Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology

  Combine leather and lace, brass and steel, flywheels, pistons, levers, and springs, mix an industrialized past with a technocratic future, stir well, steam thoroughly, garnish with a dash of panache, and voila! Steampunk.

  Whether one defines it as retro-futurism, Victorian and Old West sci-fi, or anachronistic speculative fiction—whether one defines it at all—it pervades the popular culture of literature, television, and cinema. It has spawned unique fashion, art, and musical styles.

  With its origins deeply rooted in the literary works of Jules Verne, H. G. Wells, and Mary Shelley, inspired by the vision of Charles Babbage, Nicola Tesla, and Richard Trevithick, the genre draws its life from fantasy, alternative histories, parallel universes, the paranormal, and post-apocalyptic futures. Steampunk is revisionism, and what better material to expand upon than literature that bespeaks the universal human condition and has withstood the test of time?

  Classics live on because they leave ajar doors of possibility, even as their stories draw to a close. In this anthology, nine talented writers embrace the invitation to explore those allusive realms. Some have chosen works whose tales untold seem to demand the expansion. Others have used a master’s world as a springboard into their own.

  Whether their taste bends to Sense and Sensibility or Frankenstein, whether they pine for love with Ebenezer Scrooge or corner dastardly villains with his nephew, Fred, for diehard Steampunkers and the curious novice alike, these Mechanized Masterpieces will entertain and delight. They may even raise a bit of gooseflesh or send shivers up the spine. Steampunk is all of the above.

  My father went to his grave without a word of praise for me falling from his lips. He never truly knew me. Even so, he knew human nature, and therein lay his genius and my downfall.

  My father knew the profundity of the fable “Sun and Wind.”

  Sun and Wind argued over who wielded more power. They determined to settle the argument with a competition. They spied a traveler walking down the road, wrapped in a cloak. The contest: wrest the man’s protection from him.

  Wind accepted Sun’s invitation for the first go. It blew and loosened the man’s wrap. Then, Wind blew harder, forcing the man to struggle to keep his mantle. However, the stronger Wind blew, the fiercer the traveler held to his cloak. At long last, Wind prevailed by blowing his victim from his feet.

  Despite Wind’s self-satisfaction, Sun took its turn with confidence. It shone upon the wayfarer. The air warmed. The man loosened his grip upon the cloak as he walked. Then, he removed it and slung it over his shoulder.

  Thus, my father wrested my dreams from me.

  A passionate youth, a lover of all things mechanical, I fancied myself a changer of the world—an inventor—and so earned my father’s patrician contempt. I nursed great ambitions but assumed no generosity on his part. I knew the entire Rochester fortune portioned to my elder brother, Rowland.

  I desired only two things from my father: the freedom to make my own way in the world without interference from my family, and his ward and niece, Yvette Fairfax, as my bride. My father bequeathed me neither.

  My attempts to keep the latter concealed from him failed. My father’s actions professed him perfectly sensible of the attachment between Yvette and me. However, he never mentioned it.

  Instead, the man sent me into the sun.

  As my father’s agent, I traveled from London to Spanish Town, Jamaica, in the prototype airship of my own design. My father assured me linking my fortunes with Jonas Mason, a wealthy cane planter, would set me for life. My friend and partner, Professor Heinrich Rottstieger, accompanied me. Afforded little choice, we resolved to make my father’s dictates serve our own ends.

  All manner of airships abounded at that time, but with Herr Professor’s metallurgic discoveries, and my own invention, a sunlight-dynamo power source, our design would revolutionize air travel. In Jamaica, I would conduct further investigations into the energy-retentive powers of crystals.

  My sweet Yvette provided the impetus for every scheme. My hopes in her propelled me forward. And, lest my recollections of her fade, the engraved crystal that hung about my neck continuously brushed my skin and thrust her to the forefront of my thoughts.

  Not yet one and twenty, I had never before traveled beyond the shores of Great Britain. The trappings of “progress” and “civilization” defined my world: coal, steam, copper, and steel. Creation seemed made up of these things.

