Heart of Steam & Rust (Empires of Steam and Rust) Read online

  “Like something out of the family album,” Armstrong notes.

  I nod. We have Amazon explorers on both sides of the family—extending back into the seventeenth century. One ventured even further into the jungle than we have, in search of the legendary Maplewhite Land; another freed some local Indians from slave mine run by a psychopath with a trained ranodon as his “guard dog.” Those triumphs were ages ago, though, and, at the moment, I wish we had our ancestors’ elaborate equipment—and funding.

  “An autogyro would really come in handy about now,” Armstrong observes.

  Zoe sighs; there’s one back home—from grandfather’s day—but not enough cash for the parts she needs to repair it. “Or one of those new Russian helioships,” she adds.

  Armstrong grins at her, sharing my mechanic’s fantasy. “Yeah … Even one of those small twin-rotor jobs with the overhead gas cells would do. ‘Course, if we’re dreaming, we might as well dream of a new helioliner, with all the trimmings.”

  “I’d settle for a small, heavily armored gunship,” O’Brien puts in. “If we’re going after more of these crazy birds.”

  “Pterosaurs,” I remind him. “More like feathered reptiles.”

  “Whatever they are, I don’t like ‘em,” the captain says, “not even when they’re netted and pinned to my deck. That devil would just as soon take off your fingers as look at you.” He glares at the ranodon and clutches his gun tighter.

  “Why don’t you check the boiler,” Armstrong says. “I think it might be low on pressure.” It’s more of a command than a suggestion. O’Brien grumbles, but turns to check on the boat’s aging engineworks.

  My cousin shades his eyes and gazes toward the tepui’s summit. “You going up?” he asks.

  Read more of this adventure in Steampunk’d at better book sellers everywhere!

  *

  AUTOMATA FUTURA

  A Steam Nations Story

  Stephen D. Sullivan

  Zoe stood outside the Great Man’s door, her references clutched in her left hand, along with the cablegram that had summoned her to this ramshackle structure. The hall of the building was dingy, its once-ornate carpet musty, dust filled, and stained. The hallway’s sole light came from a grime-covered window at the far end. It seemed odd that Doctor Von Lang, the famed inventor, should live in a deserted tenement, though he was a renowned eccentric. Yet, Zoe had checked, and the city registry definitely said he owned the building, so…

  Maybe I should have brought Armstrong or CC with me, Zoe thought. No! You can do this! We need this job so Kit can continue her research, so all of us can—so we don’t go broke. You can do it!

  She remembered Ray Armstrong’s confident smile from earlier that day…. “If Victor Von Lang wants to see you, it must be important. And if he’s got work, so much the better.”

  “But what could he possibly want with me?” Zoe had asked.

  “Zoe, you’re brilliant,” Kit Chapman-Challenger, whom Zoe called “CC,” put in. “Bring your references, in case he wants them.”

  “B-but …” Zoe stuttered.

  Armstrong cut her off. “No ‘buts,’ kiddo. Just keep the rendezvous and knock him dead.”

  Dead, Zoe thought. I wish I were dead.

  She stretched out her trembling right hand and pressed the doorbell. Somewhere in the unplumbed recesses beyond the battered mahogany door, a distant buzzer sounded.

  Suddenly, the door flew open, and the face of a wild man poked out. His shocking blond hair protruded in all directions; grease-smeared goggles covered his frantic blue eyes. Zoe jumped back and nearly lost her glasses.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” the man said, fairly spitting the words. Then, he looked Zoe up and down, and his gaunt face brightened. “Miz Tesla?”

  Zoe nodded mutely.

  The madman grinned from ear to ear. “Welcome! Welcome! Do come right in.” He held the door open and motioned for Zoe to enter. “I’m Victor Von Lang.”

  “I-I’m Zoe. I got your cablegram.”

  “Of course, of course.” Doctor Von Lang laid one greasy, glove-clad hand atop the shoulder of Zoe’s freshly cleaned blouse. Despite his apparent mania, his touch felt surprisingly gentle. “I know who you are, Miz Tesla: aide-de-camp and chief mechanic for the world-renowned Kit Chapman-Challenger.”

