Mechanized Masterpieces: A Steampunk Anthology

by Anika Arrington

  “Do you really think Muggins knows of the existence of these tunnels? And he plans to reopen them to steal the Crown Jewels? It seems a bit of a stretch in deduction. Even if he could gain entrance to the proper tower, he’d still have to access the Jewel House. It’s practically impossible. We’re most likely on another fruitless search.” Mary wrinkled her nose in distaste at the foul smell which wafted up from where she stepped.

  “Perhaps, but we can’t ignore the possibility. It is just the type of outlandish thing he would attempt. And if Muggins is after the Crown Jewels, we have to stop him.”

  “True, I suppose, but I don’t fancy the idea of encountering our foes down here. It’s a perfect place for an ambush.”

  “Well, there’s a horrid idea: falling into another trap. I’ve had enough of being shot at this week. Of course,” Fred grinned wickedly, “that may not be the only thing we have to worry about. There may be a few ghosts down here as well.” His hand shot out and grabbed Mary’s shoulder. She started and let out a faint squeal of alarm.

  “Stop that.” Mary swatted her hand at him in irritation and frowned disapprovingly. “Stop teasing. If we’re not careful, we may be the ones who end up as ghosts.”

  As they travelled onward, they began to see signs of recent use, a few bits of metal, and odd tracks on the muddy floor of the tunnel.

  “Perhaps your theory isn’t so far-fetched after all,” Mary whispered. “My apologies, Fred.”

  They pulled out their pistols and peered into the dimly lit gloom for the slightest signs of trouble. Their footsteps grew quieter now, and their voices stilled as they stalked any potential enemies. They stopped in unison as noises sounded from far ahead in the tunnel.

  “Careful, now,” Fred murmured. “We don’t know what lies before us.”

  Fred and Mary crept forward, straining their eyes as they peered into the gloom. Slowly they saw shapes moving in the dark and the noises got louder.

  “Fred,” Mary whispered, “That sounds like—”

  “It is. It’s the rats.”

  “What are we going—”

  A great, deafening explosion shook the tunnel, sending them backward off their feet, bits of stonework debris raining around them.

  Fred landed on his back, choking on dirt and dust, the stench of smoke in his nose, his ears buzzing and his head reeling. He could hear Mary to his right, moaning softly.

  “Mary!” He croaked her name, coughing, sloughing off grime and small chunks of stone as he struggled to sit. “Mary, are you hurt?” He groped about until he managed to find her hand. He gripped it tight for a moment, squeezing.

  “I think I’m fine. I don’t think anything’s broken. I’m just dazed, I think.” Her frail voice floated from the surrounding blackness. Fred’s torch had gone out. He fumbled about, checking his pockets, before rummaging out a match and lighting it. In the faint, flickering light, he found Mary, and then the match sputtered out.

  ”Can you stand?” Fred asked, as he lit another match.

  “Yes, I think so.” He watched her rise on shaky limbs, as he found his own unsteady feet. His match died again. “Does your torch work?”

  In the darkness, he heard her fussing with the wrist device as he cranked his own. No comforting glow came from either and Fred sighed.

  “It’s no good, Fred. It’s broken.”

  “Mine, too. We’ll have to use the matches to move forward.”

  “Are you sure we should—no, we have to investigate.” Fred felt her fumble and then grasp his hand. “Lead the way.”

  Fred lit another match. “Try to keep to the wall and watch out for loose stones and debris.”

  They stumbled and groped through the murky tunnel, their way illuminated only by the slight flame of match after match. Fred guided the advance, Mary clutching to his arm, her pistol ready.

  “Stop. I think I see light further on.” Fred dropped the already sputtering match he held and peered ahead. A steady gleam of light illuminated the passage, showing a spectacle of strewn stony rubble.

  Fred and Mary inched forward slowly, struggling through the scene of destruction, clambering over the rocks and debris littering the floor of the tunnel. As they grew closer to the apex of the damage, they saw a gaping hole exposed in the wall, where the light filtered out.

  “They’ve breached the sealed entrance. We must follow them.” Fred rushed his advance, hastening over more wreckage, Mary scrambling to keep pace.

