Clockwork Chaos Read online

  Clockwork Chaos

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  edited by Neal Levin | and Danielle Ackley-McPhail

  Ambergris on Ice

  King and Country

  The Last Yong-Shi

  The Power of Her Position

  Bell, Cog, and Scandal

  Deadly Imitation

  Miss Winterdove and the Erupting Eulogist

  The Foxglove Broadsides

  The Curious Tale of Elizabeth Nigel

  A Cat’s Cry in Pluto’s Kitchen

  Deception

  The Ghost of Løve VanMeek

  edited by Neal Levin

  and Danielle Ackley-McPhail

  Sparkito Press

  Howell, NJ

  Dark Quest Books Novels

  by Clockwork Chaos Authors

  James Chambers

  The Dead Bear Witness

  Tears of Blood

  The Dead in Their Masses

  The Word of the Dead

  Three Chords of Chaos: A Bad-Ass Faerie Tale

  C.J. Henderson

  Where Angels Fear

  The Best of Rocky and Noodles

  A Bright and Shining World

  Masters of Tarot

  Patrick Thomas

  Mystic Investigators

  Bullets and Brimstone

  Once More Upon a Time

  From the Shadows

  Dear Cthulhu: Have a Dark Day

  Dear Cthulhu: Good Advice for Bad People

  Dear Cthulhu: Cthulhu Knows Best

  Dark Quest Books

  featuring Clockwork Chaos Authors

  Breach the Hull

  So It Begins

  By Other Means

  Best Laid Plans

  Dogs of War

  In an Iron Cage:

  The Magic of Steampunk

  Gaslight and Grimm:

  Steampunk Faerie Tales

  Dragon’s Lure

  PUBLISHED BY

  Sparkito Pressan imprint of Dark Quest, LLC

  Neal Levin, Publisher

  23 Alec Drive, Howell, New Jersey 07731

  www.darkquestbooks.com

  Copyright ©2013 by Dark Quest Books.

  Individual stories Copyright ©2013 by their respective authors.

  ISBN (trade paper): 978-1-937051-56-3

  All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

  All persons, places, and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

  Cover Art: Chaz Kemp, www.ChazKemp.com

  Interior Art: www.fotolia.com

  Violet © Atelier Sommerland

  steampunk installation © jro-grafik

  Schmuckrahmen Steampunk2 © annekarenrasch

  black cogwheel © Dasha Yurk

  Vintage Skull background © lynea

  Victorian workout (3) © Anja Kaiser

  Early Submarine - Sous-Marin - U-Boot - 19th century, Aerostat - 18th century (1784 - Paris), Technician at Work - 19th century, Carridge - Fiacre - Motordroschke - end 19th century, Diver - Plongeur - Taucher - 19th century © Erica Guilane-Nachez

