Cogs in Time Anthology (The Steamworks Series) (20 page)

The local tribes wouldn’t do this. We had an agreement. Outlaws, then. Hadn’t Charles mentioned them?

It would have been best to wait, to slink away into the darkness and hide out in the cold for the night, but another fire began to burn. I checked my rifle, five rounds. I slid the first into the chamber and stood up.

The fires had eaten away my house. The door to the cellars looked intact though. The chain that connected the generator in my house that drove the mechanics and refrigeration lay broken on the ground. Pipes of steams hissed from open wounds.

Several figures, dark and orange in the fire’s shadows, ran out of the fiery frame of my door with bundles of my clothes in their arms.

I stared. They were stealing my clothes instead of letting them burn.
In that case, the life of a desperado must lead to some interesting fashion statements.

I tried to snap out of it and unlock my knees. In the firelight, I saw a nugget glistening like melting wax on the ground. So they had found my gold, too. I shouldered the rifle and raised it. I didn’t think, I just pulled the trigger. The shot pinged off some of my pots strewn in the yard.

However, the outlaws had heard it. Hands flew to their own pistols and rifles. The shortest one dropped a handful of clothes straight down onto some embers. It lit his boots as he stared into the darkness, trying to see me. Yelping, he lunged away.

The others kept staring as they inched my way.

I couldn’t stay there. I tried to bend my legs, to coax them into running.
The cellars!
I had to make sure what was really valuable was still mine.
Let them take the nuggets, I can always spin beer and wine into more gold.

The pines dragged their needles against my sleeves as I sprinted just outside the firelight. I froze and listened, flinched at every single angry shout. It sounded as if the outlaws were running into the trees where I had been. I crouched and tiptoed through the long shadow behind the cellar doors. They were open. Trying to hold my breath, I swung around, weapon at the ready. Sounds of bottles clanking together echoed up the shallow stairs. Someone was there.

I should run
, I told myself. I could always make more.

My foot hovered over the first step, and then I took the plunge. The electric lights were out, and the ongoing hum of the cooling unit was quiet. It felt as if I were diving into a tomb.

“Who’s there?” a voice in the blackness demanded.

My attention snapped back into the present, but it was too dark to see.

A figure, about my build but taller, crashed into me. He grabbed my rifle’s butt and barrel and shoved me back toward the stairs. My assailant wore an eye-patch, an old pirate trick. That way, he could move between the blinding light of the fire, and by switching the patch to the other eye, into the shadows of the moon. With one eye already adjusted to the darkness, he had been able to see me faster than I had been able to see him.

I pushed, he pushed, and neither of us got anywhere. I stared hard at his desperate face, and immediately wondered where I had seen him before.

He ripped at the grip and my fingers were too sweaty to stick to the gun’s sleek metal anymore. Instinctively, I ducked and rolled to the side.

My head clanged against a slender, tall bottle. I knew exactly which one. I packaged this special brew in smaller bottles, because most so-called men couldn’t handle that particular juice. My fingers curled around the long neck, and I brought it around swinging.

The narrow glass cracked against his temple, and few drops of the capsicumel slithered through the fractures. He looked surprised, but that was all.

I swung again, and the honey-wine made with habanero peppers, splashed across his face and especially into his eyes. He squealed. The fragrant, burning scent of the mead reached my own nose and opened up my sinuses. Scratching at his own eyes, he rolled forward into a ball, helpless against violently tearing up.

I grabbed his collar and hauled up him the stairs and away from my cellar. He rolled to the side in the soil and I couldn’t bring myself to waste a bullet on him. The rifle snapped back into place in my shoulder.

I turned toward the nearest outlaw who was dancing around the flaming rubble of my house. I squeezed the trigger. I kept firing, in fact. I couldn’t stop, even though I tried. Three shots went in a flash. First, second, and then the third knocked him down.

He spun around, grabbing at his chest and stared at me in surprise. Then he crashed down onto his knees and slumped forward.

“Back to the horses!” another voice called.

The man from the cellar rose to a half-crouch and started to lumber after the voice, and I stepped out of his path. The clattering of hooves and upset whinnies soon dwindled away into the darkness. Soon, only silence could be heard. I was too exhausted to do anything, even if they came back.