  “Fred, be careful. We still don’t know what we’re facing.”

  Fred glanced back. “It doesn’t matter what we face. We must stop this attack.” He dashed through the hole and into the unknown.

  “Just watch out for those rats!”

  They found a crude stairway and raced up the steps, taking two at a time, as noises and shouts from above them became audible. They emerged from the stairwell into the confines of the Martin Tower, and a scene of havoc and chaos.

  Around them darted mechanical rats: dozens of scuttling, scampering rodents, attacking the Tower guards; a complete infestation. Fred and Mary stared at one another and simultaneously said, “The Jewel House!”

  The pair raced as one, fending off biting, snapping rats as they ran. They arrived at the Tower Jewel House in time to behold a dazzling display of mechanized rats bedecked in the splendid finery of crowns and tiaras, bracelets and rings, carrying sceptres and orbs, spoons and swords, fleeing the site. The mad metal league of thieves led a parade of guards on a merry chase, with Mary and Fred joining the melee, all in a wild dash to the courtyard. They emerged into dappled sunlight and a surprise attack.

  “Take cover!” Bullets greeted Fred’s shouts as a gang of armed men filling the courtyard opened fire on them all. They had rushed straight into a gunfight. “Try to retreat to the Tower!”

  He and Mary dodged bullets, making their way to safety, firing back with their own pistols, as did many of the Tower guards. The rats had disappeared into the crowd of foes, taking the Crown Jewels with them.

  Fred glanced back at Mary who seemed to be rubbing her wrist. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, now pay attention. We’re being shot at, Fred.”

  “I know that—”

  His words were cut short by the sound of high pitched laughter ringing out above the sound of gunfire.

  “Great Scott! Is that . . . ?” Fred scanned the courtyard and saw him: a gangly gentleman in a stylish black suit, standing out in a sea of men.

  “Muggins.” Fred spat the word and ground his teeth.

  “What! He’s here? Oh my, Fred! Look up!”

  Fred raised his gaze to where Mary pointed.

  “What the blazes!” Above his head flew a fantastic airship, a mechanical marvel of gears, propellers, and an inflatable balloon. “It’s a two-pronged attack.”

  “And now he’s escaping. He’s getting away, Fred.”

  Fred saw Muggins rising in the air, clinging to a suspended, ascending basket. “And, no doubt, he has the Crown Jewels with him.” Fred watched Muggins trade shots with guards as they tried to hold his basket to the earth.

  “We’re never going to explain this one to Griffith.”

  “We can if we catch Muggins. Come on, Mary.”

  Fred leaped forward into the path of the enemy gunmen, dodging bullets and the still-attacking rats on an insane sprint for Muggins, who yet struggled to escape the clutch of defending guards. He heard Mary behind him, shooting, as he too, fired through the enemy; their guns and bravado somehow cleared a path. Fred jumped as the basket began to ascend again, and caught the edge. He hauled himself in and greeted Muggins with a punch on the nose.

  Muggins staggered back, then raised his pistol and fired. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber. With a cry of rage, Muggins leaped at Fred, and the pair fought in the precariously swinging basket.

  Muggins landed two blows to Fred’s stomach that doubled him over in pain. A vicious kick to the shins sent Fred to his knees. Desperate, Fred lashed out w
ith an uppercut to Muggins’ jaw. Muggins staggered back a step and Fred rushed forward, tackling him. The pair hit the side of the basket. The wicker contraption swung violently and the frail connecting ropes creaked under the strain of their brutal brawl.

  Fred slammed three punches into Muggins’ face while Muggins countered by smashing a fist into Fred’s gut. Fred wrenched away and both men stood apart, gasping for breath. An ominous lurch shook the basket. They both looked upwards.

  Immediately, they grasped the awful danger. Helpless, they stared in horror as fast-unravelling strands of rope fiber gave way with a snap, and the left side of their lifeline released into the sky.

  Time seemed suspended before Fred and Muggins crashed against the side of the basket, their weight upending it. Fred grabbed at the edge to break his fall, clinging on frantically. He watched a shower of jewels and crowns tumble to the ground and land in the midst of men and rats.

