The Steampunk Trilogy

by Paul Di Filippo

  “I’m a-gonna follow ye in my craft, Captain. Seems to me we could use a backup ship, just in case. I’ll try not to outrace ye!”

  “He knows the local waters, . . .” faltered Agassiz.

  It took two trips to ferry the twelve members of the motley expedition out to the Bibb. But at last they were all aboard. The Bibb lifted anchor, luffed its sails, and they were underway, entering the diamond-scattered waters of Boston Bay, the Dolly Peach following.

  Lieutenant Davis conducted Agassiz on a tour of the ship, not neglecting to mention their armament.

  “We ship several cannon of moderate firepower. But considering the nature of our quarry as you outlined it, I also took the liberty of signing on a skilled harpooner for this trip. Allow me to introduce you.”

  Lieutenant Davis brought Agassiz up to a somber bearded chap who was neatly coiling the rope attached to the heavy and wicked-looking instrument of his trade.

  “Professor Agassiz, this is Mister Melville, a personal friend. I managed to convince him to leave his farm in Pittsfield for a day or two, though he has much plowing to do. Mister Melville has sailed the seven seas—on the fabled Acushnet, amoung other whalers—and possesses a steady eye and hand that will no doubt serve us well. In addition, Mister Melville shares your own literary bent. Perhaps you’ve read one of his memoirs? Typee? Omoo?”

  “I fear not. But I haven’t much time for pleasure reading of any sort. Your hand, Mister Melville—?”

  Melville extended a calloused paw. “Call me Herman.”

  After exchanging a few words concerning the habits of various cetaceans, Agassiz left the sailor-cum-author so that he might rejoin his own party.

  His comrades from Europe he found engaged in a game of dice with several Jack Tars. Chubby Maurice was about to roll. “From each according to his means, to each according to his needs! Come on seven!” The noon ration of grog had been disbursed, and much conviviality was in evidence. Agassiz passed them by, with only a baleful glance directed toward Desor.

  Chief Snapping Turtle, much to Agassiz’s astonishment, had found another member of his race with whom to converse, a tattooed red giant with a topknot.

  “—then Queequeg say, “What you mean ‘we,’ white man?”

  “Ho, ho, ho! Kici Manitu himself not say it better!”

  By the starboard rail stood Josiah Dogberry, sketchbook and pencil in hand. Agassiz looked over the shoulder of the itinerant artiste: a few scalloped lines stood in for the multi-textured sea; the iron lighthouse on Minot’s Ledge was indicated by some verticals supporting a box; gulls were shallow V’s; clouds were squiggly circles.

  Dogberry turned to face his employer. “I figured a record of our historic journey would be of inestimable value to future generations. What do you think, Lou?”

  “The level of detail leaves much to the viewer’s imagination. . . .”

  “Such is always the case with the best art, Lou.”

  It was easy to track down Jacob Cezar: the smell of burning dacka provided a scent-trail for which no bloodhound was necessary.

  The South African was seated on a coil of hemp rope, from which he had cut a length for his own use.

  “Vee rushed off zo fast, I plumb forgot mine own ztash. Dis zstuff ist plenty rough, but as dey zay, any port in a ztorm.”

  Agassiz paused beside the colonial. Now that the end of their enforced companionship was in sight, Agassiz tried to look back with nostalgia on their adventures. The past month had been a welcome and stimulating change from his accustomed scholarly routine, hadn’t it? True, the presence of Cezar’s black-skinned mate had been nearly insupportable at times. True, he had nearly been ignominiously drowned in molasses due to the man. True, he had been thrown into a torture pit amidst Iron Maidens and Procrustean Beds for his connection with him. And also true—

  Agassiz gave up the attempt to regard the last four weeks with retrospective fondness. It had been an unmitigated nightmare, for deliverance from which he would drop to his knees and praise his Creator.

  Still, he could afford at this point to be magnanimous.

  “Well, Jacob, your quest is nearly over now, thanks to my help. It seems quite probable that you will be sailing off tomorrow evening at the latest.”