  Interior Design: Danielle McPhail, Sidhe na Daire Multimedia

  www.sidhenadaire.com

  Contents

  Ambergris on Ice / Jeff Young

  King and Country / Richard Marsden

  The Last Yong-Shi / Matt Dinniman

  The Power of Her Position / Bernie Mojzes

  Bell, Cog, and Scandal /R. Rozakis

  Deadly Imitation / Patrick Thomas

  Miss Winterdove and the Erupting Eulogist / Angel Leigh McCoy

  The Foxglove Broadsides / Gail Gray

  The Curious Tale of Elizabeth Nigel / Patricia Puckett

  A Cat’s Cry in Pluto’s Kitchen /James Chambers

  The Gilded Wing / N.R. Brown

  Deception / C.J. Henderson

  The Ghost of Løve VanMeek / James Daniel Ross

  AUTHOR BIOS

  Ambergris on Ice

  Jeff Young

  The incessant cold was almost worse than their descent to the wreckage of the dirigible. Whipping gusts in the early light of the dawn spun Constable Cobham Peckwith and the others about as they dangled over the ocean in the cargo drop. They struck the surface of the iceberg a solid blow tumbling Airman Sparrowknife and Madame Leyden against the lines. Cobham reached out a hand to the lady and Kassandra grasped at his thick gloves. Her deep blue eyes peered out from under the hood of her parka. She seemed out of place here in jodhpurs and thick mukluk boots having eschewed her perennial dress. But there was something in her gaze, a brightness that assured Cobham she was enjoying the adventure. He wished he could say the same for himself. As a constable, Cobham had had every expectation of pounding the streets of his home port city of Amphyra, keeping order and maintaining the safety of the inhabitants of His Majesty’s lands in the New World. But ever since he’d met the medium with her unusual talent for communing with the dead, his life became anything but typical.

  The wind brought tiny shards of ice flying along the surface of the berg into any unguarded face. But that wasn’t the worst of it; Bornesun, the captain of their airship, had neglected to mention the way the iceberg would move. When Cobham peered out into the morning, he could watch the horizon tip back and forth. What looked like an island was a cork afloat on a frigid sea. We don’t belong here, he thought. Kassandra moved a few steps forward beside him and another thought crossed his mind, Do I really want to keep doing this? Working with her challenged what he accepted as real, everyday. Sure he’d seen plenty of the odd and strange out in the streets. In most cases though he’d found a sad, tawdry explanation more often than not linked to human stupidity or depravity. But there were always those circumstances that made no sense. Cobham waited for the airman to approach them, looking at Kassandra as she stared at the shifting horizon. As a medium who spoke to the dearly departed, Kassandra knew a great deal about those oddities, in fact she made it her business.

  When Sparrowknife passed them, Cobham followed Kassandra toward the remains of the dirigible. A discovery such as this must have given the commanders of His Majesty’s Aerofleet the fits, he mused. After all, only New Britain, the South Islanders, and the Mexateca were capable of building such a vehicle. Cobham couldn’t quite fathom the arcane series of connections that the Directorate of Security followed to ascertain that he and Madam Leyden were the best suited to delve into this mystery, but it wasn’t his place to question. Perhaps if he had they would not now be drifting toward the arctic.

  A tug on the line at his waist brought him from the brief reverie. The Sharpshin’s first mate Wil Sparrowknife strode ahead of them and was the anchor to the rope tied about their middles. Curving metal spars arched over their heads. The vehicle’s remnants were deceptive when seen from above. With its bulk strewn along the rugged, bluish-white surface of the iceberg, the dirigible stretched out longer than two of Amphyra’s city blocks. Sparrowknife had stopped to stare as well. With the wind the only sound, it came to Cobham just how removed from the world they were. The airman gestured them closer and they huddled together to talk.

  “There’s something quite wrong here,” Sparrowknife started and then hesitated.

  “Yes, I’d expected a great deal more wreckage,” Cobham said.

  “No, what I mean is there something missing.” The airman turned once again to
look at the wreckage.

  “The bodies are gone.”

  Cobham turned sharply to Kassandra. What she said was true. Where was the crew of at least forty needed to man such a dirigible? Cobham pondered.

  “With all of this wind the remains might have been scoured off of the berg into the ocean,” Sparrowknife answered. “What I mean is, there’s no cladding on the structure. Even if the dirigible exploded, there should still be some of the exterior sheeting someplace attached to the framework. But everywhere I look I can’t see a shred.”

  Cobham turned on his heel. The first mate was correct and so was Kassandra. “What’s so important about the cladding?”

  “Well it would have had a huge blazon on it of the owner of the aircraft at least. Also each nation makes theirs a bit different, even the paint on the outside could tell me whose this is,” Sparrowknife responded crouching down to scuff at the snow in the hopes of finding anything more.

  It almost felt to Cobham as if the clues to the cause had vanished. “Well, guess we won’t be asking any of the dead fellows anything then, Kassandra, will we?” he commented.

  “Look over here,” Sparrowknife interrupted. He’d stepped under the arching support structure of the dirigible.

