Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology

by Jay Barnson

  Wiping the blade clean on the front of Horace’s shirt, Reinleigh greeted the sight of the weapon like one would an old friend. “I think I’ll take this back now,” he said as his secreted it away beneath his jacket. “I trust you still have that marvellous little contraption hidden up your sleeve?”

  Jonesburry nodded, unable to tear his eyes from Horace whose breathing was becoming desperately shallow.

  “Leave him,” Reinleigh commanded. “Your other friends will be waiting in the old drawing room, no doubt.”

  As they moved further into the house, it was easy to make out the footsteps of the others amongst the dust that caked every surface. Jonesburry could see the same hallway, through Reinleigh’s mind, years earlier. The household had been flawlessly maintained back then, polished and waxed to a high sheen. Now there were years of accumulated grime coating every plane in a dull, uniform grey.

  However, if the decline of the property affected Reinleigh in any way, it didn’t make its way through their shared bond. The bond only revealed a hunter’s ardent sense of expectancy.

  As they stepped into the drawing room, the client greeted them both, “Welcome home, Sir Reinleigh. We have much to discuss.”

  “Mr. Brownlea,” Reinleigh answered. “You seemed to have moved up in the world. You’ve come quite a way since your time as a grocer. Young Emily would have been proud that you finally managed to crawl your pitiful way out of the taverns and gambling dens.”

  Jonesburry’s client, Mr. Brownlea, it would seem, answered by striking Reinleigh across the face. The blow was so hard that even Jonesburry could feel the sting of it heating his own cheek via their shared bond.

  “You do not speak my daughter’s name,” Brownlea fumed. “Soon you will not be speaking any name.” Another blow almost took Reinleigh clean off balance, and one of Brownlea’s toughs had to steady the man on his feet.

  Gesturing for his men to force Reinleigh into a nearby chair, Brownlea turned his attention to Jonesburry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jonesburry,” he apologised. “I have quite a personal interest in Reinleigh here and my emotions got the better of me.”

  “That’s quite all right.” It was Reinleigh who answered for him. “Mr. Jonesburry will be sure to take appropriate recompense. Jonesburry, why don’t you just go ahead and deal with your client’s two thugs? We have much to discuss a little more . . . privately.”

  Neither Brownlea nor his two muscle-bound companions knew what was happening when the knot’s compulsion drove Jonesburry to trigger his wrist mechanism. Seconds later, Brownlea’s men were lying on the floor, and at the same moment Jonesburry’s shots fired, Reinleigh sprung with a predator’s grace and pressed the edge of his knife into Brownlea’s throat.

  “Well done,” Reinleigh said. “Now why don’t you go and fetch our lovely young friend from the train. I think Mr. Brownlea would appreciate a first-hand re-enactment of exactly what happened to his beloved daughter.”

  Jonesburry was torn, not knowing precisely where to look. An older part of him, the silent part which screamed and railed against Reinleigh’s binding, begged him to look away. To shut his eyes and block out the monstrosity the marquis had planned.

  This silent voice, however, paled in comparison to the ravenous hunger that demanded he watch each coming moment in exquisite detail. Reinleigh hadn’t even truly begun yet, and the young woman’s pleading was already feeding his rising appetite.

  Mr. Brownlea was gagged and bound to a chair nearby, no doubt by the same restraints he had originally planned for Sir Reinleigh to wear himself. His eyes were wide, and he was clearly trying to scream something through the wad of cloth filling his mouth.

  “Please be quiet, Mr. Brownlea,” Reinleigh admonished. “If you wish to learn what befell your beloved Emily, I am going to need my concentration. There have been so many others since then; it’s getting hard to remember all of the particulars.”

  Reinleigh drew the blade’s sharp point softly down the woman’s throat. He was gentle enough not to draw any blood until he nicked the skin at the collarbone. A ruby blossomed at the knife’s silver tip, and Reinleigh licked his lips.

  Whilst the woman whimpered, struggling in vain against the ropes which held her firmly in place, the older part of Jonesburry made one last desperate rally against the waves of compulsion holding him back. With what willpower he could muster against the emotions flooding in via the knot, he sent his own countering commands crashing into Reinleigh’s mind.

