“Of course I must see it.” His gaze returned to the old volume. The book boasted contemporary blind tooled half vellum over marbled boards, red sprinkled edges and spine with red morocco title-label lettered in ornate gold. Its title had been printed in red and black. “Still, I question your fervor, Silas. We live in an age of science. All this superstitious gibberish is as obsolete as the art of divination.”
“If you believe it to be so much rubbish, perhaps you will volunteer to be my first traveler,” Silas said. “If you are correct, I will buy you dinner at Asheville’s finest café this evening. If, on the other hand, Khunrath’s contraption works, you will owe me something of equal value.”
“Very well,” Hexam agreed. “It is always a pleasure to dine on the generosity of others.”
5.
Truly, Hexam had stumbled into a world of fantastic innovations.
Since his arrival, he had seen elevated tube-encased railways crisscrossing the skies, transporting passengers from one city to the next, powered by compressed air cylinders. He learned of devices capable of distilling electricity from the heat of the sun’s rays by day and from moon-glow in the twilight hours. Ancient alchemical formulae had been cleverly adapted to facilitate the transmutation of certain metals and creation of new alloys. Perpetual motion machines and electromagnetic generators tapped into sources of vacuum energy and aetheric force and produced surplus power in vast inland reservoirs.
Of all the technical novelties Hexam had witnessed, nothing quite so impressed him as the piece of equipment Josiah Blackpool had supplied as a means of transportation the morning after their rendezvous at the Legger’s Den. Flying south out of the fortified coastal city of Charleston, the displaced traveler found himself soaring through the sky more than a thousand feet above the ground, a breathtaking panorama speeding by beneath his feet.
The compact d’Amécourt Aerial Screw featured an oversized spiralifer powerful enough to carry the trim steam engine which set it spinning along with two passengers. Besides the central horizontal screw, additional fan drives forced pressurized air through various pipes allowing the pilot to guide the airborne locomotive – a jarringly rough ride for those not faint of heart.
“It is beautiful, is it not?” Fanny Finching had to raise her soft voice to be heard over the noise of the contraption. Wind swept her hair as she worked various levers and dials, handles and buttons. “The ecstasy of flight is like no other.”
Noah Cuttle and Blackpool each piloted smaller, single-occupant versions of the d’Amécourt Aerial Screw. Blackpool led the expedition to the site where an old church once stood not far off the King’s Highway – one that rested upon the outskirts of the Tyrell Chittenden plantation. Here, the place was known as the Old Shelton Church.
Hexam felt giddy, simultaneously frightened and flabbergasted. The great stretch of landscape mesmerized him: the patchwork of tilled fields, green-hedged pastures, proportioned orchards, plantations marked off by fences and walls and vast tracts of untamed boggy lowland wilderness. Muddy rivers meandered along serpentine routes draining the low country. To the east, the sun climbed into the sky behind the grim, gray mantle, the fleecy smoke clouds of Charleston’s factories spreading far out into the Atlantic.
Gargantuan watchtowers along the coastline provided a disheartening reminder of the imminent threat from beneath the sea.
“The bulwarks are imposing,” Hexam shouted over his shoulder. As they continued their journey, their course and altitude permitted him a bird’s-eye view of the extraordinary embattlements, including the mammoth Juggernauts posted along the ramparts. Legions of soldiers – more than he had seen on the field at Southwest Creek east of Kingston in 1865 – were entrenched just inland from the coast. “It’s as if everyone on the continent has taken up a defensive position along the coastline.”
“The lines run unbroken from St. Augustine in the south to Saint John in the north.” She pointed toward one of the watchtowers. “Each one of those is equipped with a teleforce cannon along with commonplace artillery. The teleforce cannons are directed-energy weapons, firing a narrow stream of liquid mercury particles accelerated by a magnifying transformer.”
“How do they fare against the Deep Ones and their leviathans?”
“They were first utilized by the Austrian Empire, deployed along the Mediterranean,” Finching said. “A clever young Serbian invented them. By all accounts, the cannons are quite effective. Unfortunately, Europe lacked the time and resources to assemble enough of them to successfully defend their lowlands.”