  However, in every port of call—Lisbon, the Azores, Bermuda—the greater the distance from my homeland, the more alien and strange the world became to my limited experience . . . the stronger Nature clung to that which is rightfully her own: clear skies, blue sea, unpolluted shores. The breath of life.

  We had nothing but ease on our journey: fair winds and a furrowing sea, so to speak. In clear skies over deep waters, with the silver of our triple envelopes gleaming in the sun, our image shone back at us. Our configuration, long and sleek—the fins and rudders, the stern propellers and engine houses—created what appeared a strange creature of the deep running beneath us.

  We cleared the emerald-green mountains northeast of Kingston on the morning of the fifteenth day. The absence of man-shaped mechanoids patrolling the streets grabbed my attention. Where were those brutal implements of totalitarianism? Those clockwork weapons with head, arms and legs, but no conscience or compassion?

  I realized nothing of mechanization had invaded that island—no airships, no dreadnaughts, no rail guns or steam engines. No sub-aquatics patrolling the deep in an illusion of absolute control. No steam-sweepers or horseless carriages chugging and puffing, filling the air with their noise and soot. The light shone pure and clear, the sky as azure as the sea.

  Heinrich circled low over Spanish Town. Children raced the Andromeda to her landing site. At the broad expanse of lawn before the Mason mansion, they hesitated. When the airship belched our engineers from the hold, and they rappelled down the lines to anchor us to terra firma, the children cheered. The adults who trailed after them seemed only slightly less eager.

  Not the least trace of soot smeared the pure faces before me. Likewise, the weary existence and unending toil of the downtrodden in London seemed absent in Jamaica. In this sea of humanity, their black skin a grace of Nature, rather than the curse of industrialization, I could yet see hope.

  Did I see poverty? In abundance. The need for reform? Without doubt. But unlike Mother England, I saw happiness in the faces of the poor. I saw dignity; belief in themselves. I felt myself the serpent in the Garden of Eden with my hold full of cargo and my brain full of technological marvels. I wondered what mischief I had wrought in this island paradise simply by bursting onto the consciousness of this people.

  Thus, the inescapable paradox of my life lay bared before me: mechanization had long since become my great passion, but I detested its natural consequences. Young, sincere, and green as new spring, I swore Jamaica would not suffer the fate of England.

  As I copiloted the airship in its final descent, a pair of women on the veranda of Mason’s home caught my eye. They stood on the balcony; an old crone leaned heavily upon a cane. Her weathered, ebony skin stood in sharp contrast to her hair of brilliant white. Her bright eyes shone sharp and quick. An aura of calm surrounded her.

  She stood beside a young lady at the balustrade, a statuesque beauty whose complexion glowed like aged ivory. A gossamer robe provided token coverage of her nubile form. Her jet black hair hung in loose curtai
ns down her back, and along with the folds of her dressing gown, ruffled in the morning breeze.

  She appeared intent on the windscreen behind which I sat, which bubbled out from the cockpit of the airship. Eventually, the heckling of the old woman gained her attention. She then glanced at herself, tugged at her wrap, and turned into the house.

  As we landed, Yvette’s crystal burned with an icy sting against my chest. I failed to understand the significance at that time, but with the chill, I relived the occasion when Yvette presented the gift, as I often did in future days.

  We lingered, just we two, in the Andromeda cockpit. Yvette sat in the captain’s chair, fiddling with the knobs arrayed on the consoles before her. I knelt beside her, drinking in her lovely, grief-stricken face.

  “I dread your departure, Edward,” she murmured softly. “I fear you will plunge into darkness and never escape. I cannot . . . It must not be so.”

  “I told Father one year, Yvette. I go to make my fortune—our future. All of this is a means to an end—a bridge to my heart’s one desire. Tell me you—”

  Her fingers on my lips silenced my tongue. Her looks forbade my speech. She held my gaze, her eyes swimming in tears.