  Cezar appeared reflective. “Ja, I’ll be glad to get back to mine liddle farm. Dis hurly-burly city life ist not for old Jake. Give me der savannah und der vildebeest over der artificial ztone und der policeman any dime.” Cezar sighed. “Ztill, it vill be a vhile before I see Kaffraria again. Dere’ll be a ztop in Paris to return Saartjie’s qvim to der Museum, und who knows vhere else Dottie vill vant to visit . . .”

  “Speaking of the Hottentot, where is she?”

  “Oh, zhe’s gone forvard to vit your Lizzie to make vit der girl-dalk.”

  Agassiz took off like a cheetah (Acinonyxjubatus ).

  Dottie and Lizzie stood by the prow, spray sprinkling their faces. Lizzie looked particularly pale, and the Hottentot was half-supporting her.

  “Remove your evil hands from my fiancée!”

  Dottie replied calmly, “She is simply a little sea-sick, Professor Agassiz. And I thought you were still married. . . .”

  “My marital status is none of your affair, you—you heathen pickaninny!” Agassiz wrested the white woman away from the black one. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Yes, Louis—I’m fine. I—I just need to lie down for a while.”

  “Let’s see Captain Davis about a bunk.” Agassiz regarded the Hottentot grimly. “And as for you—”

  Dottie smiled, revealing her primitive and hideous dentition. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about me, Professor. I feel great.”

  “Humph!”

  The U.S.S. Bibb sailed blithely north, beneath the gladsome July sun, its crew and passengers intent on their respective enterprises. The salty air, crisp as lettuce hearts, invigorated all souls. With each passing league, Agassiz felt more and more confident of imminent victory. Past Deer Island they sailed, past Winthrop, Nahant, Lynn and Swampscott. A meal was served. Agassiz unbent enough even to sample a puff off Cezar’s pipe—after carefully wiping the stem on his sleeve—but pronounced it unpalatable.

  By late afternoon they were anchored off Cat Island, within sight of Peach’s Point. Marblehead Harbor, a northward-facing U-shaped bay, was actually to the south of them now. The low and shaggy buildings of the two-hundred-year-old town looked like lichened ruins straddling a buried giant.

  Captain Davis regarded the evil village with a cold and calculating gaze, before pronouncing judgment on it. “One of these days they’ll go too far, these witches, and the folks in Washington will have to take notice. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if they brought an offshore bombardment down on their own heads one day. . . .”

  Captain Stormfield, meanwhile, had anchored alongside and boarded the Bibb.

  “My cousin Howie is supposed to row out at dusk to meet us and fill us in on the plans of the Deep Ones, as they call themselves on account of they fancy themselves so deep. We’ll just have to sit tight till then.”

  Now the crew and passengers hunkered down to wait. A small knot of old salts congregated around Captain Stormfield to swap yarns. Before long, practically the whole complement of the Bibb sat at his feet, mesmerized by his tales, with the falling twilight settling on them like a warlock’s black mantle.

  “Aye, many’s the night I’ve sat inside my bolted, shuttered house with my dear old Dolly, like all the other good folks o’ Marblehead, knowin’ that the Deep Ones was a-fixin’ to celebrate their unholy allegiance with the sea-critters. They would gather first in Washington Square beneath them contorted and twisty ancient trees with the branches that dangle like nooses. From there, they’d march up to the Old Burial Hill overlookin’ the town. There they’d raise up a few choice spirits, such as the souls o’ Margaret Scott and Wilmot
t Redd, who was both hanged as Satan’s apprentices. Then back down again, through the twisty, non-Euclidean streets they’d crawl, a-yelpin’ and a-howlin’ fit to beat the band, some o’ the legless citizens a-floppin’ their reekin’ squamous bodies through the dust! Down to the waterfront they’d hie themselves, there to be greeted by their infamous cohorts from the stinkin sea-floor. And then—well, ye don’t want to know what happened then. Suffice it to say that it’d require a heap o’ italics to convey.”

  Captain Stormfield leaned back where he sat, and poked his unlit pipe into his mouth with dire meaning. There was a stunned silence for a moment. Then one of the sailors spoke.

  “What’s that there word ‘nun-yew-clit-ian’ mean?”

  Another sailor piped up. “And what about ‘squamous’? It got anything to do with Indian squaws?”

  But before Captain Stormfield could enlighten his listeners, the lookout in the crows-nest let out a call.