Despite the impressive coastal defenses, Hexam sensed a prevailing pessimism since his arrival in this parallel world. Cuttle and Finching would not admit it openly, but they both knew a full-scale invasion could not be successfully countered. From what Hexam had learned, the enemy possessed far greater numbers. Already, the Deep Ones had devastated coastal cities around the globe, from Alexandra and Port Said to Bilbao and Cadiz, and from Nagasaki and Sakai to Canton and Shanghai. Hexam could not help but wonder if the calamity of a world war would ever befall his own world.
As they traveled, the sooty clouds of industry soon gave way to patchy blue skies.
By midmorning, they had reached the ruins of the Old Shelton Church. Neoclassical in style, its towering brick columns and stately arched walls stood defiantly in the primordial woodland setting, old oaks clustering nearby as if to shelter the quiet shrine from the unrelenting elements. The building’s roof and contents had long-since disappeared, victims of a failed insurrection. The church had fallen victim to British redcoats during a short-lived American Revolution.
Having set down in a neighboring clearing, Blackpool offered a few words of warning to the group.
“Mind you watch the shadows,” he said, pulling several firearms from a locker affixed to his d’Amécourt Aerial Screw. “Cuttle, I believe you know how to use one of these.”
“A plasma rifle? I have had no formal training…”
“If you can fire a rifle, you can fire a plasma rifle,” Blackpool said, handing the strangely modified weapon to Cuttle. “Just keep in mind that whatever you have in your sights will be a puddle of steaming slime shortly after you pull the trigger – so aim carefully.” Blackpool took possession of a second plasma rifle. Long and slender-barreled, the curled maple stock supported a series of concentric coils surrounding a silvery canister. “Remember: These things only get off six or seven shots before the cylinder needs replacing.”
“I can fire a rifle.” Hexam stepped forward, prepared to take an active role in protecting the group. In truth, he had not handled a weapon since the Battle of Wyse Fork.
“Unfortunately, Mr. Hexam, I only have two of these plasma rifles,” Blackpool said. “No need to fret, though – I have no intention of letting you wander around the swamp unprotected.” He knelt, fumbling through the contents of the locker. “This, good sir, is an electroshock projector, also known as a Savannah Shredder.”
A relatively compact, light weapon, the Savannah Shredder consisted of a cylindrical grip, insulated with gutta-percha. Two rods projected from the ends of the grip, each culminating in a small, metallic sphere. Two additional rods held a cone-shaped object opposite the grip.
“Hold it like this,” Blackpool said, demonstrating. “Flip this toggle switch, aim the weapon and squeeze the grip.” Reading the skepticism on Hexam’s face, he handed the weapon to him. “Try it.”
Hexam pointed the Savannah Shredder toward a nearby sapling pine, flipped the switch and tightened his grip. He heard a sharp crack as the weapon discharged a lightning bolt that tore through the slender trunk, splintering the wood and sprinkling embers to the ground. A moment later, the blasted tree toppled to the ground.
“As you can see, it is a formidable weapon,” Blackpool said, amused at Hexam’s astonishment. “Do remember to flip the switch back to the off position, Mr. Hexam. I believe Lady Finching would prefer we send you home with all your appendages intact.”
; Over the next few hours, the four searched the ruins of the church hoping to find a deltohedron. Blackpool used a curious implement: a type of dowsing rod fitted with electronic components and sheathed in a tangle of silver wiring. He claimed it could detect even the faintest electrical signature as well as aetheric auras and other power sources. Cuttle followed behind Blackpool, excavating potential targets.
Hexam and Finching relied upon their natural senses, scanning the woods in the vicinity of the church for any telltale signs. By late afternoon, their outbound spiral search pattern had put some distance between them and their companions, placing them upon a small mound overlooking a boggy floodplain. Nearby, a narrow creek rambled through the quagmire, its banks crowded with shrubs and vines.
