Rites of Passage

infinity plus

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© Eric Brown 2014

Cover images © Spectral and Man In Black

Cover design © Keith Brooke

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

The moral right of Eric Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

Introduction

Bartholomew Burns and the Brain Invaders

Guardians of the Phoenix

Sunworld

Beneath the Ancient Sun

About the Author

Acknowledgements

By the same author

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I
like writing
long
stories (between around 7,500 words and 15,000 words). I find that they give a little more creative leeway than the short story; I can expand on the setting, the characters, and the actual story. There’s a bit more elbow room to explore ideas. Interestingly, I find that when I start a short story, I have no idea whether it will grow into a long story (though when I begin a novella, I know very well that it will reach the fifteen, sixteen thousand word mark and go well beyond). As I write what I think is going to be a short story, along the way it grows – either the characters demand a bit more room to develop, or the story requires more scenes in order to do justice to the plot. What I do notice about long stories is that the setting becomes more important to me than I initially realised; it almost becomes a character in its own right. This happened in three of the stories in this volume.

“Bartholomew Burns and the Brain Invaders” (10,000 words) was my very first attempt at steampunk (in the very loosest sense of the word), and it’s the only story in the collection  in which the setting did not become a character in its own right. It features the enigmatic Bartholomew Burns – saviour of the Earth on many occasions – and his young sidekick Tommy Newton, who together thwart an evil alien invasion. While in all the other stories collected here it is the central characters that undergo the titular ‘rite of passage’, in this story it’s Tommy Newton who learns much from his travails. The story saw light of day in the online serial magazine, Aethernet, edited by Tony and Barbara Ballantyne.

“The Guardians of the Phoenix” (13,000 words) began as a short story – I thought it would come in at around six thousand words – but expanded in the telling. I rarely write post-apocalyptic tales, but I was gripped by the idea of a bunch of good people travelling across an inimical desert in search of water. Even after I finished the story, it kept on growing in my imagination, and a year later I expanded the story by some eighty-seven thousand words and it became the novel of the same title, published by Solaris in 2010. The story appeared in Mike Ashley’s anthology
Apocalyptic SF
(
End of the World
in the US).

“Sunworld” (11,000 words) is not only a rites of passage tale but one of conceptual breakthrough, to which the genre of science fiction is admirably suited. I enjoy writing stories in which the central character undergoes a journey the events of which, by the end, will subvert everything he or she thinks they know about themselves and their world. This tale is another which begs to be expanded, and some day I would like to write
Sunworld
, the novel. The story was first published in George Mann’s anthology
The Solaris Book of New Science Fiction 2
.

The closing tale in the collection is “Beneath the Ancient Sun” (16,000 words), which appears here for the first time. Again it’s a rites of passage tale
and
a story of conceptual breakthrough, as Par and Nohma – who inhabit a deep valley in what was the sea bottom on a far, far future Earth – embark on an initiation quest and along the way learn a lot about the past greatness of their race and their place in the world. While the story in itself is complete, and I have no plans to expand it into a novel, I do hope one day to write more stories about Par, Nohma, and the brave troupe of cavern dwellers battling inimical conditions beneath a vastly swollen sun.

I hope you are as entertained by these
long
stories as I was while writing them.

Eric Brown

Tyninghame

East Lothian

April, 2014

B
artholomew Burns presented himself at the side gate of Buckingham Palace at three o’clock on the afternoon of the 1st of February, 1851, at the start of what was to prove a fateful few hours in the history of the world – though for good reasons the annals of the time have very little to say on the matter.

He was escorted by a guardsman across the grounds and delivered into the stern custody of the head-housekeeper who, after ushering Burns along interminable corridors, passed him on to the head butler. Two minutes later the butler opened a pair of double doors and announced his arrival, and Burns hurried into the capacious drawing room which overlooked a snow-covered garden.

He bowed to the diminutive figure on the chesterfield. “As ever, your Majesty, it is an honour to receive your summons.”

“Burns,” said Queen Victoria, “you have served me well in the past; I do hope that on this occasion your capabilities might prove as efficacious.”

“I will do all within my powers, your Majesty,” Burns murmured.

“Draw up a seat,” she said, “and consider what I have to impart.”

Burns did as instructed. For the past six months, since his last adventure, he had been kicking his heels, allowing his thoughts to dwell on the events of the past – which was never a healthy state of affairs. The Queen’s summons had pulled him from a period of introspection, during which he had occupied himself with scotch and Macaulay’s
History of England.
 

A door opened at the far end of the room and Prince Albert, dressed for the weather in a greatcoat and boots, hurried across to Victoria. He nodded to Burns and took his wife’s childlike hand.