The fire at my house was starting to fade since there was nothing left to burn and no wind to widen its path. My generator slumped awkwardly to the side. Fat lumps of glistening metal had pooled around its base, or hardened where it was had melted off its frame. It was the only recognizable thing left.

I sat down, rifle still in my hands with one bullet left. I was lost inside my own home.

Daylight, when it came, brought no relief. I still clutched my rifle across my chest, its barrel toward the rising sun. A golden balloon separated from the solar light and slowly started its
descent. Charles stood at the controls. None of his workers had accompanied him. The blimp bounced and crunched against the ground as he did his best to land.

He started to climb down the cargo net on the side, but stopped a few feet down. “Bleeding hells, how do you do this?” Trapped, he had to stumble his way down.

Finally, on the ground, he straightened his jacket—a different cut than the day before. He surveyed my yard. “You’re coming with me right now, and I won’t hear a word otherwise.”

A nice soft bed in a mansion behind thick walls sounded very comforting in the moment. I swallowed another wave of tears. It had been a long night.

I tried to stick out my chin without it trembling. “Why are you here, Charles?”

His eyes widened in surprise. He stuck out his hand, revealing a large box. “Bullets.” He pulled it back. “But you won’t need them anymore.”

I wiped my cheek. “They just ran away. Destroyed it all and ran away. I got one of them though. He’s down in the cellar.”

He stood over me and offered his hand. “Cowards, the lot of them. But your gold is gone, and your house is destroyed.”

“Not my brews though. I guess they didn’t know how valuable you say they are.”

“And I’m glad for it.” He smiled dully.

Something smelled wrong. Nothing physical, but it was the exact same sense as when I had smelled the fire. “Where are your servants, Charles?”

He stiffened. “I don’t need them for this short run.”

“You can’t even fly that house. And I thought it took you days to get here from the city.”

The last remnants of his smile faded.

I plunged on ahead, “How did you know my gold was gone?”

“Estimated assumption.”

“They didn’t hurt me. Didn’t hardly try.” A moment passed. “I reckon the Illani didn’t close their borders. Real outlaws are still drifting south. I killed one of your men last night, didn’t I?”

After a moment, he unwound with a shrug and a sly smirk. “But all of your equipment and your house is destroyed. You have to come with me or starve.”

I stood, using the rifle as a prop. I brought it up to my hip and pointed it. “No, the only thing you were right about is that nobody will find your corpse out here.”

By Eada Janes

An ocean of clouds flow without tide,

As I stand at the railing looking over the side.

Aboard a ship worthy of the turbulent sea,

I fly high above what troubles me.

Below lays the city, grit and grime.

In the smog of progress, nothing will shine.

The clockmakers toil, backs bent over cogs and springs.

The intellectuals argue, their minds set on political things.

All the while, the people suffer a difficult age.

They are the poor, downtrodden, and the caged.

Beneath the umbrella, safe in the golden sunset,

I find those things easier to forget.

Here, I am free from the trouble and strife.

Here, I am the captain of the voyage of my life.

Cecilia Clark

By SJ Davis

Chapter One

The Hand That Feeds

1840

Mordecai called for the airship, the kind that had been onyx when he had first come into power. However, this was iridescent silver, topped with Prussian blue, a smoother version of its brass and blackened predecessor. The golden propellers indicated his position of wealth and influence as the airship cut through the dank and heavy fog. Slumbering clouds licked and enveloped the air vessel as well as the city of Gravesend below, curling around its windows and blanketing the buildings, waiting for the new day to come.

Mordecai knew the birth of the new vampire was important. He had awakened to receive the summons that the arrival of the Perfect Vampire was imminent. At last, he hoped the genetic alterations would not fail and that a vampire would be born with both the physical perfection, and the prophetic strengths, of his clans. Each mutation had been spliced and then re-emerged at great expense, in the Society’s genetics laboratory with high hopes. Unfortunately, a successful birth had eluded them and rendered the vampire women infertile. He hung his overcoat and removed his black leather gloves as he donned the robes of the Society.
 
This child must not be a failure
.