  She took my hand and held it. She turned the ring upon my finger. She had woven it of her own silken tresses. It shone like pure gold. “Promise me you will never remove this ring. No matter what else happens. Give me your sacred honor.”

  I searched her features, unsettled by the desperation which laced her tone. “Never. I promise.”

  “And yet, it is not enough,” she murmured. A look of firm resolve added complexity to the sadness and loss upon her face. Then, warm stone and cold metal settled into my hand. I raised into the air Yvette’s prize crystal hanging from a silver chain. The sunlight refracted through the stone and projected upon the bulkhead an image of the Andromeda herself, ablaze in rainbow colors.

  “I had it done. A crystal from your workshop could serve, but this stone . . . you need it for protection.”

  More than a mere line etching, a master craftsman had carved a relief of our airship onto the stone in minute detail. Deep in the recesses of my mind whispered the certainty that Yvette had employed forces I would never understand to accomplish what, I dared not speculate.

  Yvette loosened my collar, clasped the chain about my neck, then tucked the crystal beneath my shirt. Her hand rested upon my bare chest as she whispered her instructions. “It must rest here, next to your heart, touching your skin.”

  I riveted my eyes on her, willing her to meet my gaze. She busied herself in setting my attire to rights, yet would not look into my face. Her lips whispered some silent invocation I could not hear. Then, she gave her final instructions. “Use this to remember me. A token of my . . . friendship. To keep you afloat. To light your way home.”

  I took up her hand and held it to my cheek. “I shall never remove it.”

  Tears again welled in her eyes. “See that you don’t.”

  “Edward! What the devil are you about?” Herr Rottstieger’s intrusion brought me to my feet, and one glance at the lady’s ducked head caused him to hesitate.

  He harrumphed to clear his throat. “Well, then, mein junge. We must weigh anchor tout suite.”

  Yvette rose and stepped to the hatch. I moved to follow her. “Just as soon as I see Miss Fairfax home.”

  Yvette wheeled on me. “No, Edward. No. I have Rowland.”

  “Yvette—”

  “Please, Edward,” she breathed. “Let us part here as we are, the best of friends.”

  My whole being revolted at the notion of such a cold parting. I would take her in my arms and bespeak my heart. I would profess my undying devotion, secure her to me. But I knew she meant to avoid such a scene. I could not discomfit her.

  “The best of friends,” I repeated, forcing a smile. She extended to me her hand, but I leaned and kissed her cheek.

  “Remember your promise,” she whispered, and then was gone.

  At Spanish Town, Rochester coin opened the doors of the colony’s finest families. Naturally taciturn and unsocial, I found answering the demands of society a most onerous duty, but I got on by degrees. I dare say, I became good at it . . . at least, I gained confidence. I became, so it was said, the most popular young blade on the island.

  Every now and again, Miss Bertha Mason—for such was the beauty on the balcony—would flit across the social stage, but remained otherwise elusive. I scarcely knew her.

  Even so, she wormed her way into my consciousness. She battled with Yvette for my dreams. In them, the breeze which caressed the nymph’s soft skin with silken tresses, which flirted with her robe and offered teasing, tantalizing glimpses of a round of breast, a length of thigh, also wafted jasmine around me. It encircled and enfolded me until I awoke in a sweat, the scent still palpable in the air.

  But then, the crystal would again cool my skin, and the fever which fought to control me receded at its touch. The clouds lifted, my mind cleared, and dreams of Yvette, fresh and clean and pure, would fill my mind. It felt a brisk early morning after a suffocating, sticky, and stultifying tropical night.

  My father’s plans progressed apace. Within three months, I shared ownership with him and fully managed West End, a cane plantation at Negil, on the westernmost extent of the island. Within six, I had completed the initial phase of our planned rum distillery. Within nine, I had established myself as a member of the West Indies elite. Investors lined up to underwrite our airship manufactory. The sunlight dynamo in both distillery and sugar mill proved an unqualified success.

  I wrote to my father and begged Yvette’s hand.

