching as a woman climbed into a carriage alone.
Kenna moved in the shadows till she stood just behind the man. The smell of malt liquor and hard work made her stomach retch, but at this late hour there would be no other choice. Kenna walked up behind him, looping her arm in his, pulling him into the shadows between two buildings. Before he had a chance to shout she pulled him to her chest and sank her teeth into his neck.
Tonight she would not have time to savor his life as it ran down her throat, nor repay him for his generous donation. She gathered what she needed into a metal flask, leaving him passed out in the shadows of the bar.
Kenna smiled as she hurried home. No matter if this worked or not, she was now one step closer to her dream—to be human again.
Entry 7 —(Removed at Author's Request)
Entry 8 — Breaking the Eyes
There was a firm knock on the door. Pat had been waiting for this. He
stood up and grabbed his bag. Another impatient knock made him move to the
door quickly. With a last glance behind him, he said a silent goodbye to
his wife and children, who were sound asleep.
The moon looked reddish in the midnight sky. The knocker coughed in the
damp air. Pat could barely see his companion. He knew it was all caused by
the dirt that was blast into the air from the chimneys of the factory. The
air was polluted and sometimes seemed thick as a brick.
“Let´s go, Ned,” Pat whispered.
“You brought the gear?” Ned pointed his lantern at Pat.
He shook the bag. There was clearly something made of metal inside.
They headed to the valley. Their target was situated on the banks of the
Mercey. From a distance, it looked like a dragon, crouching in the dark.
Pat hestitated. He entered the jaws of the monster every day in order to
feed the belly of the beast. He had been angry, but never afraid in
daytime. However, now, close to midnight, with the glowing red from the
boiler room and the low frequent droning of the engines, it felt
uncomfortable to see the brick cathedral with the fire spitting chimneys.
The cogwheels screamed like banshees to be oiled.
And it was, Pat thought, as if the factory was looking at him. He held his
breath.
“Come on,” Ned whispered. “We have to do this. In name of humanity and the
environment!”
Pat did a step forwards. The tools he had in is bag made an aweful noise.
He held that uncomfortable feeling. Was their action still secret or were
there people lurking in the bushes? He shrugged to get the impression of
eyes sticking at his back from him.
It was his first time out with Captain Ludd. He had heard stories from
other workers, how they lost their jobs and joined Ludds army. How they
smashed the engines of the factories they used to work in. Investors were
forced to hire traditional craftsmen. That was good for the villages
filled with craftsmen, and better for the environment.
Ned Ludd had reached the outer fence of the factory. A shadow fell over
him. The light of his latern moved with the Captain when he climbed the
fence. It was clearly visible, now the moon hid behind the darkness. He
crossed the darkness behind the fence, swift and elegant.
Pat followed the Captain. He threw his bag over the fence, which made an
aweful noise in the silent night. It was followed by the loud beating of
Pats heart. He climbed the fence and let himself drop. He had to search
for his bag.
The red moon had looked spookey, Pat thought, but it wasn't half as bad as
the darkness. That single bloody eye had something comforting, but the
eyes looking at him from the darkness made him shiver once again. Yet the
only thing he could see was the lantern the Captain had in his hands. He
hurried towards the light.
The bag in Pats hand was heavy with metal tools. But when he got closer to
the factory, the bag seemed to be of less weight. Just when Pat thought it
was his more positive approach, he felt the bag actually pulled his hand.
"What the...?" he uttered in surprise. He fastened his grip on the bag. It
definitely pulled at him, in an upwards direction.
He pulled back.
The bag wouldn't let go.
Pat clung his other hand to the bag too, only to feel how his feet lost
connection with the earth.
Lord Cunard watched how the airmen took in the Luddite. They released him
from the strong magnet, so he could stand on the deck of the airship. A
smirk attached itself to Lord Cunards mouth. He had just found himself
another member for his transatlantic airship line. He had something to
offer the Luddists couldn't: a bright and shiny future. And the craftsmen
were an easy catch in the sea surrounding the factories below. One just
had to observe.
Entry 9 — Difference Between Moments
The rattle of a triple-piston steambike echoed across the pavestones of the desolate main street. The flicker of light from the dying gas lamps danced on the oversized lenses of the stranger's elaborate goggles.
The stranger halted the bike before a young man crossing the street.
"Good evening, young man," said the stranger as he tipped his plush purple top hat. The laced cuff of his wool overcoat accented his affluent tone.
"Evening, sir," said the young man.
"What calls you out at this hour, lad?"
"I'm a coal whipper, sir."
"A bit late for unloading the ships, is it not?"
"It was quite a payload, sir."
"I've lost something," the stranger blurted. He took a breath to collect himself. "So long as we're well met, I suppose you wouldn't mind helping me find it." He rocked himself from the steambike and stuffed his hand into a leather saddlebag. He brought forth a rather modern camera.
