Steampunk II: Steampunk Reloaded

by Jeff VanderMeer

  “It’s a fine altitude to fall to the ground from!” I remarked through the speaking tube to Captain Bird.

  “No worse than sinking to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean through four thousand fathoms of water, sir!” came the laconic answer. “Rest assured! Tomorrow the Sun will shine for you over the Gulf of Tehuantepec. Good night and sleep peacefully, sir!”

  Somewhat put at ease by the certainty with which these words were spoken, I slid the rose-colored glass plate in place so that the light streamed through the door like a soft dawn. I then threw myself on my bed, rolled a nicotine chloroform cigarette, lit it using the title page of Being and Non-Being as a splint, and prepared for the night that was surely coming. I was not afraid. When one is separated from death by only a panel, it is basically a matter of indifference whether that panel opens to a smashing fall to the ground, where all will be done in a second, or onto the ocean’s waves, where the struggle will endure for minutes. “Death is absolute rest, the pure negation of Being,” I thought, recalling the concluding chapter of Being and Non-Being, and tried to find rest in the arms of sleep.

  Soon I had to admit that these were not as soft as otherwise, and that they seemed to have a crushing and oppressive, even frightening force. I awoke with a start after a short doze, not really knowing whether I had slept or not but with a feeling that some enormously heavy presence sat on my chest and bored its long, pointed fingers so deeply into my ears that my eardrums threatened to burst. I felt something warm and wet dripping from my bed—it was blood that was unstoppably gushing from my nose. In addition came a biting, cutting cold that seemed to force its way through the ship’s sides and filled its interior with an icy breath that refused to penetrate the lungs and warm the blood. I tried to speak but no sound came from my mouth; not even sound waves could move through this ethereally thin air. The electric lantern burned with a refracted ghostly radiance, the ship worked powerfully, and through the slits in the skylight I saw one bluish flash after another.

  I could just barely make out the aerometer reading—twenty-eight thousand feet, a dizzying altitude, four thousand more feet than even the Condor, the best flying machine, could reach. Even so, it was clear that the ship was maintaining its steep angle, a sign that we were still climbing, and now air-sickness with all its unspeakable agonies suddenly came over me. I felt a hammering in my head, I saw flashes in front of my eyes like a thousand tiny lightning bolts, there was a rushing and roaring in my ears as though my brain had been transformed into the great ocean, and at the same time I was seized by a such a terrible fear that I would have gladly cried out had it not been completely useless.

  I pulled myself together and put my mouth to the speaking tube—no sound, and of course no reply. I then tapped on the needle-telegraph and stared with tense expectancy at the plate just over my head. The tiny pinheads started moving, arranging themselves into lines and then into letters, and I read: “Severe electric storm two thousand feet below us. Violent hurricane to north northwest. Thunder clouds rising!”

  You can take it from me, old friend, that it is no joke to get a telegram like that when one is at such a great altitude. I opened the skylight halfway and looked down—never have I seen such a terrifying sight. Gigantic coal-black, leaden masses of clouds overran each other as though they were desperately trying to flee, and from out of these mountains streamed electric fire, now positive, now negative, now red like molten lava, now bluish like blazing sulfur. If I hadn’t known better, I would have believed that I was looking down into a seething volcanic crater where Titans and Giants played their frightful games. Blinded and numbed by the sight, I turned my gaze upwards to the open overhead skylight. There the Moon stood cold, pale, and clear against the night sky’s black background—it struck me as a self-luminous death’s head flung to the vast arching coffin lid of the sky.

  I looked down again, and Captain Bird’s telegram had been all too accurate. The cloud masses really were rising. Lightning was coming ever closer, growing brighter and more distinct, and if we were to be engulfed by that electric current, we would be hopelessly lost. I could sense from the ship’s motion that both Captain Bird and the crew were aware of the danger and doing all they could to avoid it. The machinery operated at full power, the wingbeat was increased to the maximum possible, but in the thin air the downstroke had no effect and the combustion in the engine was feeble due to the lack of oxygen. I felt that we could not force the ship to a greater altitude than that we had already attained. A moment later, my aerometer showed a tendency to rise, and two minutes after that we had already sunk three hundred feet.