  World-renowned but perpetually strapped for cash, Zoe thought.

  “That’s why I cabled you,” Doctor Von Lang continued. “Do step inside. We have so much to talk about.” He gently moved Zoe through the doorway and into the cluttered laboratory beyond.

  She gawked. Beakers, tubes, electrical engines, lathes, drills, cutting equipment, and more filled the huge space to overflowing. The ceiling in the lab stood easily thirty feet tall.

  It looked as though Von Lang’s lab took up the entire floor … maybe the entire structure. No wonder the building seemed deserted!

  Zoe held out the papers clutched in her hand. “I brought references …”

  “References? Don’t be silly! Why would a mechanic of your caliber need references? I wouldn’t have cabled you if I thought you needed references.”

  “Why did you cable me, Doctor? You said something about a job… ?”

  Von Lang pulled off his dirty goggles and gloves and smoothed back his hair. “Yes, of course. I almost forgot in the excitement of the moment.” He removed his chemical-stained lab coat and hung it on a mahogany coat rack. “You’ve heard of me, I suppose?”

  “Everybody’s heard of you, Doctor Von Lang—”

  “Call me ‘Victor.’”

  “—You invented the ionic storage battery, the electro-steam converter, the micro-motor, the artificial skin used to treat burn victims during the war … all before you were twenty-five.”

  Von Lang waved his hand dismissively as he washed up at one of the lab’s many soapstone sinks. “Child’s play. Anyone could have done all that.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Doctor. Your inventions have changed the world—”

  “Poppycock!” He straightened and looked her directly in the eye. “People sing of my accomplishments every day, yet the world remains full of chaos and greed. If anything, I’ve merely accelerated humankind’s inhumanity toward its fellows. That is why I have withdrawn—retired, as it were—to these humble chambers.”

  I’d give my right eye for a lab this humble, Zoe thought.

  He looked away from her, out the lab’s tall windows, and his blue eyes grew distant. In that moment, Zoe realized how truly handsome he was—once he’d cleaned himself up.

  “Yet,” he said quietly, “it’s this very isolation that vexes me now. One person, no matter how brilliant, no matter how talented, cannot do everything.” In that moment, despite all his money and property and patents, Von Lang seemed terribly sad and vulnerable. Zoe remembered, then, how he’d lost his wife in an industrial accident, several years before.

  He must be lonely living here all alone.

  “That, Miz Tesla, is why I cabled you. I need your help.”

  “Zoe. You can call me ‘Zoe.’ But why do you need my help?”

  “Because you are the best mechanic in Manhattan, if not the entire country—or perhaps even the world.”

  Zoe blushed from the tip of her nose right down to her toes. Von Lang didn’t seem to notice. “I-I’m not—”

  “Of course you are. Do you think I can’t afford to hire the best?”

  “So you’re hiring me?”

  “Of course! Why did you think you were here? What is your usual rate?”

  Read more of this adventure in e-book format (coming soon) or in Hot Steam now available at better book sellers everywhere!

  *

  FOREVER CRIMSON

  The First Crimson Story

  Stephen D. Sullivan

  I lay in the flower-spotted field watching my lifeblood leak away and thought, “Not again!”

  I’d enjoyed this life and was not ready to see it end.

  The manticore had a different
idea. It stood over me, licking its blood-stained face and swishing its long scorpion tail back and forth like an angry cat.

  I tried to reach for my sword, but the monster’s poison had already worked its way down my limbs. I couldn’t feel my fingertips. At least, I thought, I’m dying alone.

  I hated when my little adventures got people killed. It’s bad enough when I die myself; no sense causing anyone else’s untimely demise. I guess that’s why I’m a lifelong loner.

  I made one last try for the sword, but it was no use. That feeling of serene warmth had already set in—the torpor of death. My body was not my own any longer; a feeling I’d grown used to in recent years.

  I didn’t have time to review my life—which was okay. It wasn’t really my life anyway, but I’d been glad to take part in it.