  The knot flickered, just for the briefest of instants, before it hardened again. Reinleigh, who was so thoroughly engrossed in his dealings with the girl, didn’t even seem to notice Jonesburry’s failed attempt at rebellion. Desperate to try again, Jonesburry took a deep breath and attempted to summon his strength of will once more. But this time, the knot held steady, and his resolve slipped away like so much sand from between his fingertips.

  “This is going to hurt,” came a hoarse whisper from over Jonesburry’s shoulder. Fingers of liquid flame began tearing their way through his skull, and from the corner of his vision, Horace’s hand, pale and shaking from loss of blood, held the extraction tool used to trigger the Spider’s release mechanism.

  Jonesburry was screaming, but he could barely tell as the pain of a hundred micro-filaments retracted through neural pathways which had been established for years. Darkness closed in fast, but as the cursed knot finally disappeared, he held on long enough to trigger his wrist release mechanism.

  He didn’t remember aiming, but the last thing he saw before the shadows finally took him was Sir Reinleigh collapsing over the woman’s body with a bullet wound straight through his heart.

  “I took your advice,” Jonesburry said before everything went black.

  IV Cadenza

  Jonesburry’s hand kept finding its way back to the place on his scalp where the Spider once resided. There was nothing there anymore, save a set of five barely imperceptible scars where the filament legs had been embedded for so long. Replacing his bowler, he drew his attention back to the foreign couple arguing across the street under the light of a gas lantern.

  For the last five minutes, they had been quarrelling about which was the correct direction back to their hotel. Jonesburry knew because their French had been loud enough to hear from across the other side of the street. It would seem that the side-effects of his various bindings still lingered, with little sign or hope of them lessening over time.

  Still being able to understand French was the least of his problems though. He could still barely look at an airship without breaking out in a cold sweat, and then . . . well, then there were the after-effects of his final binding with Sir Reinleigh.

  The door behind him opened suddenly, drawing Jonesburry’s mind sharply back to the task at hand.

  “Well then,” Horace’s gruff voice boomed out from the threshold. “Here’s a face I didn’t think I’d be seeing again so soon. You can come on in if you promise not to skewer me this time.”

  “I’m not promising anything,” Jonesburry laughed as he entered the hallway, following his partner’s lead. “Besides, at least you now know what Shanghai felt like.”

  “You and that bloody Shanghai story. If you keep harping on about that little opium den scuffle of yours, I’ll have to reopen that pretty little scar you got myself.” Horace made his way into the sitting room and eased himself into a chair with a visible wince. “Eleven weeks, and it still bloody hurts.”

  “Next time, I’ll just stab you in the heart then, shall I?” Jonesburry replied.

  “There’ll be no bloody next time,” Horace snorted. “There should never have even been a first time. You need to keep control of your cursed bindings. Anyone would think that last batty-fang was your first week on the job.”

  Horace reached across to reclaim a half-drunk glass of whiskey sitting on his side table. “So, what brings you here? Looking to get back in the game? I’ve got a line of clients clamouring to get started on transportation, and I’ve got a
new Spider just sitting there waiting, with your name on it.”

  “Perhaps another time,” Jonesburry said. “Tell me, have you been following the papers recently?”

  “Can’t say that I have—the whole city has been whipped into a frenzy by this Blackdown Ripper character, and there never seems to be anything else of note being printed these days. What’s he killed, two people in the last two weeks alone?”

  “Three,” Jonesburry corrected, as he reached into his coat. “Last one was discovered this morning.”

  “Three is it?” Horace asked. “He’s nothing if not persistent.”

  “Perhaps,” Jonesburry admitted. “Do you want to know something interesting? The Ripper was Reinleigh.”

  Horace choked on his whiskey, spluttering as he attempted to regain his breath. “Was he now?” he asked between gasps. “But then how—” Horace cut himself short, realisation flashing in his eyes as his face went pale. “You?”

  Jonesburry smiled. Taking hold of the bone handled knife, he struck with a predator’s grace. Brownlea was already dead, and Horace was the last living link to his former life. It was a life he didn’t need any more; he had his own direction now.