  He dangled precariously from the rim of the basket. Below him, an angry, shrieking Muggins clung to a remaining piece of frayed rope. Shouts came from above and Fred saw henchmen lower a rope ladder to his enemy. He glimpsed another man slicing at the remaining line holding the basket aloft.

  Unable to stop it, Fred shouted in frustration as Muggins ascended to safety. Then the final threads of the fraying rope broke and Fred plummeted to the ground. As he collided back to earth and lost consciousness, Fred witnessed Muggins climb into the airship.

  When Fred regained his senses, the first thing he realised was that he rested on something soft, certainly not a tangle of men and mechanicals. He opened his eyes. Mary’s face filled his vision. She sat beside him, on a narrow bed.

  “Finally decided to wake up, did you, sleepy head? You missed the last bit of the fun.”

  “What happened? Where am I?” Fred tried to sit up and immediately changed his mind, staying supine, where a piercing pain did not invade his head.

  “You’re in hospital. You came out of it all with a few bruises and scrapes, one or two broken ribs, and a bump on the head. You’re quite lucky.”

  “I don’t feel lucky.” Fred sighed. “The last thing I remember is Muggins getting away.”

  “Yes. That dastardly villain slipped through our grasp again. But at least he did not abscond with the Crown Jewels. You managed to dump the whole lot with you when you fell.”

  “Entirely by accident I assure you, but at least they were recovered.” Fred frowned. “Why were they recovered? I fell in the midst of Muggins’ henchmen. Surely even some of them had the sense to try and make off with the loot?”

  “Oh, no doubt they would have tried, had the agents I signalled not arrived in the nick of time. They rounded up the lot and the jewels. It was just like something from the Penny Dreadfuls.” Mary giggled. “Good thing this device wasn’t damaged in the tunnel explosion.” She waggled her wrist signalling apparatus under his nose.

  “What on earth?! When did you have time to signal for more agents?”

  “After we burst into the courtyard. I thought it a prudent idea, faced with all those armed men. And the rats. And Muggins.”

  “Crikey, I never even thought to signal.”

  “Of course not. You were too busy running headlong through gunfire without a plan. You know, you really have to stop that tendency. We’re both damned lucky we’re not dead.”

  “Mary! Watch your language. Ladies don’t swear.”

  “Please. I think I’m entitled to a little swearing. And you’ll be hearing a lot more when you finally get to meet with Griffith.”

  “Oh, heavens. I forgot about Griffith. He must be pulling out his hair.”

  Mary nodded. “He’s livid. Although, mostly at Muggins.” Mary absently smoothed back an errant lock of his hair. “About the only one who has taken any joy in this escapade is Topper. He has dozens of rat specimens to tinker with now, both destroyed and still functional.” Mary reached around him and fluffed his pillow. “Just relax and rest. You have to get better.”

  Fred closed his eyes, ready to drift off to the sound of Mary’s voice.

  “Stand down, nurse, and get out of my way!” A familiar bellow echoed in from the corridor.

  Fred’s eyes flew open. “Deuced hell,” he exclaimed as Griffith stormed into the room.

  Mary giggled. “I guess there’s no rest for the likes of us, Fred, my dear. Time to go back to work.”

  Styled after after A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

  My name is Elizabeth Lavenza, and I am dreaming the same dream that has haunted me since I was a child.

  I am lying on my back in my bed, and my skin is hot with fever. There is a sound like metal clicking, and a gentle voice is humming some unidentifiable, soothing tune. I open my eyes slowly, the room around me blurry and swimming with too-vibrant colors. My body is heavy as lead, my limbs limp against the mattress as someone peels back the sheets from my prone form. Gentle, firm hands cradle my head and prop me up against a pillow, and I can see before me.

  My mother, beautiful and serene, is there beside me, her touch loving and careful. She is the source of the humming, the melody some foreign lullaby that calms me despite my inability to move my body. She pulls a pair of goggles down over her eyes, and there are gloves on her slender hands. She pushes aside more cloth, and my vision blurs again, the room spinning.

  She has a set of small, strange tools on a tray beside her, and she is using them on me, somehow, in a way that I cannot quite make out from this angle. My heartbeat is loud as a metal drum, and there is a whirring of gears and clacking of cogs.