  Under such conditions, my friend, it is dreadful to be on board an air-ship. Above or below, there awaits only a transition to the pure negation of being, as the philosophers of today might put it, but I much prefer to battle the elements on the sea. There, everyone gathers on deck, pushes and pulls, pumps and hauls, in joint fellowship, unified in the cause, in the struggle for life. If at length the ship cracks apart beneath our feet—well, then we go to the bottom with the stars overhead and a consoling word as we take our leave. But on an aerial vessel like the Prometheus, everything is different. No shouts of command are heard, no heartening song, no encouraging word—everywhere reigns the silence of the grave. Aerometers show with grim precision the ship’s gradual descent, the trembling telegraph indicator whispers its command: a single muffled bell confirms that it’s understood, two bells if more detailed orders are desired. Here, the main thing is not to leave one’s place. Even in the fateful moment, everyone must remain in his cramped, stifling cell until the alarm signal sounds and you fall out through the emergency hatch with a parachute on your back and steering fans in your hands. The slightest clumsiness would cause the vessel to lose its balance, and the most incalculable consequences could ensue.

  It was these musings that gave me a death-scorning stoicism and even motivated me to arrange with a kind of calm the cords from the parachute that dangled over my head. I thought of Miss Anna, thought of how rich our short acquaintance had been, and vowed to give my life if I could save hers. Meanwhile, the lightning increased in violence, the aerometer rose constantly, and from out in the corridor I heard a sleep-drunken wheezing and snorting. That would have to be Hr. Knoll, brought out of his hypnotic state by the thinning of the air. One thing became clear to me in that moment. If that huge, hulking reporter for The Caloric Howler lost his presence of mind for just a moment and in his semiconscious condition left his place, he would throw the ship off balance, cause the crew and passengers to panic—and our fall would be inevitable.

  Just as I realized all this, there was a horrible, deafening thunderclap that made the ship heave and shake as though it was a bird that had been shot and was in its death struggle. A blinding bluish lightning flash forced its way through every crack, every chink, and filled even my cabin with a strange, sulfurous air in which I was close to choking. The Flying Fish listed so far to leeward that I nearly rolled down the floor, and I had to hang on to the ceiling-straps with both hands to remain in place. We listed more and more. Suddenly the machinery came to a stop, the entire ship vibrated, then one of its wings fell heavily back and crashed against almost the entire length of the hull. In that moment, I lost all my composure and self-control. Despite the fact that not two seconds before I had solemnly promised myself to stay where I was, I kicked the door open, stumbled over The Caloric Howler out in the corridor where he was crawling on all fours, tossed a couple of crewmen to one side when they tried to block my way, and in two leaps I was on the deck at Captain Bird’s side.

  Here I now saw for the first time the disaster in all its terrible scope. In the far distance, lashed by the hurricane, a Hexalator tumbled away. I could still see its six fluttering wings, its red and green lanterns, and the sparks spewing from its smokestack. There was no doubt that, blinded by the lightning and whirled about by the violent winds, it had crashed into us shortly after we had been struck by lightning, since our starboard wing
was broken. The crew was assiduously at work cutting it off as well as pulling down the ship’s great parachute, which swelled over us like a huge canopy.

  My gaze swept across the deck. I saw Captain Bird, tied to the nose rigging so that he was not torn overboard by the terrible hurricane blast, and to him, fearful and desperate, a slender young womanly form was clinging, which I immediately recognized as Miss Anna. The situation was dire. The ship’s oil-slick metal surface was as slippery as an eel’s skin, the storm winds were so powerful that they had bent one of the two smokestacks, but nevertheless I hurried forward, grabbed the rope that the captain tossed me, and tied Miss Anna as securely as I could.

  “Cut port wing! Not one soul more on deck!” Captain Bird signaled over the needle-telegraph. A moment later, the other of the ship’s proud wings fell away and disappeared like a huge arrow into the air ocean.

  Just then, our oversized reporter showed his massive upper body in the main hatch and made the ship list so far to one side that I had a well-founded fear of going overboard.

