He beckoned me in. Once I belted in, he called out Pennington’s name. The burly Northerner appeared at the stairwell and guided Lady Holyfield, a fragile doll beside his bulk. She placed each step with the assurance of a dancer.
Then we heard the Irishman’s shrill whistle. Muffled reports rang out. A horse whinnied, and then squealed.
‘‘We live in dangerous times, Wentworth. Along with the neo-luddites who want the good lady destroyed, agents of the Empire wish to take my work and fashion it for war. This mustn’t happen. Nathaniel Holyfield has unfortunately replaced his grief with greed.’’
Pennington, with a sweep of his huge arm, scooped Lady Holyfield aboard. Her serenity, I found disconcerting, like a Haymarket polka dancer who had consumed too much absinthe.
Devereux threw a lever, the mercury flowed, and cranking a handle, the carriage propelled itself at a dizzying rate of knots through the passageways.
Shouts echoed around the warehouse. I could discern an American booming out the name ‘Beatrice!’
‘‘That’d be the lovelorn Nathaniel Holyfield looking for his bride.’’ grinned Devereux, his beard flapping wildly about him. The carriage pitched and rolled on the mercury rails.
‘‘Where are we going to?’’ I shouted, my stomach beginning to churn with nausea.
‘‘The Thames, old boy!’’
Pennington fired a series of warning shots into the air from his autocannon. Light fittings shattered plunging the offices and stores into deeper darkness behind us.
The dash through the warehouse seemed to pass in minutes before we came upon a machine the likes of which I have never seen before. A pulsing boiler the width and height of a sloop stood like a sentinel in the vast warehouse, the bales of cloth and wool camouflaging it. It had a vast array of coils sprouting from it, the rivets and plates hummed to the harmonics of the universe. Behind one of the many portholes, a light flickered. First, it had the ghostly green glow of St Elmo’s fire then blended to purples and deep volcanic red.
‘‘The main energy station.’’ roared Devereux. ‘‘I have a rod pointing toward Alpha Centauri, and I have set the station’s harmonics accordingly. The energy points I mentioned are fine-tuned to the frequency. All my bales of wool and cloth act as the perfect insulation.’’
The closer we got to the station, the faster we were propelled, yet I felt at no stage were we in danger of spilling out. Lady Holyfield seemed to glow and her dead eyes took on a spirit I hadn’t seen before; she almost appeared to take breath.
Then we heard the first clatter of hooves. The skylights overhead glowed as the dawn began to creep. Looking back, two horsemen thundered behind, dressed like the assassin Hopkins, both their faces masked by kerchiefs over their mouths.
Devereux turned and cranked coolly, the carriage sliding and turning at his whim. Pennington squeezed off another warning burst over the rider’s heads, the horses shied from the ordinance and pulled up.
We turned a hard left and the warehouse door appeared in the distance. Devereux leaned forward like a jockey at Royal Ascot and the carriage thundered on the liquid-solid-liquid rails toward it.
At the door, the carriage came to a smooth stop. We alighted with a new urgency. The riders had taken up the chase again, their shouts of confusion echoed in the distance.
‘‘We haven’t much time.’’ Devereux intoned as he bounded to the chain that lifted the gate. With Pennington and me putting our backs into it, we hoisted the huge gate slowly. My leg ached with the effort, and as the gate rose on its gears, London’s vast docklands appeared before us as vermillion silhouettes in the sunrise.
Taking Lady Holyfield’s hand, Devereux helped her down from the mercury driven carriage and guided her through the gateway. Once they were clear, Pennington and I released the chain and jumped through as the door clattered down.
We stood on the warehouse jetty where a barge was moored. It had the ornate livery of Devereux mills painted on its cabin and hull. It sat low in the water, almost level with the jetty. On it, rested a silver dirigible the length of an omnibus, secured by ropes.
‘‘Another experiment, Devereux?’’ I enquired.
‘‘I have two more dirigibles, this one’s loss today is a mere trifle, Wentworth’’. Taking the lady’s arm, he guided her to the barge and lifted her aboard.
