SteamGoth
Monsters,
Magic and Machines
Edited By Jonathan David Baird
Copyright 2011
Crosstime Publishing
This is an anthology of tales dedicated to the dark side of SteamPunk. In this book you will find monsters, magical beings, steam powered supermen and much more. Come take a trip back in time and across to a parallel universe to see the world as it might have been.
Dedication- To all the geeks, freaks, nerds, and other strange and wonderful people who listen to the beat of a different drummer. We are the ones that created this world, everyone else is just along for the ride.
So what is SteamGoth?
That is a good question. The short answer is that it is a darker version of Steampunk. However that isn’t the final answer to this question. SteamGoth encompasses more than a darkness not found in regular Steampunk. SteamGoth embraces the magical and paranormal side as well. Where SteamPunk is the science fiction version of the Victorian period, SteamGoth is the fantasy version. SteamGoth can be about vampires, zombies, werewolves, or just as easily about steam powered knights in shining Victorian armor. SteamGoth is dark but often it has that ethereal hint of neo-medievalism that was so very popular in the Victorian age.
Veritatem Tuam Reprobo Et Meam Subpono
About the Authors
Jonathan David Baird is a professional archaeologist and sometime writer from Western North Carolina. He lives on a small farm with his longtime girl friend, five dogs, five horses, two cats, and twelve chickens. He has a bachelor’s degree in anthropology from Western Carolina University and a Masters in humanities from Ft Hays State University in Kansas.
Gerry Harris is an out of work IT tech with a passion for horror and “Victorian Scientific Romances.” He lives in Alabama with his wife and toddler, four dogs, a bird and a fish.
Kevin M. Houghtonlives in Northern Virginia with his wife Courtney, their son Liam and four active cats. This is Kevin's first foray into the world of Steampunk, having written other short horror stories in the past. His first Steampunk story "The Curse of the Cygnus" is one of a planned set of stories that are all set in the same alternate Victorian era world.
Bruce Edward Blackistone is one of the founders of the Markland Medieval Mercenary Militia, the Longship Company, and the author of the infamous parody: Beowabbit. He lives in Southern Maryland on a small family farm, on land that has “been in and out of the family for about 350 years.” He works as a leasing officer for the National Park Service. He describes himself as a full time civil servant, part time blacksmith, and seasonal Viking ship Captain.
John Raposa spent the last 35 years working with radio telescopes, sitting on console for spacecraft operations, and teaching.
About the Artist
Chris “Spike” Garrison Born in the hill country of NC. in the small town of Morganton, Driven by the philosophy of a modern day renaissance man, the primarily self taught artist is adept in multiple mediums from simple pen and ink drawings on a cocktail napkin, and painting to etching images into human flesh with a tattoo machine. Whether sculpting in clay with a soup spoon, wood with a chain saw
or metal with a hammer and the flame of a cutting torch. For Spike life's meaning is found in the process of creation.
Quote “sometimes ya just gotta to do it cause it's wrong "
Contents:
The Tell-Tale Steam Pump by Jonathan Baird page 8
March and Die by Gerry Harris page 14
Ode to Darwin by Jonathan Baird page 35
Curse of Cygnus by Kevin Houghton page 36
Second Elegy by Bruce Blackistone page 127
The Life and Adventures of Thaddeus R. Turnbuckle Attorney at Law by Jonathan Baird page 128
Over the Edge by Gerry Harris page 159
The Mysterious Disappearance of James by John Raposa page 170
The Best of Creatures by Jonathan Baird page 180
Not all SteamGoth tales fit the mold perfectly. This story is in homage to Edgar Allen Poe and while it is mostly a SteamPunk tale the nod to Poe pushes it over into darker territory.
The Tell-Tale Steam Pump
© 2011, Jonathan David Baird
True- Anxious I am so very anxious I have been and am. But why would you call my wager lost? The deal was struck we all saw the deed done- not lost no- not lost in the least. Above all the sense of urgency gives me hope. I have seen all things in heaven and earth and even in hell there is none like this. How then have I lost? Hear me now and look how he moves – I will gladly tell you the story of the Steam Driven Man.
It is impossible to say how the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me. Object there was none. Passion was all I had. I watched the man fall. You hear me I saw him fall. He had beaten the best my engine could do. He was a man made of iron and he was rightfully called the steel driving man. Yes that was it, that gave me the idea. The man had a soul of iron, but body of flesh. Arms of raw sinew and bone and a heart that had burst. My blood ran hot and I came quickly to that fateful decision as I saw him lying there. To save that man of iron.
Now this is the point. You fancy me a loser. Losers have nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how quickly I proceeded- with all caution gone- driven by knowledge- with what determination I went to work! I was gentle never so gentle with my machines. I turned the cranks I stroked the wheels- oh so gently! And then, when I had made my calculations I dismantled the very machine that had lost the race. No steam billowed out now, and I thrust my hand into the works. Oh, you would have cried out loud to see how cunningly I removed the parts. I took them quickly there was no time to lose; I must disturb the deathly slumber of this iron man. It took me no time to build the thing I had worked such calculations upon. Ha, would a loser have been so crafty as this. And then, when the object of my creation was in my hand, I placed the last gear with abandon, I say with abandon I took that magnificent object and placed it on the man’s chest. For seven long minutes I fiddled with my new contraption. I touched the man’s breast his heart did not beat and I spoke to him in low tones imploring him to awaken before I would have to undertake this final act. I looked on him in death.
