by Ian Whates
“Where are we going?” She looked around in amazement at the steam car, which had been promoted in all the papers. Giffard-Krebs had invented this, too. It was the first time Augustine had travelled in one.
“I’m having a late lunch with Mr. Roudeaux.”
The steam car jerked forward along the uneven streets. Augustine watched the endless rows of houses and factories through the round window, in the upper part of which there was a hinge attached to a lever that allowed the window to be opened for fresh air. She turned the lever. The window opened without a sound.
Black smoke poured into the vehicle and Augustine started to cough. Jacques reached across to crank the window closed again. The cool scent of him dispelled the black stench. “It’s better to wait until we’re further from the factories. The draft brings it all in.”
“There should be propellers on the outside to direct the smoke away. Or a different kind of air circulation system could be built in,” Augustine said.
Jacques watched her thoughtfully, amused.
The steam car climbed to the top of a small hill. The imposing church steeples and factory smokestacks loomed before Augustine’s eyes. The airships puttering in the sky glittered like coins in the sunlight. A dark grey cloud hung over the densest colonnade of smokestacks at the city’s centre. Augustine nearly pressed her nose to the window. She had hardly ever had the chance to visit the heart of the city.
“Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Jacques said.
Augustine didn’t answer.
The driver stopped the steam car in front of a stone building with wide stairs. Jacques climbed out and came to open Augustine’s door. Augustine cast a puzzled look in the driver’s direction. “Isn’t he supposed to open the door?”
Jacques smirked. “The driver is part of the machinery. Literally. Giffard-Krebs is at the forefront of automaton design. This one here is being test driven.”
Augustine would have liked to examine the driver more closely, but Jacques pressed her onward. “Otherwise we’ll be later than fashion allows.”
The foyer of Giffard-Krebs’s headquarters was all handsome marble and cold copper. A large scale model of the Goliath hung from the ceiling. Quiet voices and the clop of shoes echoed from the walls. The dampened clamour bothered Augustine: in that soundscape, she would hardly be able to make out what was said to her.
They were received eagerly by a boy dressed in a double-breasted jacket and meticulously pressed trousers who led them several storeys up the wide staircase until they were level with the model of the Goliath. From there they advanced down a hallway lined with thick wooden doors carved with images of cogs. The boy stopped in front of one of the doors and pressed a brass button in a decorative panel. The door opened inward, and they stepped into a reception area carpeted with an immaculate oriental rug. The clamorous echoes were left behind in the hallway. A spectacled woman stood up from behind a secretary’s desk and stepped toward them. Augustine could make out violin music; based on the subtle rasping, it was being played from a gramophone disc.
“Mr Roudeaux will see you in a moment.”
They sat on a wooden bench to wait. Jacques didn’t say anything to Augustine, but she noticed he was nervous. Instead of a smile, the corner of his left eye twitched, and his fingers reworked his tie repeatedly.
The double doors at the other end of the reception area opened, and a thickly moustachioed man, whom Augustine recognised from the day the Goliath’s engine unit arrived, gestured for them to enter. A watch chain and a silver cigar case peeked from the chest pocket of his pinstripe vest. The man’s mouth was turned up in a smile, but his grey eyes were sharp.
“Jacques! Come in!”
The windows of Mr Roudeaux’s office looked out on the skyline of the city, which was dominated by the Scientist’s Obelisk reaching up to the sky. The Seine was a silver ribbon flashing into view between the occasional belch of smoke from the factories. Augustine tried not to stare. This must be what the world looks like from an airship. She shifted her attention from the view out the window to the dome-shaped lamp hanging from the ceiling. Brass appendages protruded from it, like the legs of an insect. Augustine shuddered to imagine such a large creature. Mr Roudeaux must have interesting taste.
Their host stepped behind his massive desk, drew the cigar case out of his pocket, and asked them to have a seat. Leather armchairs had been arranged facing the desk. When Augustine sat down, she sank uncomfortably into the depths of the chair.
“I see you’ve brought Miss Blaise along,” Mr Roudeaux said to Jacques as he cut the end of his cigar. “Are the papers ready to be signed?”