‘‘My Lady.’’ Devereux bowed,
She returned with a curtsey. Without a word, she walked toward the dirigible’s gondola. Within moments, she was aboard.
‘‘Gentlemen, I must apologise for dragging you into my little drama, but I must ask for your absolute discretion in this delicate matter; this may very well end in the courts’’
Devereux leapt aboard the barge nimbly and began releasing the ropes. We joined him, and then I heard the sound of motors starting up. I looked up at the dirigible, ribbons of mercury spewed out and solidified in the air to from pipes that jutted out from the airship’s frame.
‘‘Marvellous, marvellous mercury’’ murmured Devereux with a wry grin.
Lady Holyfield moved around the gondola with intent. The clank and grind of gears resounded from it as she worked. The solidified mercury formed into sails like a windmills and began to rotate, increasing in speed, lifting the airship to the heavens.
Shielding our eyes, Devereux, Pennington, and I watched the dirigible ascend through the early morning, low cloud cover.
‘‘Where is she destined?’’
‘‘The stars, Wentworth. Lady Beatrice Holyfield can never come back. The good husband Nathaniel wants to mass-produce her. The luddites want to destroy her, she should never have been.’’
‘‘Good intentions, Devereux.’’ I agreed.
‘‘Who knows, Wentworth, the airship may escape this planet, she trialled excellently last winter in Nova Scotia; high altitude tests.’’
It was then the warehouse door began to rise slowly behind us. I glanced one more time at the silver speck in the clouds, the blood red of the sunrise shimmering off her hull and wished the dear Lady Beatrice Holyfield a bon voyage.
I reached for my pocket watch and thumbed open the clasp. Both hands were spinning wildly clockwise and the casing vibrated to the clicking cogs,
‘‘Ah,’’ said Devereux walking toward the two men who had opened the gate ‘‘Nathaniel Holyfield, it’s a pleasure to meet you again, sir!’’
Replacing my watch, I released the handle of my walking stick and nodded to Pennington.
Amelia
By Samantha Ketteman
Amelia could barely discern the rapid staccato clicking of her heels on the cobblestone road over the pounding of her heart in her ears. Her lungs screamed in protest as she ran harder, forcing every ounce of strength in her body to carry her faster. The mist of her warm breath against the chilly air rushed back onto her face, cooling the tears streaming from her violet eyes. She risked a glance behind, her long blonde hair blocking her view for the slightest moment, and felt her already taxed adrenaline spike to dangerous levels at the sight of the giant man gaining on her heels.
Frustrated and feeling defeated, she pumped her arms harder and screamed into the night with a precious breath. Amelia felt her corset collapse her lungs as she was forcefully yanked backwards by the ties and watched as her heels flew from her feet in their own attempt to get away. She landed on the road hard, jarring her hip against the unforgiving rock before feeling the impact of her skull bouncing as it hit. Bright lights exploded behind her eyeballs and a pain unlike anything she had ever felt seared through her brain.
Amelia looked up at the behemoth of a man standing over her, long trench coat whipping in the breeze, allowing her to see the long knife hanging from his leather belt. His eyes glared down at her, black as the night and as empty as the wind, scrutinizing her from head to toe. She could feel his visual caress like a thousand pinpricks but still couldn’t find the strength to move or cover herself.
She had heard her bustle and skirts rip when she fell and felt
the moisture from the stone seeping through her lace sleeves. She whimpered as the man’s gaze stripped her of dignity and pride when she could do nothing but lie in the darkened streets, hoping he would grant her a swift death.
The clock tower on the square rang twice as the man pulled the large, serrated, and sharpened knife and turned it over, the light of the lone gaslight reflecting onto the blade and highlighting his macabre smile. Amelia could see his crooked teeth and smell his fetid breath as he leaned in closer, inhaling her scent as if she were a hors d’oeuvre, but the goggles he wore blocked the upper half of his face.
He stuck his tongue out and ran it across the sharp edge, drawing blood that dripped onto her bodice, before cleaning it on her skirts.