Upon the eighth minute I had thrown all caution to the winds. I opened up his chest and saw the exploded heart. A Surgeon’s hands could not have moved more quickly than I. Never before that day had I felt the extent of my own powers- Of my Genius. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, Opening up the gates of heaven itself, throwing them wide, and the man he could not fathom or dream of what I was to do for him that day. I fairly laughed at the idea; and perhaps God heard me; for my hands moved like lightning with a quickness born of mercury. I moved closer to the dead man removing the worthless tissue extracting the veins and arteries. His chest was open and thick with blood. I attached muscle and vein. Arteries clogged with dying blood soon were part and parcel of my metal creation. I opened the door and sought to pull this man back from the embrace of death.
Presently I heard a creak, and I knew it was the creak of gears. It was not a creak of rust or of misalignment Oh no!- it was the high pitched sound that arises from the clash of metal on metal when powerful gears push and turn. I knew that sound well. Many a day just at noon, when the entire world was alive, it had welled up from my machines the high pitched click that signaled a well honed mechanism. I say I knew it well. I knew what that signified, and I was elated, and I laughed again. The man laid cold dead but my machin
e strapped to his chest and penetrating his body moved on its own. Death was receding and I knew that I must work quickly to keep it at bay. The presence of life was like lightning in my hands.
I waited a few seconds without hearing the creak again, I resolved to open a little – a very, very little the valve that allowed steam to pour into the mechanism. So I opened it- You cannot imagine how quickly, quickly and surely I opened that valve. Steam poured into the machine, like the crack of a whip it shot into the pump. The pump opened up slowly to a full head. The Steam powered Iron heart pumped and blood flowed once again in that dead body. The machine pumped furiously and I grew ecstatic as I watched the cogs and gears turn. The world went dull and the man of iron lay still but for the whirl of the mechanical heart. And I have not told you what you mistake for loss is but an over attention to detail on my part. Now I say there came to my ears a sharp, slow sound which I knew very well. It was the sound of steam pushing the pump a whoosh and a whirl as the rushing of the wind it caused my soul to leap.
I was unrestrained and I moved like liquid steel. My breath came quickly and I held the throttle tight. I kept the steam flowing and allowed more and more into the pumps. Meanwhile the angelic tattoo of the pumps increased. It grew Quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The dead man’s soul must now know his body had been hijacked. The pump whined and I threw the throttle to full and the body leaped forward once and lay back down still as death. I grabbed his shoulders and shook I pleaded with him to come back to show some sign of life beyond the pounding of the pumps. This vexed me to the core would my work be in vain. He was limp death had grabbed him and as I examined him I found no sign of life but the pump churned on and on. One last thing- Oh yes one last triumph. I grabbed the throttle in one hand and pushed it past the limits. Steam exploded from the machine every valve was open and power oozed out. The body leaped again and this time I saw the arms stir. Ever so slightly the fingers moved then the arms.
If you still see me as a loser, you will think so no longer when I describe how I worked to revive the man once I saw him stir. No human eye would have detected the slight eye movement that I perceived through the lenses of my goggles. I quickly massaged each arm and leg and even took his head in hand and massaged the scalp to bring blood back into perfect flow inside the body. Very little blood had been lost and he stirred slowly but I could feel the strength returning to him. When I had made an end to my labors and he lay resting but fully alive only thirty minutes had passed since he had bested my steel driving machine. Then those who had stood in awe of my machinations gathered round. They had called the police believing me a madman when they saw me crack open the dead man’s chest. But here he laid alive and well steam driving his new Iron heart. I had not lost the bet - Oh no! I showed the police my work and I offered to let them examine the machine that had brought poor John back to life. I myself in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph sat cross legged and exhausted next to the spot where John Henry stirred.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them that no wrong had been done. Now that John Henry was awake and had spoken a few words. But ere long I felt myself getting more and more giddy. I could hear the whoosh, whoosh of the steam pump pushing the blood through his heart. John Henry was standing now and had his hammer in his hand. I was a winner no loss was mine. The pump got louder yet and my ears burned with the sound of my triumph. No one else seemed to notice and John Henry the steam powered man looked at me askew. Oh god what could he want. Does he want to thank me for my genius does he want to shake my hand and offer me his lifelong gratitude? The pump was loud in my ears but I could hear John Henry.
“We had a bet, Company Man.”
Sometimes even the hardest men can be shaken to the core by the unexpected, especially where the undead are involved.
March and Die © 2011,Gerry Harris
The late afternoon sun beat down on cluster of ruins and the surrounding hills. If it wasn’t for the smoked-glass goggles he was wearing, Sergeant-Chef Karl Mueller would long since have been blind. A long line of bodies lay sprawled between the ruins and the horizon. Those bodies included Lieutenant de Havries, late of St. Cyr, and ten of his legionnaires.