  At the end of a year, I had done with waiting. My father’s silence on the subject and Yvette’s failure to write caused me no small amount of concern. I would attend Herr Professor on a three-month publicity tour of the East Coast of the United States, and from there, we would go to London. I would return with my bride.

  Twenty hours and counting. I itched to be gone, but last-minute business at the governor’s mansion detained me. There, an acid etching illustrating a newspaper article on the notice board caught my attention.

  I burst into the offices high in Hangar One and slapped the yellowed clipping onto the desk in front of Herr Rottstieger. “Look at it! Just look at it! Tacked up with the notices in the lobby like some tawdry bit of gossip!”

  Lately, All Souls Church, Langham Place, London: Mister Rowland Fairfax Rochester, son of Rupert R. and the late Camilla Fairfax Rochester of Thornfield Hall, —shire, wed to heiress and society beacon, Miss Yvette Fairfax, daughter of the late Colonel and Mrs. Harrison Fairfax, last of Hyderabad, India. Couple to honeymoon on the Grande Tour before returning to their home on Wimpole Street.

  My friend eyed me warily, without a single glance at the paper. I stepped back, undone by the truths I read so plainly on his face.

  “You knew.” The words stuck in my throat. Herr Professor winced. His eyes fled mine. “By the devil! You knew and you hid it from me!”

  He flinched as my palm hit the desk, a tiny jerk of the head as he stared at the floor. I pushed my hands through my hair with both fists to press back the whorl of disjointed thoughts that assaulted me. Tears rushed my eyes. A leaden weight sat on my chest. I could draw no air.

  I stepped away from the violence bursting to free itself. My back to the man, I leaned against the windowsill, my outstretched arms pushing hard against it, as if somehow I could hold back the cataclysm. I stared blankly through the glass, wrestling with a gale of sensibilities, resolves, reckless, insane schemes to make her mine, struggling to cease my trembling and stifle a wail of despair-laden rage. A knock at the door at last shattered the silence. Herr Professor rebuffed it. Footsteps scurried down the wooden stairs.

  “I didn’t hide it, junge.” He spoke softly, feeling his way. “You never read the papers.”

  “You just neglected to tell me, is that it?” I turned to him. He no longer sat, but propped himself against a file c
abinet situated against the wall. “How long ago was ‘lately.’ There is no date here.”

  “Six months.”

  I felt kicked in the chest by a mule. Herr Professor surely read my outrage. “I have not known for six months, Edward—only three months, perhaps. It has been six since the day.”

  Realization of the truth settled over me like an arctic blast. “My father told you . . . That blasted bounder wrote and told you when, exactly.” Rottstieger again winced. “And all this time—all this time you have pretended to be my friend—pretended to encourage me, to share my joy! You played me for a fool!”

  “No, Edward. When you wrote and asked Yvette to be your wife, I knew nothing of the matter. The letter from your father came after you told me what you had done.”

  “And so for three months, every time you delayed our departure—all of it was a lie to put me off!”

  “I delayed because Rochester told me he would write—they would write. They would tell you themselves in their own time. In their own way. I kept waiting for that letter, Edward—for Rowland to do the honorable thing. I had resolved to tell you . . .”

  “When? When, exactly, were you planning to extend me that courtesy?”

  “Before we got to England.”

  “But after we left Boston,” I spat. “It would not do to spoil your precious tour.”

  Herr Professor closed his eyes in capitulation. “No. It would not.” His pulse throbbed at his throat and he swallowed hard. “I never wanted this to happen, Edward. I never expected it to end like this.”

  I peered at him. “What are you not telling me?” He heaved a sigh and I felt the last piece of the puzzle drop into place. “You have been in on it all along,” I whispered. “You took his part.”

  “No, Edward. I never took his part. Anything I did, I did for you.”

  “For you, you mean to say!”

  “No, junge. For you.”

  “How much? How much did he pay you to get me away from Yvette so Rowland could marry her? How much to properly merge the Fairfax and Rochester fortunes?” He hesitated, tongue-tied, and I slammed my fist on desk. “How much, Heinrich?!”