I’m not ready to die, but if this is the end, please let it be swift. Amelia closed her eyes with what she hoped would be her last thought, and waited for the pain of the knife as it sliced through her body.
Amelia cracked her eyelids the slightest bit at the sound of grunts and shuffling feet. The man had forgotten about her as he fought with another. She lay there, too afraid to draw attention to herself as she watched two men wrestle over the gleaming blade. A whimper escaped her lips, and she crawled backwards on her elbows, scraping the skin from her arms as she went. She didn’t dare stand and run. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the scene unfolding, in case the men decided to join forces and attack from behind as she attempted to escape.
Finally standing to run, she watched as the second male, wearing a long, brown duster, stabbed her attacker with the same blade he had used to threaten her. Then, he turned his unbelievable silver eyes to her and held his hands out, dropping the weapon, as he took two steps in her direction.
His expression belied a calm demeanor, non-threatening, but Amelia was not going to wait for him to change his mind. She gathered her lopsided heels, one shoe having been broken, and ran for her life.
She could hear her breath sawing in and out of her open mouth, and cursed the sound of the thump-thump in her ears. She couldn’t tell if the man was chasing her, so she kept running, tripping more than once on the cobblestones in conjunction with her missing stiletto and lopsided gait.
Amelia burst through the doors of a tavern, one of the only establishments still open at the late hour, searching for safety. A lone patron sat on a stool, but paid her no mind. She sat at a booth in the corner where she could watch the door, dusting off the peanut shells as she did. She waited, the deafening sound of her heart beginning to fade, and finally glanced away from the entrance to look at the man at the bar.
He sat with a forlorn expression, no drink in hand, and didn’t seem to notice her. Odd that he is the only one in the whole place, Amelia mused. Remembering her bodice ripping during the attack, she checked to be sure she was still covered, and sighed at the loss of the only fine dress she owned.
Curiously, she couldn’t remember where she had been that warranted such a fine garment, but her brain was still foggy from the attack. She continued to sit in the corner, intent on waiting for the clock tower to strike six, when it would be safe to head home. Where is my home?
****
Jolting awake at the sound of the clock gong, Amelia realized that she had fallen asleep on the table. Disgusting, she thought as she peeled her cheek from the residue of dried alcohol coating the wood. She noticed the same man, sitting in the exact spot as when she had arrived, still staring at the mirror above the bar. The tables were all empty, as was the bar, save the lone man, so she stood and cautiously opened the door to peer outside.
The orange sun was just on the horizon, rays of light warming the cold cobblestone and beckoning Amelia to bask in their warmth. She stepped outside, craning her neck left and right, but the streets were empty. The buildings were run down, as she was on a side of town where the lower class lived. Chipped brick and dirty windows made up the row of empty shops on either side of her. There wasn’t a soul in sight, no tittering to be heard as the ladies of the night headed home. The streets were empty of the usual workers destined for the cotton mills, and the torches from the night before still burned.
With one last tentative look in both directions, Amelia ran her hands over her goose bump covered, bare arms as her teeth chattered. She tried in vain to remember where she could go, where she lived, but groaned from the headache that confused her thoughts. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Grasping the sides of her head, she drew her hand back to reveal smudges of crimson on her fingertips.
Amelia walked to one of the abandoned shops and peered at her warped reflection in the filth-covered glass. She gingerly touched her head where clotted blood lined the left side of her hairline and flinched from the pain. Lights exploded behind her eyes and lightning seared from temple to temple. She placed her hand against the disgusting window and took a deep breath as she tried to will the pain away long enough to think.
With no idea whether she was headed in the right direction, Amelia limped down the road towards the giant clock tower in the center of town. After passing a block of shops, she decided to brave the cold and stopped to remove the lopsided heels, opting instead to carry them. She thought it curious that there wasn’t a soul to be seen. The whole street was desolate, no clopping horse hooves or carriage wheels bumping along the cobblestones to be heard. Halfway to her destination, she came upon a single woman standing by the door to an apartment building.
Amelia attempted to gain her attention. “Excuse me, but do you know where everyone is?”