  “Down, sir!” Captain Bird exclaimed, waving to him.

  Hr. Knoll paid no attention, however, and worked his way further upwards with two parachutes on his back.

  Then Captain Bird raised his hand and fired. The revolver only gave a weak bang; I saw the flash and heard a muffled cry, and the unfortunate reporter tumbled overboard and quickly disappeared from my view. Still, I don’t believe he was struck since his parachutes had opened, he still held his body upright, and he had thrust the steering fans back between his legs, but when and from where he will write his next correspondence, the gods only know—I have since not been able to uncover the slightest trace of him.

  An air-captain’s behavior in such circumstances must be forceful and determined, but I still felt a chill when I saw the unfortunate reporter falling away like a meteor. Nor could I suppress a faint horror as Captain Bird cold-bloodedly looked up at the main parachute, and concerning the terrible incident merely remarked, “Well, that lightened it!” Would I perhaps be the next unfortunate victim, or even Miss Anna? Again my gaze swept over the ship, but what met my eye unfortunately only showed me all too clearly that the situation was hopeless. Three of the crew had flown overboard, and none of them had parachutes on.

  Along the lowermost deck, the emergency hatches had opened, and hanging on to those frail panels only by hooks were the ship’s passengers, pale and terrified, ready to leap into the air in the disastrous event that the great parachute could no longer withstand the hurricane’s fury. I looked up tensely at the huge silken dome in which rested our only hope, our only salvation. Then I looked at Captain Bird. His expression was calm, cool, and determined, but even so he was in the process of rolling out his parachute as much as was possible in the circumstances so he could secure its hangers under his arms. I did the same, addressing a few comforting words to Miss Anna and adjusting her parachute as I said a last farewell to her. Completely composed, she asked me in a soft voice not to forget her and gave me a medallion with her photorelief on it, which I was to deliver to her mother if the worst should happen.

  Filled with dread as to what I might see, I looked up once more at the ship’s parachute—unfortunately, my fears were only too justified. The hurricane was so powerful and the parachute’s surface and thus its air resistance were so great that we were not falling, but we were instead being driven unceasingly hither and yon by the violent gusts, and soon we were turning in large circles around our own axis. Now we listed to leeward, then to windward with such force that I had to hang on tight to the signal whistle so I wouldn’t fall over the end. Several passengers were already overboard: some had leaped in insane desperation, others had been torn away by the storm’s force because they had been so imprudent as to open their parachutes at the wrong time. I saw them disappear far beneath us as white, silver-glinting specks, like snowflakes tumbling in the storm-tossed air. Losing them only made the ship lighter, so the hurricane gripped us ever more tightly and blew us along in great, dizzying swings, and we were in effect merely a ball for the wind and a toy for the storm.

  Then with a screeching sound, the four aft parachute ropes suddenly broke, and like an enormous mainsail that had been cut free, the rearmost portion of the silk canopy rose up against the storm. A howl of terror, a veritable death cry came from the remaining crew, and suddenly I saw the dagger flash in Captain Bird’s hands. A new gust from the hurricane and the great parachute’s middle ropes snapped as though they were sewing threads, and the whole ship rolled, rising up like a rearing horse. I heard another cry of terror and saw Captain Bird cut the ropes for Miss Anna and himself. Then I felt myself lifted, carried, hurled away, swung around in huge circles, whipped, flung about, and chilled to the bone until I lost consciousness.

  How long that terrible state of affairs lasted, how long and where the hurricane carried me, how many of my companions perished and how many were saved, of all this I have not the slightest idea to this day. When I awoke from my long deathlike swoon, I was hanging high up in a tamarind tree, my clothes torn and my body battered, and some naked, tattooed natives were giving me a sign that I should come down to them. My fear that I had alighted in the interior of New Zealand, and so risked being devoured by the few Maori tribes still remaining, fortunately turned out to be unnecessary. I was on Madagascar, near its capital city of Tananariva, where I was most hospitably received by Rakota Radaman the Seventh, who listened with great interest to my account of the disaster that had befallen me. He spoke excellent French and boasted of having killed the Hovas’ last Chief Ramavalona. The island is entirely Christian and the inhabitants, especially the upper classes, have a thoroughly European culture, but since staying at the court bored me, mainly because I had to tell my tale of woe at least a hundred times a day, I decided to accept Bishop King’s hospitable offer until Wednesday, when the English steamship departs. He has an excellent library and is quite free of the old-fashioned dogmatism that easily infects English clergymen.