  On the far side, in amongst the spans of the frame, was a large, gaping hole. As Cobham stared in the direction the airman indicated a pattern began to emerge. The supports were all bent and twisted away from the gap. Something had struck the dirigible a killing blow.

  Tapping glove tips to his lip, Sparrowknife pondered. “It’s almost as if something exploded on contact with the surface of the craft.”

  “Do you have a weapon like that, airman?” Kassandra asked.

  “Not that I know of. Sharpshin is armed with two repeating cylinder guns. Larger military-class dirigibles will have mounted cannon which can be used to fire grapeshot or chain loads. But we have nothing that explodes on impact.”

  “What could bring down an aircraft of this size?” Kassandra continued.

  Sparrowknife hesitated a moment, thinking. “Fire, lightning strike, a tornado, and our mysterious explosion, too.” The airman’s words trailed off. He stopped and turned about in a circle.

  Cobham felt the man’s unease as well, an animal instinct reacting to unknown danger. When he glanced at Kassandra, she’d crossed her arms, shoving her gloves under them. In her eyes he saw that she felt the same.

  “I don’t know how much more we’re going to find here,” she offered in a grim tone.

  At a loud crack of gunfire, they all turned back toward the airship. High above them the captain was waving his arms over his head. Sparrowknife didn’t hesitate, “All right, let’s get back to the ship. The captain wouldn’t signal us unless it was urgent.”

  As the cargo lift swung back and forth, Cobham saw at the edge of his visibility a grey haze hanging over the waterline. After a moment he realized what he was seeing. They were approaching the northern shore of Aurora. The massive island lay close to the Arctic Circle and in the gap between the Old World and the New. Cobham shivered at the thought of the Old World. The abandoned seat of Edward’s empire lay there in ruins along with an entire series of lands long overgrown and filled with the bones of the victims of the ancient Black Death. A few brave traders pillaged the forgotten lands for treasure and paid the price in plague. This was the closest he’d ever been. Cobham hoped to never come nearer. Now he could even see the enormous pieces of ice as they calved away from a glacier on the shoreline and cascaded into the freezing water below. The iceberg carrying the remains of the dirigible was several leagues away from the shore. Their evidence was about to be lost, perhaps for forever.

  “What’s that, Airman?” Kassandra asked, pointed farther along the shoreline at single flicker of reflection.

  “I have no idea,” Sparrowknife responded staring at the spark along the shoreline at the edge of their vision. The cargo lift swung back and forth, causing them all to reach for the netting. “Seems like the captain’s noticed it as well. We’ll know soon enough.”

  The closer they approached, the more trouble Cobham had discerning what lay below them. After turning the airship away from the iceberg, the captain was unable to reacquire the location of the mysterious flashes of light. Captain Bornesun brought the airship down the coastline, beyond the glacier to a large circular bay. All along the rubble lined beach were immense white cylinders with tapered ends. Cobham counted more than twenty before stopping. Whatever the objects were, they lay on the shoreline with their anteriors in the splashing surf.

  “They’re leviathans,” Sparrowknife said in a quiet tone.

  Cobham found that if he stared long enough he could see the fins on the sides of the carcasses. Here and there conjoined flippers of the beast’s tails bobbed in the surf.

  “I’ve heard of them beaching themselves but I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bornesun added. “Look at that beast. It’s more than twice the size of our downed dirigible.” Bornesun’s words trailed off as he brought the spyglass to his eye once more. Wrinkles spread across his forehead. “Well that explains the flash. There’s a settlement inland from the beach. All the buildings are covered in ice rime, makes them hard to pick out, but for the glint of the sun. They appear to have some sort of balloon on a tether.”

  He handed the spyglass to Kassandra who stood next to him. Cobham watched her stare intently for a moment or two. Then she inhaled; her breath catching.

  “If I’m correct, the man walking down the beach toward the leviathans is Sir Sante Moore. He’s well known as an oceanographic biologist, historical chemist, and a Renaissance man of the sciences. He’s also waving us in. Looks as if we’ve been seen.”