  He had a purpose.

  Jay Barnson is a transplant to the state of Utah from the east coast. Software engineer, video game developer, and father, he grew up on science fiction and fantasy, including Howard, Heinlein, Tokien, Lucas and Spielberg. His wife and daughters had to drag him to his first Steampunk convention. And now they can’t drag him away from the genre. Follow Jay on Twitter @RampantCoyote, Facebook facebook.com/russell.barnson, and on the web at RampantGames.com.

  WhenMichael Cross isn't working on his next novel, he is reading, modding Steampunk inventions, or working on his airship with his copilot Chihuahua. Come see what secrets can be discovered in the hidden library of Michael Cross at www.Michael-Cross.com. Follow Michael on Twitter @TheCrossLibrary, on Facebook facebook.com/michael.cross.39395033, and on the web at Michael-Cross.com.

  Pete Ford was born in England and lives in Colorado with his wife, Kate. He works as a web application developer, and in his spare time he writes. He relaxes by reading, and playing computer games. His first novel, Mr. Gunn & Dr. Bohemia, was published by Xchyler Publishing in 2013. The second instalment of the Gunn & Bohemia series is slated for release later in 2014. Follow Pete on Twitter @PeteFordWriter, Facebook facebook.com/PeteFordWriter, and on the web at PeteFordWriter.com.

  TC Phillips hails from Queensland, Australia, where he lives with his wife, three children, a spoilt cat, and an overactive imagination. He has been attracted to the written word since childhood and is excited to contribute to the world of storytelling. He holds degrees Theatre Studies and Education, and is completing his Master of Arts (Writing) through Swinburne University of Technology. Follow Phillips on Twitter @T_C_Phillips, Facebook facebook.com/tc.phillips.980, and on the web at CobblestoneScribe.com.

  J. R. Potter gravitated towards the paranormal world from an early age, and found The X-Files an education in great storytelling and mythmaking. James has published short fiction in The Portland Review, and won two international short story competitions. James tours with his wife Amy as “The Crooked Angels,” an Americana duo specializing in rocking your socks off. Follow Potter on Twitter @JRPotter1, and on Tumblr at www.thingsthatslither.tumblr.com.

  Rie Sheridan Rose has been writing professionally for over ten years. She has published novels, short stories, and poetry collections, and contributed to numerous anthologies. She also wrote lyrics for Marc Gunn's “Don’t Go Drinking With Hobbits” CD. Her latest novel, The Marvellous Mechanical Man is the first in a Steampunk series called The Conn-Mann Chronicles. Follow Rose on Twitter @RieSheridanRose, Facebook facebook.com/pages/Rie-Sheridan-Rose/38814481714, and on the web at riewriter.com.

  C. R. Simper graduated from Arizona State University with a degree in Purchasing and Logistics Management. She is married and a stay-at-home mom of four children. She has written in multiple genres and decided to try Steampunk at the suggestion of her oldest daughter. “The Journey of Inspector Roux” is her first published story.

  S. D. Simper has lived in Arizona her entire life. She’s a recent graduate from Eastern Arizona College, but has plans to further her education once she figures out what she actually wants to do with her life. This is her first time publishing, and she goes around annoying everyone about it because of how excited she is.

  Scott E. Tarbet is the author of A Midsummer Night’s Steampunk from Xchyler Publishing, Tombstone, in the paranormal anthology Shades & Shadows, and the forthcoming Dragon Moon and Nautilus Redux. He writes enthusiastically in several genres. An avid skier, hiker, golfer, and tandem kayaker, he makes his home in the mountains of Utah. Follow Tarbet on Twitter @SETarbet and on the web at ScottTarbet.timp.net.

  At The X, we pride ourselves in discovery and promotion of talented authors. Our anthology project produces three books a year in our specific areas of focus: fantasy, Steampunk, and paranormal. Held winter, spring/summer, and autumn, our short-story competitions result in published anthologies from which the authors receive royalties.