“I am afraid this may all be for naught,” Hexam said, staring off into the wilderness. He had lured them here with a promise he could not hope to fulfill. Deep down, he knew that finding the oddly proportioned leaden box containing the extraordinary crystal gemstone would require a miracle. He also knew that his thoughtlessness could cost them their lives. “I have distracted you all from your singular cause. If I have jeopardized your safety, I will never forgive myself.”
“We are not so easily swayed, Mr. Hexam,” Finching said, taking his hand. “Noah and Josiah followed you here not so much to ensure that you return to your world, but to secure an item which may give them access to other worlds. Our objectives are more self-centered than you perceive.”
“Perhaps,” Hexam said. “Not you, though. You truly wish to see me home.”
“I see a man before me who is lost.” Finching looked into Hexam’s eyes, trying to unlock an unspoken enigma. “I do not know the true source of your anguish, Mr. Hexam, but I feel compelled to help you recover some measure of your former happiness. I hope sending you home will accomplish that.”
“What about you, Ms. Finching.” Hexam turned away from her, wrestling with his emotions. “If you had a way to leave this world, would you abandon it?”
“I have an obligation.”
“I can gauge the depth of your courage,” Hexam said. “But I also recognize your acceptance that defeat is inescapable.”
“In fact, it is not humanity’s defeat that distresses me,” Finching said. “Pacts have been forged, treaties signed to assure our civilization will endure. Much will be sacrificed, though – many will perish so that a few may survive.”
“This has something to do with what Blackpool mentioned last night,” Hexam said. “What is the Tartarus Campaign?”
“The Deep Ones are not the only rival species vying for control of this world,” Finching said. “Another race dwells far beneath the surface of the land, hidden in the earth’s crust. They have long been at odds with the Deep Ones, but – due to certain physical limitations – they have been unable to subdue them. Their emissaries telepathically contacted the Atlantic Seaboard Defense Initiative, offering an accord. When the invasion begins…”
Hexam suddenly raised a hand to silence Finching, drawing her attention toward a vaguely anthropoid figure lurking in the shallow waters of a nearby slough.
Frog-like, it squatted in the boggy shadows, its viridescent hide mottled with slate-colored blotches. Its swollen belly – milky white and lumpy with assorted warts and pustules – drooped hideously between its stocky legs. Unaware that it had been seen, it went about its business – whatever business it may have had in the swamp – moving about guardedly but with conviction. Its prodigious eyes – citron-yellow and unblinking – seemed fixed on the murky waters.
As it walked, it leaned forward resting its weight on its forearms. On either side of its oversized piscatorial head, Hexam plainly saw palpitating gills.
“A scout,” Finching whispered. “Awfully far inland, though. We should get back to the church and warn the others.”
“Wait,” Hexam said, transfixed by the creature. Its gruesomeness seemed to emanate more from its likeness to man than its amphibious nature. A blunder of natural selection, Hexam considered it an evolutionary aberration. “What is it doing?”
The Deep One fumbled about in the water, searching for something with escalating impatience. From the slough, the thing lifted a heavy chain, dripping with muck and covered in river-grass. Giving the chain an insistent tug, the Deep One activated hidden machinery and set into motion a startling spectacle.
Rising out of the water, the thing had summoned a secret shrine echoing the architecture of the Old Shelton Church. This temple, however, boasted arched walls of some emerald-colored stone and slick obsidian columns. When the holy place had been completely revealed, the Deep One hopped toward a central altar where it pawed a curious box.
“There,” Hexam said, forgetting to muffle his voice.
The Deep One lurched, its horrid eyes searching the woods. It vented a single, shrill croak as it identified its audience.
“You cannot let it get away,” Finching said.
Hexam stood, drawing his weapon. In an instant, bolts of lightning ripped across the miasma and thunder rolled across the lowland marsh.
6.
It seemed like only yesterday when Dwight Hexam followed Silas Finching into his conservatory, expecting to participate in a doomed experiment.
At the center of the room sat Khunrath’s contraption – a hodgepodge pairing of gears and dials and tuning forks and mirrors. Etched upon the floor, Hexam found dozens of circles, each labeled in Latin. Multicolored lines crisscrossed the floor.