  “Rowboat approaching!”

  Captain Stormfield rose. “Well, I’d best be gettin back to my ship. Howie’s a mite suspicious of strangers, and there’s no way he will tie up to this here clipper.”

  Agassiz spoke up. “Wait one moment, Captain. Surely you do not intend to meet with this conspirator alone. What if he intends some kind of double-cross?”

  “I guess I could take one other brave soul with me.”

  All eyes—including Lizzie’s—now turned to Agassiz. He felt himself irrevocably nominated. With no small amount of trepidation, he said, “Very well, let us be off.”

  In the darkling air, Agassiz found it clumsy work to transfer himself to the Dolly Peach. He managed to clamber aboard after nearly taking an unplanned dip when he set his foot down on the stickleback which Captain Stormfield had been using as a comb that morning. Captain Stormfield hoisted anchor and they sailed off to meet the emissary from Marblehead.

  As the crafts converged, Agassiz could discern a pair of shadowy figures in the rowboat. One, sitting, propelled the boat, while the other stiffly stood.

  “That’s Howie a-standin’,” said Stormfield. “I guess his arthritis was actin’ up, and he dragooned a young un’ to row him.”

  The creaking of the oarlocks grew louder and louder. Soon the rowboat pulled alongside the Dolly Peach. Agassiz hastened to the side to help the men aboard.

  As he bent forward, he instantly noticed two important details previously hidden in the darkness.

  Stormfield’s cousin, the erstwhile Howard Phillips, was dead as the proverbial doornail, and propped up on a tripod of marlinspikes.

  Ant the man rowing was Hans Bopp.

  Agassiz staggered back. In the next second, Bopp swarmed aboard.

  The Prussian spymaster wore a raptor’s grin. His hellish single eye seemed to focus and reflect the light from the emerging stars like a lens.

  “So, Herr Professor, you thought to renege on our gentlemen’s agreement? I fear now that you must meet the same fate as the turncoat on the spikes, from whom I extracted all I needed to know. Rest assured, however, that your death will mark a terminus to the contract you signed. We will not be calling on your progeny to fulfill it.”

  Bopp’s hand suddenly held his gleaming rapier. Agassiz watched helplessly as the tip of the sword sketched a pattern of death before his face.

  “Louie, catch!”

  Something came hurtling through the night air at Agassiz. Instinctively, he snatched it.

  He held by its narrow tail the legendary seamstress swordfish, stuffed and rigid, which had previously hung on Stormfield’s cabin wall.

  The feel of the old garments he wore, along with the heft of the swordfish, plunged Agassiz back twenty years, to when he had been a champion fencer at Heidelberg. Had he not beaten four German students in the space of an hour once? Surely he had lost none of that skill—

  “En garde!” yelled Agassiz, and lunged.

  Bopp parried expertly and effortlessly. “Very good,” he said. “This gives me my exercise for the day. And you will die as befits a renegade member of the Master Race, rather than like a mongrel dog.”

  Now the duel became intense. It took all of Agassiz’s concentration to maintain a barely viable defense, never mind press an attack. After a few minutes, he was huffing and puffing, while Bopp was breathing easily. The Hun even began to whistle. Damn that Jane and her rich cooking!

  At last Agassiz knew Bopp was merely toying with him. He tried to prepare himself mentally for death. Yet even now he could not quite bring himself to believe that the world would soon be deprived of the genius of Agassiz—

  Panting, Agassiz dropped his leaden arm. As he saw Bopp prepare to lunge, he took an involuntary step backwards.

  His foot came down on the stickleback and he began to topple. He threw his arms up in a vain attempt to stabilize himself.

  Taken offguard, Bopp awkwardly altered the direction of his thrust.

  By a fluke—so to speak—the Prussian impaled himself on the waving swordfish. Together, he and Agassiz fell to the deck.

  For a moment they lay entwined in a grim embrace. Then Agassiz wormed out from under the dead Prussian.

  The bloody tip of the swordfish protruded from Bopp’s back. Incredulously, Agassiz noted that it featured an eye, just as Stormfield had promised.

  Done to death by a fishy sewing machine—It served the arrogant bastard right.