Mordecai landed the airship atop a two-story Gothic church in Northfleet. The twisted faces of ghouls and gargoyles lined the corners of St. Botolph’s Church, a long abandoned Anglican sanctuary. The building looked deserted, though Mordecai knew otherwise. Inside, in a grim and cold priest’s office, a woman lay on a large wooden bed, her wrists tied to the posts. She had been chosen as a human breeder for both her strength and for her sharp mental faculties. Unfortunately, she had become a problem. Her emotions began to interfere with her duties, and Mordecai was eager to be rid of her, but not until she safely delivered the new perfect vampire.

Burgundy velvet curtains draped around the lower part of her body, and her pale face glowed in the candlelight. Small drops of perspiration covered her neck and shoulders as her veins pounded and bulged in her neck. Her pained eyes squinted into tiny slits as she shook her head back and forth. When her eyes fell on Mordecai, she became fiercely silent. Long dark waves of hair covered the pillow and stuck to her face. Wispy strands of curled brunette hair stuck to her forehead and cheeks as she strained to pull herself up when he walked towards her.

“Don’t take this one, Mordecai,” she begged as she panted. “The Society has taken enough from me.” Her full red lips curled in a feral snarl.

“Constance, focus on your breathing. Think of the importance of this child and be grateful you were chosen.” He bent down and whispered into her ears, “From that, take your comfort.”

His flowing robe brushed against her neck. All around her stood tall men in long black robes. Long faces and steely eyes gazed at her as she twisted on the bed. They waited quietly, staring down without emotion as she struggled with the pain. Her abdomen rose and fell as her back arched. She stared at each of the men around her, but their cold eyes offered nothing.

Constance looked away from Mordecai and the others as the wind blew through the rusted iron bars on the window. The candles dimmed in their sconces along the cold walls as the breeze teased the flames. In the corner of the room, behind a column and against the north wall, a little boy stood, barely ten years old.

The boy was tall—almost five feet— and his long arms were crossed over his wide chest. He was a strange boy, one of the few vampires born with white hair. He watched Constance, his face expressionless while hers mixed with tortured pain and maternal desire.

“Luca?” Constance craned her neck towards the young boy.

Luca remained in place. He neither nodded nor spoke. He had never seen anybody give birth before, and the smell of the room—a mixture of blood and dampness—both intrigued and repulsed him. He stood as Constance struggled, her arms in bondage above her head, to deliver this new baby to the Society.

“Bring me my son!” Constance screamed in delirium as her blue pained eyes locked on Luca, dressed in a smaller version of the Society’s robes.

“Silence,” hissed Mordecai. “He is merely here to greet his brother before we take possession of the new one. Don’t display your uncontrolled emotional wretchedness in front of your child, Constance. Is this how you would like them to remember you?” Mordecai’s red goggles slid down his smoothly angled nose, the back strap tangled in his long, dark hair that fell to his shoulders. He turned away from her in revulsion. Her sobs annoyed him. She sputtered out a choked scream as he walked towards Luca, a son she had never been allowed to raise, as she gave birth to his brother. Another son she would never hold.

“You know your brother is being born, don’t you, Luca?” asked a small hunched crone woman, a vampire, dressed in gray. She waited by the window for the child to come, to take him from his mother. She would be his nursemaid in accordance to the Society’s laws. No human woman was qualified to handle such a gift.

Luca looked into her clear blue eyes. So light in color, that they looked white and bleached entirely. The vampire nursemaid bent into him, she leaned upon a black parasol as brass goggles dangled from a belt loop on her waist. He reached for the goggles with curiosity.

“Yes, Luca. You are children of the same mother,” she smiled as she handed him her goggles. “Only human women can give birth now. Vampire women are sterile, an inadvertent and unfortunate side effect of the genetic enhancements.”

Luca smiled, though his fingers fidgeted nervously around the eyepiece. He opened his mouth to speak, but the loud whistle of the Gravesend train cut him off. Luca had never known Constance, his birth mother; it was the accepted way of the Society to use breeders—select, genetically superior, human women—and then to raise these children under the tutelage of the Society.

Constance looked at Luca eagerly from time to time, as she lay on the bed, between her pains. Her eyes were filled with a strange mixture of love and anguish, yet he looked away without connection. He wasn’t comfortable with her emotions, so strangely raw and sadly pathetic.

With a strained expression and a fierce cry, she cursed the Society while her next child was born. “Unnatural bastards! May you be destroyed by this new one!”