“It’s past the time I was at Hyde Park, my dear,” he said with a pronounced Germanic intonation. “Burns, forgive me, but matters are pressing.”

Burns waved. “By all means.”

“The Exhibition proper opens in May, but on the morrow I will be showing a group of financiers and industrialists around the exhibits, and there are many preparations to oversee.”

The Prince, Burns thought, seemed pale and unwell, his normally sanguine features assuming the wan hue of the finest parchment. The Queen squeezed his hand, and not for the first time Burns was moved by the evidence of their obvious affection.

The Prince swept from the room and Queen Victoria smiled to herself. “The Great Exhibition, Burns, is quite taking up all his time and energy. I do fear for his health, especially so over the course of the past day or so. He does not quite seem himself.”

“The Exhibition, by all accounts, will be a marvel to whet the most jaded palate.”

Victoria gestured to a maid to hurry with a tray bearing a silver tea-pot of Earl Grey. The girl deposited the tray on an occasional table, curtsied and departed.

Burns poured, as was custom, and Victoria joined him in partaking of the beverage in a small china cup.

“Now,” she said, “a singular matter has come to my attention. It is quite beyond the wherewithal of my ministers, I am sure. Therefore, it occurred to me instantly that it was a phenomenon more than suited to your expertise.”

“You have my undivided attention, your Majesty.”

“To state the matter simply, a
visitor
was apprehended just over a day ago. He vouchsafed a remarkable story, claiming that the peace of the realm was at stake, and that, moreover, these shores faced the imminent threat of a singular invasion.”

“A
singular
invasion?” Burns echoed.

Victoria inclined her head. “I have instructed Travers to meet you at Newgate Gaol at five. He will be able to furnish you with further information.”

“I will report back to you at your earliest convenience, your Majesty. You have the communicator to hand?”

She opened a small bag and withdrew the tiny ear-piece, a miniaturised marvel of technology. “As you instructed, Burns, it never leaves my side.”

She rang a bell and, when the maid appeared, instructed her to have the butler show Burns out. He bowed and bade her Majesty farewell.

“I have every faith in you, my mysterious Mr Burns. God speed.”

As he stepped from the palace, instantly accosted by the icy chill that had gripped the capital for weeks, he tightened his muffler against the wind and trod circumspectly across the iced cobbles. A minute later he was aboard a Hansom and heading for Newgate, staring out upon a twilight quickened by the winter fog. As the cab rattled along the Strand, busy with broughams and pedestrians, Burns considered the Queen’s careful words.
A visitor
...
a singular invasion
...

But why, he asked himself, had the word come from the lips of the Queen, and not from the usual source, a Sentinel?

~

L
ittle realising the leading role he was about to play in the events of the next few days, Tommy Newton swaddled his chapped feet in rags, bound them tight with cord he’d fingered from a bale of linen aboard the
H.M.S. Fortitude
the day before, and jumped from the brandy barrel in which he had made his home for the past year.

He lifted the metal grille from the wall, poked his head through to ensure the alley was deserted, then scrambled out and replaced the grille. He set off at a clip down the sloping alley towards the river. It was odd, but today he felt drawn to the Wapping stretch of the river – it was as if a voice were summoning him there, promising him a pretty haul.

Life, at present, was good for Tommy. He had a warm, dry home to call his own, wedged as the barrel was next to the furnace wall of the smelting factory. He’d even managed to garner a few valuable possessions: three blankets, a bundle of candles and matches, and a spoon he’d filched from the unattended galley of a Russian steamer. And to think, it was less than a year since he’d arrived in London and fallen in with Ratty and Miller who’d introduced him to the dubious pleasures of mudlarking.

Things had been difficult all winter, but a month ago his luck had turned. He and Ratty had hauled a ship’s binnacle from the mud near Woolwich, and a bent chandler down Bermondsey way had given them three shillings apiece for it.

Three shillings – and just as winter was beginning to bite. He’d been tempted to buy himself a right feast on the first day, but sense had prevailed – prompted by the gnawing memory of hunger pangs last winter – and he’d rationed his spending to a penny or two a day. Even so he’d eaten well, able to afford a loaf that lasted three days, some old jerky from a butcher in Bow, and a pint of pale ale as a treat.

All in all, he thought as he emerged from between the crowded buildings and skidded to a halt on the icy cobbles beside the river, it was a good life.

The tide was out, revealing a flat expanse of black, jellied mud. The far bank was invisible behind a grey fog. A few small boats, moored to the walls, tilted this way and that, fixed in the river-bed. So far as he could see, there was no one else scavenging for the occasional treasure. No doubt the bitter cold was keeping the shiftless abed, but the cold was no deterrent to Tommy. A Bradford tyke, he’d braved winters up north cold enough to freeze the balls off a tom cat.