  “Well fought, Louie! I takes pleasure in you avengin’ my cousin’s murder. As we can’t learn nothin’ more here, I suspect we’d best be gettin’ back to the Bibb, for whatever shall eventuate.”

  Stormfield turned their nose toward the clipper ship. Soon, they had rejoined the others on the deck of the Bibb.

  Agassiz began to recount his thrilling duel, but was cut short by Captain Davis.

  “Another ship has put out from the harbor. We suspect that it’s the Deep Ones.”

  “Shall we intercept them?”

  Captain Davis started to reply, but in his turn was cut off by a shout from Dottie, who had been scanning the waters on the portside.

  “Something’s surfacing!”

  “Mister Melville, to your weapon! Gunners, take aim!”

  All hands rushed to the portside, causing a slight list in the Bibb. Agassiz was carried with them.

  The water a few feet away from the Bibb bubbled and churned. Something tall and slender poked out of the roiling water. The neck-like appendage revealed itself to be attached to a rising body of some sort. More and more of the creature surfaced, illuminated by torches held by the crew.

  Agassiz was the first to recognize it. “Why, it’s a submersible vessel, like Robert Fulton’s Nautilus!”

  And so it was. Soon the submarine, at equilibrium, floated peacefully.

  A hatch was violently pushed open. A man thrust himself out. He began to gasp deep lungfuls of air.

  Agassiz was astounded. “Why, it’s that radical, Kosciuszko!”

  A rope was lowered to the pitiful submariner, who gratefully grasped it and climbed aboard the Bibb.

  Once on deck, Kosciuszko proved hardy enough to exhibit some of his insane sang-froid.

  “Never trust these international arms-merchants, my friends. They promised me six hours of air, but it turned out to be only five and three-quarters.”

  Agassiz confronted the anarchist. “Sir, we are embroiled in the midst of a life or death situation. Can we count on you to maintain civilized behavior, or must we clap you in irons?”

  “Oh, no, I’ll abide by your bourgeois laws as long as I’m aboard your vessel. You have my word as a Polish-Hibernian.”

  “And I’ll hold you to it. Very well. Captain, I recommend that we move to capture this new ship before they accomplish their nefarious goals.”

  “As you wish, sir. First Mate, prepare to sail!”

  Within seconds the hi
ghly trained crew of the Bibb had her in motion toward the Marblehead craft of the Deep Ones. (The Dolly Peach, unskippered and unmanned, save for the unmourned corpse of Hans Bopp, remained near Cat Island.)

  The Bibb drew nearer and nearer to the Marblehead ship, which sailed on undaunted, as if confident of its superiority against the much larger vessel.

  When they were still some hundred yards apart, a new noise rent the ocean stillness: the ominous beat of a tribal drum.

  “It’s dot D’guzeri! He’s zummoning up der voodoo forces!”

  “Woo-too?” asked Agassiz.

  “No, der voodoo!”

  The drum fell silent. Less than a few dozen feet separated the two ships. Shambling figures could be seen crawling among the shrouds and creeping across the deck of the Marblehead craft. At the rail suddenly appeared the Hottentot sorcerer, flanked by squat figures carrying flaring torches.

  T’guzeri was approximately three feet tall. He wore nothing but a jackal-skin genital pouch and the hide of a lion with attached skull: the lion’s jawless head rested atop his own, its front paws were tied around his neck, and the rest trailed a goodly distance along the deck.

  He held aloft in his two hands a glass bottle.

  With the fetiche finally in sight, Agassiz grew impatient. Didn’t this savage have the good grace to admit when he was beaten?

  “Set that relic down and surrender!” yelled Agassiz.

  T’guzeri seemed about to comply. He did indeed set the bottle down. When he straightened, he held a long stick in his hands.

  “Oh mine Gott!” yelled Cezar. “Everyvun, duck!”

  Agassiz turned completely around. “Duck? Why should we be frightened of a stick—?”

  At that instant, Agassiz felt a sting in his arse.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  A plumed dart was embedded in one buttock.

  Before he knew what had happened, he was thrown to the deck on his stomach. His pants were summarily and without invitation pulled down around his ankles, as were his drawers. Someone was sitting on his legs. A knife bit twice into his arse cheek. The whole process took only a second.

  “Ow!”