Jacques reached into in his briefcase. “The notary went through them yesterday.” Jacques pulled out the papers, freshly stamped by the notary, and laid them on the desk in front of Mr Roudeaux.
Roudeaux’s cheeks puffed as he drew on his cigar and glanced at the papers. Soon the dark smell of the room intensified. “Excellent, Jacques.” He reached to take a pen from a jade stand and offered it to Augustine. “If you please, Miss Blaise.”
Augustine looked at the pen in astonishment, then at Jacques. “My signature? What document is this?”
Jacques fumbled with his tie again. “You see, my friend, the thing is, the Whittock repair shop isn’t Bernard’s lifework. The company originally belonged to your mother, Rebeca. Bernard merely worked there. When your mother died, the repair shop was transferred to your name, but since you were a minor and Bernard was your only kin, he kept the company running.”
Augustine looked at Jacques in surprise. “How exactly do you know all this?”
Jacques cracked open his briefcase again and took out the folder Augustine knew only too well. Bernard’s folder.
“This was waiting on my desk this morning. I’ve had plenty of time to review the documents it contains. You’re fifteen years old, so your signature is all that’s needed on the bill of sale. If we’d known earlier, we could have saved a lot of time and trouble.”
“So, the Whittock repair shop belonged to my mother?”
“Yes.”
Augustine jumped to her feet. “I don’t intend to sell.”
Jacques tipped his head and looked at her like a child. “But Augustine, you don’t have any choice. Your uncle’s debts.”
“Let my uncle handle his debts honourably himself, not dishonourably through others.” Augustine snatched the folder from Jacques’s hand, picked up her suitcase, and nodded briefly at the men. “He’s a grown man, after all. Goodbye.”
“Just a moment, Miss Blaise.”
“Augustine, wait.”
Augustine refused to listen. She marched to the door and yanked at the handle. The door didn’t budge.
6.
“Open the door, please.”
When nothing happened, Augustine turned around.
Jacques had risen to his feet and Mr Roudeaux stared at Augustine, the cigar forgotten between his fingers.
“Miss Blaise,” Mr Roudeaux said, “I’m asking you to please sit down.”
Augustine shook her head. She felt her palms begin to sweat. There was a buzzing in her ears. “I don’t plan to sell my mother’s property. It’s too much to ask.”
“I knew Frederic Blaise,” Mr Roudeaux said, remembering at last to shake the ash from his cigar, which had gone out. “And your mother, Rebeca. Terrible accident, that thing with that train.”
Augustine pressed the folder more firmly to her chest. “I’m asking you to open the door.”
“Frederic was a talented engineer,” Roudeaux went on. “His inventions have benefitted Giffard-Krebs, as well.”
Jacques threw a quick glance at Mr Roudeaux. Augustine didn’t fail to notice. “Our automated steam car wouldn’t be on the road without your father’s superturbine. Here at Giffard-Krebs we appreciate innovation, and we encourage progress.” Mr Roudeaux leaned his cigar against an ashtray and started to come closer. The man’s face was friendly, but his eyes revealed that he was alert. �
��So I can assure you, Miss Blaise, that under our wing, the Whittock repair shop will be protected from the turbulence of the competitive market, and that, above all, we will respect its history.”
Augustine shifted her feet. The mention of her father had opened a gaping hole, thirsty for more information. “I don’t know.”
“Think about it,” Mr Roudeaux suggested, pausing next to the armchair where Augustine had been sitting. “The sale has clearly come as a surprise to you. I had expected Mr Gaston to have prepared you for it. We can certainly wait a day or two.”
“No.”
Augustine turned to look at Jacques, who had dropped his briefcase on the floor. The pistol in Jacques’s hand was aimed at Mr Roudeaux. His mouth twisted into a one-sided sneer. “The deal will be done today.”
The finger squeezing the trigger turned white.
Augustine cried out in fear. Her grip on the suitcase failed.