  I have found so much care and concern here, so much kindness and friendliness, that I would have completely forgotten my misfortune and the wreck of the proud ship, had not the loss of Miss Anna daily reminded me of it. In all, seven of the passengers and four of the crew, including Captain Bird, have come down in various places, often four to five hundred English miles from one another, but her name I have not yet encountered in the daily incoming telegrams. I don’t wish to describe my sorrow to you, since you and yours at Sukkertoppen will of course sympathize with me. Goodbye for now— you’ll soon hear from me again when I reach Calcutta.

  Yours sincerely,

  William Stone

  P.S.

  I am wild with joy! I have here in my hand a telegram from her, sent from Calcutta. She came down on the top of Kanchanjunga in the eastern Himalayas, and after many great ordeals, which she plans to describe in New York Magazine, she reached India’s capital, where she was generously received by the Russian government. We intend to be married in Calcutta in the little church where we first became acquainted. Our honeymoon will take us up the Brahmaputra and from there to Martaban or Tenasserim, where we have the intention of spending the winter with the Russian governor. Anna is a skillful hunter and an excellent shot with a rifle and pistol, and enjoys a good tiger hunt just as much as I do. She will also enjoy a cobra hunt, that elegant hunting excursion where one lures the animal out with the notes of a flute and then tosses strychnine pills into its maw. I am certain that she will manage it quite deftly. Farewell! Goodbye! I am now, as they used to say a hundred years ago, “the happiest man on Earth.”

  Yours,

  W. S.

  DWIGHT R. DECKER, Bergsoe’s translator, spent twenty-five years in cubicle land as a technical writer in the telecommunications field while moonlighting as an occasional translator, and currently lives in the Chicago area. He translated a few volumes in the German Perry Rhodan series for Forrest J. Ackerman and Ace Books, and later innumerable European-pro
duced Disney comic stories from several languages into English for publishers in the United States and Denmark. Lately he has been reading obscure old European stories and novels for J. J. Pierce, a science-fiction scholar writing a history of science fiction. When Pierce tracked down “Flying Fish Prometheus,” it turned out to be still fresh and funny even after 140 years, and once Decker had translated the story, finding a good home for it seemed like the natural thing to do. Decker would like to thank Janus Andersen, Freddy Milton, and Kim Thompson for answering questions about Danish historical references and odd meanings of words. Many of the more puzzling mysteries were solved by consulting information published about the story by Danish science-fiction scholar Niels Dalgaard. A further tip of the chapeau goes to Mark Withers for suggesting in the first place that the story might qualify as a kind of steampunk, precipitating the train of events that led to its appearance here.

  The Anachronist’s Cookbook

  Catherynne M. Valente

  CATHERYNNE M. VALENTE is the author of over a dozen works of fiction and poetry, including Palimpsest, the Orphan’s Tales series, Deathless (forthcoming in 2011), and crowd-funded phenomenon The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making. She is the winner of the Tiptree Award, the Mythopoeic Award, the Rhysling Award, and the Million Writers Award. She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, the Spectrum Award, was a finalist for the World Fantasy Award in 2007 and 2009, and won the Andre Norton Award in 2010. She lives on an island off the coast of Maine with her partner and two dogs. Of “The Anachronist’s Cookbook,” she writes, “I was asked by a friend to contribute a steampunk story to his anthology and I just couldn’t bear the thought of it. While the aesthetic of steampunk is appealing, I had so many political and intellectual issues with it that I couldn’t imagine writing a story that merrily went on its way without addressing them. Hence Jane was born, because you can’t have Victorian England without Levelers, Luddites, and angry young women.”