“Would you like me to explain how the apparatus works?” Silas dutifully removed a common gemstone and replaced it with Hexam’s decagonal trapezohedron. “It has to do with sound waves and light and…”
“Shall we see if it works before you tell me how it works,” Hexam said, his friendly cynicism unbridled. “Really, Silas, this is a bit farfetched, even for you.”
“Wait and see, my boy…wait and see.” Silas fiddled with a few settings before consulting his copy of Khunrath’s tome, On Alternate Spheres of Being. “Now, our dear friend Johann mapped out more than forty alternate worlds. I have selected one that is, by his account, nearly identical to our own world.”
“How will I know the difference?”
“Oh, I am certain you will be able to tell,” Silas said. “When you arrive, mark your spot, spend three minutes looking around to satisfy your curiosity, then return to the precise point where you arrived.”
“Fine, fine,” Hexam said. “Get on with it man. I am hungry.”
“Very well,” Silas said, lighting a candle and tapping a tuning fork with a small hammer. “Enjoy your journey.”
An instant later, Silas Finching vanished along with the conservatory.
Hexam found himself standing in a stable, its stalls vacant.
Before he could mark his spot, the sound of a woman’s voice distracted him. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Fanny Finching. In that moment, he forgot everything Silas had said to him.
“If you are here to steal one of my horses, you are three years too late,” she said. “The Atlantic Seaboard Defense Initiative appropriated them.”
“Sorry?”
“Just because there are no horses for you to steal, however, does not mean that I will not treat you as I would any other horse thief.” She held an odd device in her hand he did not recognize – but from the way she pointed it at him, he guessed it was some form of weapon. “If you will follow me, I will conduct you to the proper authorities.”
“Silas,” Hexam said. “Take me to Silas, please – I beg of you. I must see him.”
“You know my father?” Her expression softened slightly, though she did not lower her weapon. “If so, I am sorry to report that he passed away recently. Now, please, follow me.”
Hexam did precisely as she instructed without a hint of resistance. He may have traveled to another world, but for the first time in five years he felt like he had come home.
7.
Josiah Blackpool and Noah Cuttle sprinted through the underbrus
h of the coastal Carolina marsh, stung by switches of black holly and wax myrtle and encumbered by sticky muck. At headlong speed they ran, plasma rifles in hand, eager to see what had caused Caleb Hexam to fire his Savannah Shredder.
Ascending a small mound, the pair stopped in their tracks as they surveyed the scene before them. Fanny Finching stood ankle-deep in a murky tributary, her habit-back skirt bundled in her arms. Caleb Hexam waded through deeper water, making his way through a miry slough toward a clump of dead trees near Finching. He held a leaden box in his hands.
Behind Hexam, a weedy shrine of slick green stone protruded from the swamp. Towering above it atop a central iron pillar, a statue depicted a loathsome horror, remotely anthropoid in form, bearing a cephalopodan head from which sprouted manifold tentacles. Sleek black wings jutted from the thing’s back. On the floor of the shrine lay a charred figure with a fish-like head.
Beyond the shrine, Blackpool and Cuttle saw a band of Deep Ones quickly approaching the opposite side of the slough – most likely a war party positioned behind the lines to serve as saboteurs in the hours leading up to the invasion.
“Hurry,” Blackpool called out, pointing toward the advancing troops. Unlike the scout Hexam had killed minutes earlier, these creatures were well-outfitted for war: They wore a combination of armor plating and mail and bulky, water-filled helmets with glowing green face masks. “Hexam, Finching – this way!”
Cuttle fired the first shot, a radiant ball of fiery plasma streaking over the slough toward the Deep Ones. His aim was true: The shimmering ball of energy struck an attacker with full force, instantly disintegrating most of its body. The thing’s helmet tumbled to the ground, a lifeless frog-head spewing out in a flood of gelatinous liquid.
The Deep Ones carried weapons shaped like tridents. When activated, they expelled a destructive sonic wave capable of immense damage. Fortunately, their unwieldy masks frustrated their aim. Still, as the battle proceeded, the sound waves uprooted trees and sent geysers of mud and earth into the air.
Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam Page 14