The reason for her outburst was not the weapon in Jacques’s hand, but rather the mechanical creature that came to life on the ceiling. By no means was it an ostentatious lamp, as Augustine had assumed. The spider it had brought to mind was more accurate, because the brass appendages dropped swiftly down, striking the pistol from Jacques’s hand. The weapon thudded to the thick carpet only a few feet from Augustine’s shoes.
Mr Roudeaux laughed at Jacques’s surprise. “Splendid, splendid! Arachne worked exactly as planned. It isn’t often that its optic eye and reflexes are subjected to so authentic a test!”
“What...? How...?” Jacques stared at his empty hand. Then his eyes turned to focus on the weapon lying in front of Augustine. “Augustine! Kick it here!”
Augustine leaned against the door and silently shook her head. The contraption that Mr Roudeaux had called Arachne started to produce a strange squealing noise. Augustine heard it in the lull between the thumping of her heart. She stared in turn at the weapon and at Arachne.
Jacques lunged toward her, and suddenly Augustine had to make a choice.
She picked up the pistol and aimed it at Jacques, who stopped in his tracks. The weapon was surprisingly heavy, and Augustine needed two hands to hold it. She trembled.
“Don’t come any closer! Stay where you are.”
Jacques raised his hands. Mr Roudeaux was still standing next to the chair with his head cocked, like a spectator watching a performance. Arachne squealed and hummed, and Augustine had an idea.
“Augustine, give me the gun,” Jacques pleaded. “I promise I won’t hurt you. Put your name on the paper and we’ll both be free.”
Augustine stared into the young man’s face. It seemed as if his freckles were going pale. His forehead gleamed and a thick vein pulsated on the side of his neck. “But I am free, Mr Gaston.” Augustine engaged the safety and slowly lowered her hands. Jacques wrinkled his brow. Augustine exchanged glances with Mr Roudeaux.
He nodded.
From one of its many appendages, Arachne began to spew a dark rope – like spider silk, Augustine thought. The metal limbs wove a web with astonishing speed. Jacques turned to look in the direction of the noise.
“Our design department has done brilliant work.” Mr Roudeaux puffed up his chest. “Now that progress has brought wealth to so many accounts, it has been necessary to diversify our security measures.”
“What –?” In the blink of an eye, Arachne had thrown its sticky web over Jacques. He tried to shake free, but the more he struggled the tighter the black web grew.
“Nature is a treasure trove for inventors,” Mr Roudeaux said. “You flounder in vain, young Gaston. No one escapes from Arachne’s net.” Roudeaux stepped towards Augustine. “Miss Blaise, please give me the gun.”
Augustine pried her gaze from Jacques’s reddened face and handed the weapon to Roudeaux. Her voice shook.
“W-would you open the door now, Mr Roudeaux?”
Mr Roudeaux’s secretary guided Augustine into the reception area.
She was grateful to reach the cool air, where the clicking and humming of Arachne couldn’t be heard. Her knees felt weak, and she sat down on the bench where just half an hour earlier she had sat with Jacques.
“Would you like a cup of tea, my dear?” the secretary asked, and Augustine nodded. She wanted to collect her thoughts. Jacques’ flushed face arose again in her mind. The knowledge that she had the power to decide what would happen to the repair shop. Mr Roudeaux had known her parents. Augustine pushed her hair behind her ear. The secretary took a long look at her from behind her desk. The spoon clinked against the teacup.
The office door opened. Mr Roudeaux stepped into the reception area, but there was no sign of Jacques. Augustine saw Mr Roudeaux gesture to his secretary not to hurry with the tea. Then he sat beside Augustine on the bench. Augustine felt the bench sag under his weight.
“Gaston asked me to convey his apologies. He had to go out the back way,” Mr Roudeaux said. Augustine’s astonishment must have shown on her face, because he added, “There’s an emergency exit from my office. He hopes you won’t think badly of him. Apparently, he had a significant debt himself, and the noose was beginning to tighten. Gaston’s life depended on the deal between Giffard-Krebs and Whittock being settled before the middle of the month. Gaston’s father had promised him good money for the deal.”
Augustine stared at her knuckles, which shone white where she had clenched them into fists. Her heart felt as heavy as a rock against her ribs. “He wasn’t at all what I thought he was.”