  When she handed the glass back to the captain, Kassandra walked behind him to come up next to Cobham. Leaning close she whispered, “He’s also a pompous ass as well.” Then she hesitated and added, “And a friend of my father’s,” as her eyes drifted away from his gaze.

  The twitchy sensation in his nerves wouldn’t abate, so Cobham took a moment to retrieve his three-barrel revolver from his travel case tucking it into one of the deep pockets of his parka. He felt a slight bit guilty doing it out of Kassandra’s view, but it calmed his nerves. At the edge of the cargo area Cobham confronted Kassandra. “This is no place for a lady.”

  “Be that as it may, I am here and I will go where I please. Besides Moore’s familiarity with my father may serve our purpose.”

  “Kassandra, be reasonable.”

  “Constable, my father did all of his adventuring from an armchair with a glass of sherry in a half-drunken stupor. He was one of the brightest lights in the scientific pantheon. When he stopped ‘doing’ he became trapped in his brick manse. All of his brilliance spilled out into lax dreaming. I’ll do my work on my feet if you please.”

  Cobham stared at her back as Kassandra moved away to converse with the captain. In a mere moment he’d learned more about what drove her than in all of their acquaintance.

  Once again they descended in the cargo lift.

  “I’m surprised the captain isn’t joining us,” Kassandra said, watching the ground approach.

  “Don’t be,” was Sparrowknife’s answer. He looked up at the airship above them, shading grey eyes with a hand. “He doesn’t leave the ship.”

  Cobham turned to the first mate, “Ever?”

  “Not unless ordered to. The Sharpshin is a ship in His Majesty’s Aerofleet. As Captain, he can do as he likes.” Sparrowknife hesitated, “Bornesun says the ground doesn’t feel right anymore.”

  Not finding any adequate response, Cobham considered their destination. There were a number of long buildings with rounded roofs. He could count more than a dozen men walking about the complex. A well-worn path led down to the beach below and its unusual contents. He watched four men carrying a crate each to the farthest building, moving along at a steady pace. Suddenly, the lead man pitched forward, missing his footing. This fellow’s crate flew from his hand
s, landing in the snow next to the path. The reactions of the men were what caught Cobham’s attention. Each turned away from the impact, crouching over their own crate. They all froze in place. As the ground grew closer, Cobham watched the three men with the crates edge their way around their fallen comrade, hurrying toward the out building. Only when they were gone did the remaining bearer regain his burden and walk slowly off. Turning to his companions, Cobham realized he was the sole witness of the incident. Grasping his chin, Cobham wondered, just what was that about?

  Learning from last time, Cobham took the impact of landing by flexing his knees. He offered Kassandra an arm as Sparrowknife led them off of the cargo lift. As Sir Sante Moore hustled up to them, the lift began its return to the airship. Cobham looked up at it a moment. Even though they were on solid ground, he still had the feeling that things were moving out of his control.

  “Welcome to my little corner of the world,” bellowed Moore, smiling expansively. Moore was a big man and the fur of the bear skin parka he wore rustled in the wind as it tore sparks from the edge of the pipe in his outstretched hand. He flipped the silver damper down, settling it once more between large, yellowed teeth as he leaned forward to greet each one of them. Sparrowknife and Cobham each received a wringing handshake and Kassandra a bow over her proffered hand.

  As Kassandra made their introductions, Cobham took the moment to review Moore’s companions. There were several British fellows present in the front ranks, one even carrying the perennial tri-lion banner. Of course, thought Cobham, glancing at the sight of the Sharpshin hanging overhead. With its blazons as one of His Majesty’s Airships, there was little doubt as to from whence Moore’s visitors hailed. He wasn’t surprised that Moore was flying the colors as well. But behind these good fellows were several others whose darker complexions and beetling black brows belied a different lineage.

  Sparrowknife caught his glance, stepping closer whispering, “Antelaunders, they live close to the arctic to the west of New Britain and hunt the seal and white bears. As to why they’re here, besides their familiarity with this cold, that’s a fine question.”