The room fell silent except for a slow growl coming from Constance as she pushed a final time. A slippery grinding sound filled the air and the new vampire emerged, another flawless boy. She strained against her ties to see her newborn, but the nursemaid ran over and quickly covered Constance’s eyes with a black blindfold.

“Is he alive?” asked Mordecai with furious insistence. He ran behind the curtain and looked at the child, still covered in the sticky wetness of his mother. He recoiled at Constance’s post-partum state. She looked like a wild animal, her naked body covered in dampness and bloody slime. A tall, silent vampire assisting the delivery pushed down on Constance’s abdomen to expel the last of her placenta. As the mucus-like substance was expelled, he held the bloody mass in his hands hungrily and brought it to his nose to smell.

“Discard the placenta immediately,” Mordecai snarled at the weak vampire. “We don’t eat the medical waste.”

The nurse wrapped the silent infant who stared back at her. “Alive and alert,” she answered as Constance blindly grasped into the air for her newborn.

Her fingers moved furiously and impotently as her wrists were still bound above her. Her frantic screams filled the room, and her legs kicked the wooden bed as the vampires tried to clean her.

Luca saw his brother as the burgundy curtains were pulled back. His face remained impassive and unemotional as the small creature slithered underneath a white cotton blanket: his eyes black, his hair black, and his skin dark. The opposite of Luca.

“Draegan,” said Luca. “You will call him Draegan. I see it.”

Mordecai spun back to the boy as Constance lay tired, but still twisting for her freedom. “What did you say? What do you see?”

The Vampire nurse shuffled away, carrying the newborn in her arms. Constance softly mumbled as she collapsed with exhaustion. “Ten minutes. Please ten minutes with my sons.” Her words slurred together in a heap of jumbled syllables.

Mordecai sternly turned and emptied a powder from a side latch in his pocket watch into a handkerchief. He held it over her mouth as she struggled against him and his drug. “Quiet, Constance. You know the rules.” She became still on the bed, silenced by his pharmaceutical.

Luca looked at his mother, in his mind he saw her wandering in a desert, her hair blowing around her, her nails overgrown, and tears streaking down her overly tanned face, burnt by a strong desert sun. 
Australia
. 
They will send her to Australia to avoid further nuisance. 
Strangely, he wasn’t bothered by the thought.

“Only his name,” Luca lied. “I see only his name.” Mordecai looked deeply into Luca’s eyes but could not penetrate his visions. The boy’s mind was exceptionally strong.

Luca stared back at Mordecai. He felt him push into his mind, but found it easy to block the older man’s attempt to see his vision. Luca saw more than his brother’s name. He saw blood. He saw illness. He saw fire.

***

Astrid sat at a glass-top table, drinking her first cup of morning tea. Her wavy chestnut hair was swept into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, yet a few strands carelessly rested on her small, bare shoulders. Her emerald green dress was accented with a violet sash, complimenting her green eyes. She wore pale green lace slippers and rested her feet against the ornate gold plated legs of the chair. Lost in thought, her brow slightly frowned, giving her soft face a look of seriousness.

“Darling, which dress should I wear for the party at the Upton’s this evening?” Astrid’s sister, Miranda, interrupted the silence and held out two dresses, one in each arm, a few feet away from her slender frame. She stared at Astrid intently, as if this decision would influence world events.

Astrid blinked away her thoughts, brushing them away like cobwebs. She scanned the baby blue dress, the closest to her, with its pretty pearl neckline and tiny white bows. Then she perused the second dress, a light shade of gold, its bust covered with a thin flaxen mesh with a large golden sash across the waist. Black vertical stripes decorated the skirting.

“That depends, dear sister,” Astrid said. “Do you want to look pretty and sweet or gorgeous and womanly?”

Miranda’s honey colored eyes turned to the opened window. “Pretty. I want to enhance my 
virginal
 assets,” she giggled. “Considering Jasper will be there, and you know what a penchant he possesses for innocent young ladies.”

Astrid nodded and smiled into her teacup. She realized, yet again, how different she was from her sister. Miranda’s world was filled with social events and parties, eligible and suitable young men, and expensive accessories. Astrid’s interests were also social in nature, but for social betterment and political changes in her beloved London.

“Things are quite simple in your world, Miranda,” she sighed.

“My world is your world, too,” she answered. “But you complicate it with your illusions of saving it.”