Mr Roudeaux patted her kindly on the knee. “We’re all hiding something. Sometimes something good, sometimes something bad. I understand from your uncle that you’re interested in studying mechanical engineering.”
Augustine’s head jerked up. “M-my uncle? He knows? How?” Then she realised. Gertrude. She must have told Bernard.
Mr Roudeaux’s smile slanted his moustache. “You’re rich, Augustine, but your wealth is tied up in property you don’t want to sell. You won’t receive your cash inheritance for another six years. That’s a long time to put off your studies.” Roudeaux leaned forward. Augustine met his gaze, grey and serious. Trustworthy.
“Perhaps we can reach some sort of an agreement. What do you think?”
Augustine sighed. “It’s always about money.”
Roudeaux’s whiskers shook again. “Not always, dear child, but usually.”
J.S. Meresmaa (b. 1983) is an author and editor of speculative fiction for all audiences. Her latest work is a steampunk YA novella trilogy Ursiini (The Ursine Affair) which is set in an alternate history Finland at the beginning of the 20th century. It combines science fiction and local history to form a thought-provoking, tightly-packed tale of the struggles of a minority in a world full of enemies – and a continuous threat of Russian mammoth army. The first part Naakkamestari (The Jackdaw Master) won a competition run by Robustos Publishing. The second part Hämäränsäteet (Twilight Rays) will be out in May 2018.
Her work has been nominated for Anni Polva Award, Kuvastaja Award, and Atorox Award. Her backlist includes a six-part epic fantasy series Mifonki, and a fantasy novella trilogy Keskilinnan ritarit (The Knights of Midcastle). She has also written over 20 short stories published in anthologies and magazines, some of which have been translated into English, Spanish, Swedish, and French. Meresmaa is a founding member of Osuuskumma Publishing.
STEAMPUNK
PORTUGAL
Anton Stark
Pedro Cipriano
Diana Pinguicha
Editorial Divergencia
Editorial Divergência is a Portuguese small press specialising in speculative fiction. Founded in 2013, it works mainly with Portuguese authors and creates limited editions and small print runs, with a focus on the quality of the finished book, and promoting an honest relationship with both its writers and readers. Editorial Divergência has organised the annual literary award Prémio Divergência – now renamed Prémio António de Macedo, as homage to a great Portuguese speculative fiction filmmaker and wri
ter – aimed at promoting outstanding manuscripts written by new and upcoming authors. Divergência has organised several anthologies and published more than 40 authors. Two of its books have won the Choice of Year Award at Forum Fantástico, the national Portuguese SF&F convention.
Foreword
Pedro Cipriano
In 2011, Clockwork Portugal kicked off the first meetings related to the genre and, in 2012, they organized the first EuroSteamCon in Portugal. To accompany the event they produced the Steampunk Almanac, which brought together the literary and graphic sides of the genre. It was impossible, at the time, to write about Portuguese Steampunk without referring to the short-lived publisher Editorial Arauto, as it published Prelúdio, the first Portuguese Steampunk novel. This first Portuguese foray into Steampunk sparked several manifestations, including theme bars (such as Arranca-Corações, in Lisbon), fashion (created by Elfic Wear), and Lisboa no Ano 2000, a Portuguese retro-futuristic anthology. Several EuroSteamCons and Almanacs later, the artistic movement has matured, and is now represented by two major associations: Liga Steampunk de Lisboa (Lisbon) and Corte do Norte (Porto). They participate in many cultural events across the country.
Anton Stark was the first Portuguese author to be invited to write for this anthology. A long-standing collaborator of Editorial Divergência, he is, among other things, a prolific short fiction writer, both in English and Portuguese, and the author of Prelúdio. In his story, “Videri Quam Esse”, he mixed historical fantasy and a little bit of steampunk with the Portuguese Renaissance as a unique backdrop. It is 1513, and the rhinoceros brought to the Portuguese court from India dies. The animal, however, had been promised as a gift to the Pope. It is up to the king's chamberlain, Garcia de Resende, to find a solution.