  Additional themes include: Mr. and Mrs. Myth (Paranormal, fall 2014), Out of This World (Fantasy, winter 2015), and Losers Weepers (spring/summer 2015).

  Visit www.xchylerpublishing.com/AnthologySubmissions for more information.

  Look for these releases from Xchyler Publishing in 2014:

  Tomorrow Wendell, an urban fantasy by R. M. Ridley. June 2014

  Relative Evil, a suspense mystery by Debra Efert, July 2014

  Black Sunrise, sequel to Shadow of the Last Men and second book in the Next Man Saga by J. M. Salyards. August 2014

  Accidental Apprentice, a wizardry fantasy by Anika Arrington,September 2014

  Mr. & Mrs. Myth: a Paranormal Anthology, October 2014

  Gun & Bohemia 2 by Pete Ford, November 2014

  On the Isle of Sound and Wonder, a Shakespearean steampunk rewrite by Alyson Grauer,December 2014

  To learn more, visit www.xchylerpublishing.com.

  BOOK BONUS: EXCERPT FROM SHADES AND SHADOWS: A PARANORMAL ANTHOLOGY (2013)

  Darkness met Marcus’ eyes. Something had awoken him. He fumbled desperately for the matchbox on the nearby nightstand. At the same time that his fingers found the small tin, he heard the delicate clink of metal against the hardwood floor. With a scratch, the sulfur tip burst to life, casting a warm glow on the room.

  Marcus slid from his sheets and scoured the floor for the ring he had knocked from the nightstand. A glint of diamond and a gleam of gold shone from under his bed.

  As he stooped to retrieve the precious object, something beyond the ring caught his eye. On the opposite side of the bed, a pair of small, bare feet stood by his bedside.

  The tiny flame burned down to his fingers, singeing them before disappearing and leaving the room in the darkness. Marcus’ heart pounded in his ears. He now recalled being awoken abruptly. Striking another match, he rose stiffly, afraid of what stalked him in his sleep, afraid to find the familiar face he longed for and knew he would never see again.

  The creak of floorboards and the slamming of the window behind him broke the dark silence. He spun quickly, and his tiny light snuffed again.

  Nothing but blackness and the silhouette of the swinging window met his gaze.

  Was that all? Or had he seen something else disappear from the sill the moment he turned?

  With four strides, Marcus found himself looking out onto the familiar narrow streets and crowded buildings under the dark London sky. Three stories below, a post lit the flat façade of the building with the glow of its gas lamp.

  It was just another dream.

  Marcus sighed, then chuckled at his childishness as he brushed his sand-colored hair from his brow. How foolish he was to leave the window unlatched. Turning back to the dark room, he lit the candle on the dresser beside him. He rested his elbows on the dresser’s edge and placed his cheek against his
upturned palm. Weary hazel eyes looked back at him from the dresser-top mirror.

  “This is becoming a bit much, chap,” he spoke to his reflection. Restless sleep and nightmares plagued him of late, and he had imagined seeing her watching him from dark alleys before, but nothing quite so vivid as the vision that had woken him that night. “Perhaps we should go and have that chat with Dr. Martin tomorrow.”

  As a resident physician at St. Thomas’, Marcus wouldn’t need an appointment to speak with the chief psychiatrist. Nightmares often afflict those who grieve, he told himself. There likely existed some simple remedy that would allow him a peaceful night’s rest.

  Marcus picked up the candleholder and walked back to his bedside. The diamond ring still lay on the floor. Picking it up, he sat down solemnly on his bed. As he caressed the smooth circle of gold, he couldn’t help but ponder how such a small bit of metal and rock could provide so much solace, and at the same time, bring such pain.

  He knew he would not be able to sleep again that night. Fortunately, his occupation never failed to supply work at any hour. Marcus washed and dressed, and prepared to head out into the still-dark streets. His co-workers knew the long and unusual hours he kept. The busyness and bustle of the hospital kept Marcus’ mind occupied and prevented it from wandering into memories which he did not yet want to address.

  By the time he finished fastening his trench coat, Marcus found himself on the dimly lit street where the chill of the autumn night air nipped at his nose. Realizing he still held the ring, he slipped it into his right coat pocket.