The woman continued to look past Amelia, as if she had not heard her at all.
Amelia cleared her parched throat and tried once more. “Ma’am, do you know why the streets are so empty this morning?” The street vendors were even missing, their carts selling various items nowhere in sight.
“This damn plague. Everyone. It has taken everyone.”
Well, that’s just not possible, Amelia thought, dismissing the woman as she continued padding towards the center of town. I’m sure to find people near the town square. She tripped, stubbing her toe on a stone, and cursed aloud. Limping, she continued past all of the dilapidated storefronts and emerged in the center of town.
No carriages passed on the road, and Amelia noticed only a few people wandering the other side of the street, passing the more presentable shops. A man yelling about the end of the world caught her attention, as he waved wildly in the air. I think I’ll pass on asking him anything, she thought.
She looked up at the oversize hands ticking away on the clock tower and gasped. Confused, Amelia watched as the hands moved counter-clockwise, as if rewinding time. A dirigible floated overhead, drawing her attention as the steam puffed from the vents in the rear of the airship. It, too, was floating in reverse. Eyes wide in disbelief, Amelia brought her hand to her mouth to stifle the scream. What is going on? Where am I?
Without thought, she took three steps and fell against the clock tower, sliding down the cold stone exterior to sit. Get it together, Amelia. There is a rational reason why you can’t remember anything before the attack, she chanted to herself. She hung her head, headache still battering her skull, and tried to reason through everything that had transpired. She could recall, in vivid detail, the attack and the man with the silver eyes reaching towards her.
As if summoned by thoughts alone, she glanced up to see the silver-eyed stranger standing on the corner watching her. Amelia gurgled on her scream and stood so fast that she scraped her back against the uneven stone exterior of the clock tower. Turning to run in the opposite direction, she tried every shop door on the opposite side of the street, only to find each one locked.
Risking a glance behind her, she found the street corner empty and tried to calm her rapidly beating heart. As she continued walking, she pinched her nose in an effort to block the overwhelming smell from searing her nasal cavity. The further she walked down Main Street, the stronger the smell became.
Flames, as high as the roofs, blazed at the end of the road, blues
and purples intermingled with the orange glow. Curiosity and bewilderment carried her towards the scene, joining the handful of others standing around the blaze as if it were a bonfire.
****
Staring into the flames, Amelia became entranced. One by one, each of the peasants walked into the fire, like moths to a flame. She wanted to scream, to stop them, but she could only fight the urge inside her that wanted to join them. She watched their clothes and hair ignite, but still, they walked closer until they were fully engulfed. As the skin melted from their skeletons, Amelia screamed in her head, her mouth never manifesting the sound of her utter horror.
Against her every instinct, one leg inched forward to carry her closer to the fire. A shove from behind made her stumble and land hard on her hands and knees. The skin on her palms bled, her skirts ripped, and her knees screaming in pain. The aching in her knees cleared her head, and she looked back to see the attacker from the night before glaring at her.
That’s impossible! Amelia scrambled to the side, still on all fours, while watching the man advance on her. Bumping into something hard, she whipped her head around and up to find the silver-eyed man glaring at her attacker. Amelia whimpered and crawled on the freezing ground to hide behind her savior.
A gust of wind blew the gentleman’s long coat into her face, blinding her for a moment. Her arms finally gave out as she collapsed on the frigid stone and watched in terror, face turned and eyes wide, as her attacker approached the man guarding her.
Her guardian took two steps towards the terrifying man, and Amelia wanted to reach out and grasp his ankle, silently begging him. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me like this!
As afraid as she was of the silver-eyed stranger, she was more horrified at the man gaining ground towards them. His teeth were black and rotting as he smiled, his skin deteriorated and hanging loosely on his face, unlike the last time she had seen him. She ordered her body to move, but exhaustion rendered her motionless. She could feel the cold seeping through her dress, the moisture in the air making her breath puff. Before she could will her body otherwise, her eyelids drooped.
Cogs in Time Anthology (The Steamworks Series Book 1) Page 2