  I am suddenly afraid, for I do not understand what I see with my own eyes, but then the fever takes me into blackness once more.

  Then I awake, and I am whole and well, with no trace of fever, no sign of any surgery upon my form, and my mind is full of questions.

  I have had this recurring dream since I was a child, but it is not the first thing I remember. If I am to tell this tale, I ought to start from the beginning of my life.

  I was once an orphan, brought to be the ward of a well-off couple when my poor Italian foster family could no longer afford to keep me. This fine couple, whose name was Frankenstein, told me that I was the daughter of a German lady and a Milanese nobleman, an illegitimate child and the cause of my mother’s death.

  For as long as I could remember, my new parents determined that I would one day wed my foster brother, whom I have called ‘cousin’ all my life. He and I were playmates as children, the best of friends, and it did not seem unusual that we should one day be man and wife.

  Despite my rise from destitution to comfort, from abandoned to loved, I had always understood my own existence to be average in every way. I was comfortable and happy, and there was nothing strange or out of the ordinary about me or my adopted family.

  Oh, the lies we tell to protect the ones we love!

  After my adoption by the Frankensteins, my childhood was very much a warm and happy one. My dear cousin Victor was a deeply inquisitive, quiet, intelligent soul. We were constant companions, and I often found my own curiosity piqued by his. He revealed unto me endless wonders of the world and its habits, and we explored the way children do: fearlessly and often, without stopping to rest. We spoke of stars and mountains, rivers and caverns, of flame and electricity, of steam and iron.

  Victor was fascinated by the progress of invention, and I found myself often peering over his shoulder at things he studied, curious in ways of my own. More than anything, however, I loved his passion, the gleam in his eyes that spoke of rushing, fathomless thoughts too quick for even his own tongue to keep up.

  I suppose I always knew he would be a scientist of some sort; a scholar, definitely. His father wished for a doctor, or lawyer, and indeed, my Victor could have achieved all this and more. But, Victor wanted the thrill of discovery, the sleepless nights of research and experimentation. He wanted a more difficult path.

  Victor always got what he wanted.

  When we were still quite y
oung, I contracted an illness, that which went by the name of scarlet fever. I was quarantined in my chambers upon diagnosis, to suffer it through or be taken to the arms of God, and my adoptive mother was barred from caring for me as she so wished, on the chance she might contract the fever too.

  I remember little of this time spent in dim firelight, rolling in the sheets in a haze of heat and weakness and worry. And then I woke to find my mother there, feeding me soup and giving me water to drink, and dampening my brow with a cool cloth.

  “But Mother,” said I, fearful, “the doctor said you could catch my fever!”

  “Better to catch your fever, my angel, than let you suffer alone,” said she, then continued to care for me as bravely as any soldier on the front lines of a war.

  Again, I dipped into dreamless, fuzzy sleep, and was lost for a time in darkness and warmth. Once, I thought I opened my eyes and saw my mother there, bent over my abdomen with gloves and spectacles on, using a tiny set of metal tools to fix something, like a surgeon. I slept again in confusion.

  When I woke again, my mother was there, looking weak and tired herself. I felt somewhat better. The little tools and gloves and spectacles of magnification were nowhere to be seen. I wished to ask her why I had seen these things, but had not the courage to do so, lest I be seen as mad.

  “You will get well now, my Elizabeth,” said my mother, smiling distantly. “Your fever has broken and you will mend.”

  “Are you well? Have you had the fever, Mother?” My voice was filled with dread, but she only smiled.

  “I am still here, am I not? We have so much to do together,” she added. Then, she drifted off to sleep in her chair.

  But my mother did catch the fever from me, and though my strength and appetites quickly returned to me, a healthy pink to my cheeks, she grew pale and weak and warm to the touch. When she was confined to bed, I could not bear to leave the room, for fear of losing her, as she had nearly lost me.

  When she was at her weakest, she held my hands in hers and lay on her side in bed, smiling at me. I felt full of emotion and fear and worry, but she calmed me as she always had with her steady eyes and gentle hands.