De Havries and his platoon had been escorting a land train of supplies for outpost Elaine when it had been ambushed. During the ensuing running battle the train had been damaged, whether from a fortunate hit against its otherwise-armored hide, or by an unfortunate mechanical failure. It and its remaining escort had been able to reach the ruins of a caravanserai before the train had ground to a halt. With its last gasp of steam, the crew had managed to maneuver the train so that its middle car, the one mounting the mitrailleuse, blocked the ruins of the gate.
“Camerone, eh sergeant-chef?” Caporal Adkins asked with a sardonic grin. He was referring to the last stand of a small band of legionnaires in Mexico in 1863. The Legion celebrated that battle every year. Adkins was the next senior surviving legionnaire.
“Not if I can help it, Adkins,” Mueller replied. “I want you to post four men atop the train with the mitrailleuse1. Get the rest of them unloading the cars. We can use the gear to fortify this position.”
“I’m not sure the blokes at Elaine are going to appreciate us pillaging their equipment,” Adkins said.
“If we’re dead, they’re not going to get them anyway.” Mueller continued to scour the horizon as he talked.
As Adkins began organizing the crews, Mueller trotted over to the train cab. He reached up with a gloved hand to grasp the handhold next to the cab before hoisting himself atop the train’s tread. Peering into the cab, he saw the three civilians of the train crew huddled in a heated discussion.
“Gentlemen!” Mueller barked. The three men turned to face him. “Do you know what the matter is with the train? Can we get it up and running again?” Mueller continued.
1mitrailleuse-A fixed mounted Victorian era rapid fire rifle of large caliber.
Aziz, the train’s engineer, cleared his throat. His black hair and beard framed a face burnt nearly as dark from years working in the desert. “We have a small hole in the pressure chamber, sergeant-chef,” he said. “We have the equipment to patch it, but we cannot do so until the chamber has cooled. It will be several hours after dark before we can start, and the patching itself will take maybe an hour. But we have another problem.”
“What?” Mueller asked, already suspecting the answer.
“We do not have enough water to replace what was lost,” Aziz said. “Even if we get the hole patched, we cannot go anywhere.”
Mueller rubbed his eyes with his gloved hand. They were gritty, either from the dry air or from the ever-present sand. “Well, work on the patch anyway. I’ll see what I can do about the water situation.” Mueller turned back to leave the cab.
“Um, sergeant-chef,” Aziz called. Mueller turned around. “I was able to contact the main supply base on the wireless. They can dispatch an aerial cruiser. It will be here by morning.”
“We may not last till morning. Please see to your train.”
Mueller walked back along the train to where a group of legionnaires was unloading supplies onto the sandy stone of the caravanserai’s courtyard. The men had laid out empty burlap sacks that could be used as sandbags. As he approached one of the men was tossing out a bundle of barbed wire.
“Is there any water in the cars?” Mueller asked the group as he trotted up.
Legionnaire Eidleman pivoted around. “No, sergeant-chef,” he said. “We have fortification supplies, ammunition, and rations. But there is no water.”
“There are two tuns of wine, though,” Legionnaire Adamski said, smirking.
The Legion would not fight without its wine ration, Mueller thought. “Half of you start filling the sandbags, while the rest of you string the wire,” he said aloud. “When you’re done, divvy up the ammunition amongst you. We only have a few hours till sunset and I think we will have a fight before morning.”
The
last rays of the setting sun stretched Mueller’s shadow for what looked like hundreds of meters. It lay across the nearest clumps of bodies. Aziz came up next to Mueller.
“My crew will be ready to start patching about three hours after sunset, sergeant-chef,” he said.
Mueller scanned the ground in front of him with his binoculars. He could see movement in the distance. Small parties of men appeared to be collecting the bodies
“Must be getting ready to bury them,” Mueller remarked. “Don’t you Moslems need to bury your dead within 24 hours.”
“Yes we do, sergeant-chef,” Aziz replied. “But these are not Moslems. They are the Ayef Ip. They worship the old gods. It is said the Caliph ordered them converted or destroyed and sent a huge army after them. The desert swallowed the army whole. Since that time the Ayef Ip have been avoided by all civilized men.”
“And we’ve walked right into them,” Mueller said with a sigh.
Mueller walked around the makeshift defenses. There had been enough barbed wire in the train to lay a two-meter strip 10 meters out around the entire position. The legionnaires had also dug fighting pits and stocked each with the copious ammunition the train carried. The last rays of the setting sun disappeared as Mueller finished his inspection.
Shortly after sunset, Mueller heard, or rather felt, a rhythmic thumping like the beating of a base drum. The noise was barely audible and seemed to emanate from the earth, itself. It set Mueller’s teeth on edge and he could see his men were becoming increasingly restless. A little bit later Mueller began to detect another note, this one like the soughing of the wind. The hair on his arms prickled and there was an electric feeling in the atmosphere like one would experience before a thunderstorm. The sensations went on and on, and Mueller began to fear for his sanity.
Monsters, Magic, and Machines (The SteamGoth Anthology Book 1) Page 1