"This here is true magic, lad." The stranger twisted a brass knob on one side of the device and cogs mingled on the opposite side. Tiny geared wheels influenced one another to create a curious clatter within the box.
"Is it not a camera?" asked the young man.
"A camera? No, not in the least." He stopped twisting and a hum rose in the air. Soft, at first. Then, vibrant and alive and filling the space surrounding them. "But what I have lost has been captured by this as would a face in a photograph."
The stranger set the queer device on the steambike's seat and returned his hand to the saddlebag. He brought out two thin iron plates set in worn cherry frames.
"The object of my desire has been deconstructed and delivered to another...moment."
"You mean it's lost in time?"
"Precisely." The stranger held flipped the two plates under the young man's gaze as would a magician demonstrating that his cards were true.
"This plate represents a moment in the past," said the stranger as he jiggled the plate in his right hand. "This other plate represents this moment."
"Which moment?"
"The 'now' moment."
"You mean, right now."
"Precisely." The stranger gave the plates to the young man with explicit instructions. The idea, the stranger explained, was to retrieve the object as it passed between then and now.
The young man held the two plates as instructed and waited. "What, exactly, are you trying to intercept?"
At that moment, a voluminous airship crept above the meager skyline. From it, that omnipresent hum reverberated.
"Nevermind the dirigible," said the stranger. "Concentrate on the plates."
An audible crack broke the monotony of the hum. The stranger groped at the hole that appeared in his chest.
"Sir!" The young man helped the stranger as he crumpled to the stone street. "You've been shot!"
"Indeed," said the stranger.
The hum warbled louder and the young man looked behind him to find the airship closing the distance between them.
"Lad," gasped the stranger. "The difference between this moment and the last is all you need."
"What?"
"Take the box," said the stranger as he pointed weakly over his shoulder. "It will bring you...."
The old stranger exhaled the last of his breath, and he slipped into eternal rest.
The airship let down a steep ladder. A man fit for military occupation stepped out of the airship by way of the ladder. He carried a beast of a rifle.
The young man gathered the plates and the device and headed around the corner of a coffee house. He turned the device over in his hands and found two slots that could hold the plates. He slid the plates into the device, unaware of which needed to be where, and he pulled the lever on the top.
The gears turned and the hum became a screech and then a loud pop blew it all away.
The young man stood in the darkness of the shadows cast to the side of the coffee shop. He recalled that he just left his shift on the docks, unloading coal. Then, he heard something familiar.
Again, the rattle of a triple-piston steambike echoed across the pavestones of the desolate main street.
***
7 comments:
I hope we don't have to call foul on Entry #3. Votes seem to jump in chunks over extremely short periods. Like, six within one hour, four within another. Am I just being paranoid?
To be honest I have no way of checking when the votes come in other than constantly monitoring the site (at least not that I'm aware of). I do hope everyone is playing fair and keeping to the spirit of the contest, though I cannot imagine that this contest would spur on any such drastic efforts.
I placed on at least three fora a post that told the members the stories were up, that within an hour after each other. If members all go over here at the same time, read, and vote, it can come in chunks.
It was a good read, each and every entry!
I commented the stories in my own blog, because I have more possibilities there than here in the comment box.
Link: http://schlimazlnik.livejournal.com/50982.html
Votes can very well come in chunks when someone mentions the contest on a blog or forum. As I mentioned, I cannot imagine anyone not playing by the rules for such a simple contest, and hope no one will walk away from this with a sour taste in their mouth.
The contest was meant as an opportunity to write something creative and share it with other members of the steampunk community. In that respect this has been a success, and the reason I'd like to host more of these little contests.
I think everyone's piece is well writen and wonderfully unique, and I've been honored that you would all share them here on my blog. For that I thank you.
Hi Calista,
I just wanted to thank you for your educational comment about Mozy over on the QT blog. I've added it in to the original post and have linked to this blog.
Suzy
Thanks for the link Suzette! You guys really have a fantastic blob over there. Actually, I just realized I don't have you linked here... how did that happen?
I'm really bad about backing things up, so Mozy's been a great help.
I wanted to apologize for not posting the names of those who entered, before now. I did not have a full name for all the entries, but here they are as I received them. And again, thank you to all who entered and voted.
Entry 1- Untitled by Rowan Parsons
Entry 2- Pilgrimage to the Past by Mdarkpoet
Entry 3- Construct by Stewart Hemingson
Entry 4- The Mesmerist’s Curse by Darkshines
Entry 5- The Fall Over Chicago by Joe Goodson
Entry 6- Kenna’s Dream by Linda Sullivan
Entry 7- Kaboom! By Django Mathijsen
Entry 8- Breaking the Eyes by Schlimazlnik
Entry 9- Difference Between Moments by Brian Hook
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