  By the time the manticore finished preening and ripped my throat out, I hardly felt it.

  *

  My first thought as I woke up was: Where am I?

  That’s usually my first thought. I suppose I could use these initial waking moments to reflect on my past mistakes—but I’ve found that doing so is often a good way to get killed … again.

  I opened my eyes and gazed at the sky of a different world. Sunset painted the clouds yellow and gold, but the stars hadn’t yet come out. I saw two moons hanging in the firmament, one bluish white, the other green and red. I recognized them.

  This was a world I was familiar with—Illion—one of the first worlds I’d lived and died on. I had good memories of this place. It was a pleasant world, far nicer than the dimension ruled by super-intelligent slime molds, or the planet where humans were slaves to giant maggots. And let’s not even talk about the faerie realms. There’s nothing more annoying than a place where everyone walks around with delusions of godhood. Nothing. No wonder faeries treat everyone else so badly; no wonder everyone I’ve ever met—aside from the faeries themselves—thinks that faeries are the biggest assholes in the known universes.

  Illion was a world dominated largely by humans and their near-human kin—which was just fine with me. It had magic, but not an overabundance of it. It also had technology, but not enough to ruin the ecosystem. I’d spent several extended stays here. Most of that time had proved enjoyable.

  I didn’t dwell upon where in the multiverse I was for very long. Instead, I sat up and looked around. An autumn forest greeted my pale blue eyes: maples and oaks, turning gently from green to gold to brown; clean, crisp air; rich, moss-covered earth. I was alone. No one jumped out of the forest to kill me before I could get my bearings; no sounds of beating manticore wings disturbed the still air.

  Everything seemed safe and normal. I exhaled, long and slowly, feeling my chest gently sink as the air seeped out of my lungs. I let my hand slip from the hilt of my sword; the hand had instinctively darted to the weapon as I sat up. I took one more look around for hidden dangers, and then I stood.

  I brushed the ashes off of my clothing—I’m always ash-covered when I first awake. Everything seemed to be in its proper place: maroon tunic with chainmail beneath, black leather belt, black leggings, sword, brown suede boots with a flint knife tucked into the right cuff and an obsidian dagger secreted in the left.

  I stretched, trying to shake off the odd sensations washing over me.

  There’s always a period of adjustment when I first wake. My new body is mostly me, but the weight and proportions are different. That’s gotten me killed more than once. I drew my sword and made a few practice cuts in the air. The silver-traced steel felt good, right, in my hand. I sheathed the blade.

  I used Illion’s two moons to get my bearings; it would have been easier once the third moon rose, but I didn’t feel like waiting around until after dark. A game trail led from the clearing in a direction that I deduced was southwest. I stretched once more to get the stiffness out of my newly minted limbs and then walked down the trail.

  Twenty minutes later I came to a road running north and south. I saw nothing to the north, just a rambling dirt lane wandering golden autumn hills. A slight grey haze hung over the hills to the south. A town, probably—fires, food. My stomach rumbled. I set off in that direction.

  I hadn’t walked long when a figure crested the top of the hill right in front of me. The girl was alone, perhaps nineteen years old, and ran as though being chased by Thulu himself. Her finely tailored clothes were dirt-stained and torn, probably from her head-long flight.

  She collided with me, nearly bowling me over. A small burlap package fell from her hands, dashing its contents to the earth: a hairbrush, a few coins, a locket, some scraps of food.

  She stopped and apologized, frantically picking up her spilled possessions as she spoke. She ran her dirty fingers through her tangled auburn hair, and muttered to herself—or maybe she was talking to me, though I didn’t catch what she said. She glanced up at my face and momentarily froze. A question flashed across her brown eyes. For a few seconds, I thought she recognized me. Then she turned and fled down the road in the opposite direction to the way I had been walking.

  “He’s coming!” she cried. “Flee!”

  That was it. Before I could even ask a question, she darted over the top of the next hill and was gone—a red-clad doe in the gathering twilight. I frowned. Then I turned about and followed in the same direction she had gone.

  Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve done more than a few heroic turns in my lifetime, but I’ve done my share of stupid things as well—more than my share. Doing heroic, stupid things is how I got into my unique predicament in the first place.

  However, I’ve lived long enough to know that when a stranger tells you to flee, they probably have a pretty good reason for doing so. I may be brave, but I’m not foolish. So, despite my growling stomach, I decided to turn away from the town and whatever danger waited there.

  Maybe tomorrow, I thought, with a good night’s sleep and a full stomach I’ll decide to check it out. Maybe.

  It was a good plan, but it didn’t work; the danger found me anyway.

  I whirled at the sound of beating wings and dropped to the ground just in time to avoid the beast’s flashing tail. A manticore. Another damn manticore. Lion body, human face, bat wings, scorpion tail, the whole bit.

  Read more in “Forever Crimson” found in Martian Knights & Other Tales, or in The Crimson Collection, and in single-story form at better e-book sellers everywhere!

  *

  ABOUT THE STORY

  Bob Vardeman is one of the coolest people I know. Not only is he a great writer (with more than 100 books to his credit), but he’s also an all-around nice guy and fun to work with. So when he came to me with the idea for doing a shared-world steampunk project, I’m pretty sure it didn’t take me more than a second or two to say “Yes!”

  What exactly happened after that is a bit of a blur—which is often the way things go when you’re excitedly working on something new. I remember that he and I exchanged e-mails and ideas, notions of what we thought might be cool to do with this world—a steampunk world battling against ongoing decay—and authors that it might be fun to share the project with. Then, at some point, I went back to my other projects, and while I didn’t precisely forget about the project, it did go onto the proverbial back burner for me.

  Then, one day, I get an e-mail from Bob with a backstory for the world, and a prospective line-up for authors (which, naturally, I’m on), and a possible schedule for Empire of Steam and Rust—now the title of the project—starting at the beginning of the New Year. Bob, in fact, nearly had his story finished already (not to mention a previously printed pseudo-prologue to add to the mix). And—Hey!—here we go!

  In life, things don’t always work out as planned. My first story, Heart of Steam & Rust was not scheduled to be the second release in the set. But life intervened for some of our other potential contributors (and my own schedule even got derailed a bit by my Tournament of Death Kickstarter novels). You know what, though? I’m both happy and proud to have my story follow Bob�
��s. Second really is a place of honor.

  As I write this, it’s not clear what Steam and Rust contribution will follow this one but, you know, if it’s another story by Mr. Vardeman, I won’t complain. In fact, I’ll probably jump for joy.

  So, aside from all that, how did this story come to be?

  Like many of my tales, this one started with images: a woman lying on an operating table, in a train speeding through nowhere.

  I knew who the woman was—Pavlina Ivanova, who’d appeared previously in my story “Kitt Chapman-Challenger &The Last Ranodon” (formerly known as “Of a Feather), which appeared in the anthology Steampunk’d.

  I’d wanted to write more about Lina since I first thought her up, but I hadn’t quite gotten around to it—yet. The only problem was, her previous adventure (in which she’s the villain, by the way) had rooted her firmly in my existing steampunk world (the one I variously call the “Glorious Age of Steam” or “Steam Nations”—depending on my mood). That world had significant differences from the Empires world: for one thing, it was more than a few years into the future; for another, the geo-political boundaries didn’t match up.

  What to do? How could I have my Steam Nations cake and eat it in the Empires?

  Eventually, I came up with what I think is an intriguing solution—all tied into that initial image I had in my head. I hope you think it’s pretty cool, too.

  Because this is not the last we’re going to see of our sexy Russian anti-hero. In fact, I have plot ideas for at least a half a dozen more Lina stories down in my notebooks.

  And the next one should be out in late 2012 or early 2013. (Life willing.)

  So, drop me a line and let me know how you like this tale. And keep an eye out for Bob’s next story and other mini-epics set in the world of Steam and Rust as well.

  As we roll into the future, maybe our little project will even hit that monthly schedule Bob and I talked about when we first dreamed up this steampunk coup.

  Wish us luck!

  See you in the world of Steam and Rust!