Aetheric Elements: The Rise of a Steampunk Reality

by Travis I. Sivart

  “Why are you down here?” Phoebus grumbled as his foot slapped in a puddle.

  “Hush,” Croaker hissed, dodging the plethora of webs that hung from the low ceiling to the floor. “We’re almost there.”

  “Almost where? The electric lights ended ten minutes ago and where did you get that contraption?” Buckroe asked, gesturing at the humming electric lamp the older man carried. It was the size of two bricks and looked to weigh about as much. A flexible metal conduit ran under Croaker’s coat to a power pack concealed on his back. Strange metal nozzles jutted upward from it on a pivot so they could point forward when needed.

  “I made it. I told you I always have the necessary tools. Now hush, we don’t want to be overheard before I’m ready.”

  “And you didn’t want to use my glasses?” Phoebus muttered.

  Soon they saw dim light ahead issuing from a doorway. They could hear a deep baritone voice speaking. Croaker switched off the electric lantern and proceeded forward without the light, Phoebus trailing behind. They crept forward to the doorway and peered around it, Norge kneeling and Buckroe looking over him.

  They took in the scene with a glance. Two circles of men, twelve at the clock points in the outer circle closest to the wall. The inner circle had eight men at the compass points. A large man stood at the head of the altar, one hand clenched in the young woman’s hair that lay on the table. A malformed and blurred figure hunched at the foot, caressing the prisoner’s ankles with anticipation.

  “By design of destiny and the hand of the elders of the Telestic Krewe we have brought this sacrifice so the powers beyond the cloak of darkness and past the meager sight of mortal men may come forth once again and be reborn into this new world of wonders and harnessed energy. The tenth sacrifice comes this night!”

  The tinny sound of dripping water echoed as the man paused, raising the wavy bladed kris above the heaving breast of the girl strapped to the table. A rat scurried past the two hidden men in the door and let out a squeal as Croaker pierced it with a dagger. The older man pulled himself back from the doorway as the men in the room turned at the noise. Phoebus watched as twenty-two pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. He felt a hand on his back shove him into the doorway and heard Norge whisper, “Make ‘em chase you,” as he stumbled forward into the room.

  “Hello there, chaps!” Phoebus said in an amicable tone. “Am I late? You see, Smith didn’t get me the invitation until just this evening. Oh, it seems I’m underdressed. Perhaps I should go find my favorite moth-eaten rag of a robe so I will blend in better with the rest of you.”

  There was a moment of silence before a sibilant whisper cut through the air. “Kill him!”

  The outer circle of twelve men surged towards the door as Phoebus turned and ran around the corner, in the opposite direction of Croaker. He pressed flat to the wall three strides down the hall. His dark clothing mixed with the shadows, making him almost invisible.

  Croaker drew an “L” shaped device from his pocket. He pressed a button and the pneumatic pressure shot a dart with a thin metal wire across the doorway. It embedded itself in the stone of the arch. He slid a button to activate the second chamber and slammed the short end of the device into the wall beside him. It bit in with a hiss and click. The men had no chance to see the trip wire before five of them went down in a pile. The wet thud of a head on stone and the click of teeth shattering and sliding across the floor were heard for a moment before the shouting began.

  The remaining seven men looked down and leapt the fallen cultists, stumbling and tripping into the open part of the hall, waiting for their eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. They didn’t see the shadow of Buckroe slide forward, walking stick at the ready, as the master of Bartitsu began the simple exercise of engaging more than a half dozen men and removing them as a threat.

  An elegant dance began, sharp and crisp like the snap of a tango. The young man extended his arm, hitting one man in the throat with the handle of his makeshift weapon, then popped it sideways to hear the satisfying crunch of the nose of the next man. Those two men fell at his feet and he stepped forward, one foot landing on each of their hands, breaking fingers as he went to his toes and spun.

  His arm was stiff as he turned in a full circle. The metal handle of the cane connected with the temple of another charging man and spun him to the ground, then continued to the jaw of the next assailant. That man’s head snapped back and the sound of bone shattering was audible as he crumpled to the floor.

  Phoebus smiled as he crouched and took a huge step forward past the four fallen foes, while still staying low and out of the adjusting vision of the remaining men. Three still stood and two more were struggling to regain their feet from the pile in front of the tripwire. Buckroe dropped his weight onto his hands behind him and kicked forward, destroying the knee of one man, then hooked his leg around and caught a second man behind his knee, causing him to collapse backwards on top of the two men that were attempting to stand.

  Phoebus, still crouched, shot forward, walking stick extended and rammed it into the groin of the last man standing. As the man doubled over, he was struck three more times by the Bartitsu master, once in the solar plexus, making him bend further, then on the side of the neck, snapping his head sideways and one last blow on the back of his head, rendering him unconscious.

  Buckroe stood with the grace of a gymnast and, taking a stride forward, stepped on the still bent knee of the man that had fallen on the others, and heard the crackle as cartilage and tendons tore and broke. The two men underneath only had a moment before the weapon met their respective temples and darkness fell over them also.

  The three remaining men of the twelve that had charged into the hall and fallen over the wire lay still. Phoebus could see small darts in the back of their necks, still quivering.

  Moments before, Norge had seen none of the fight yet, as he jabbed three of the fallen men with small needles and, feeling them go limp, rolled over the pile and into the room before his friend had touched the first man in the hall. An odd pistol was in his right hand and the knife in his left still held the impaled rodent. Atop the long barrel of the firearm was a copper cylinder the size of a small loaf of bread, a rectangular clip dropped down in front of the trigger and two smaller copper cylinders in front of that had a tube that fed into the clip.

  Croaker’s hand was steady as he pulled the trigger a half dozen times, a soft pop and hiss issuing each time. He moved the gun a bare centimeter as he fired and six of the men clutched their throats where darts appeared, falling to the floor seconds afterwards, their eyes rolling backwards.

  Standing he dropped the gun and drew out his electrical light from its place on his right hip. Twisting dials and lowering the metal tube on top to point at one of the remaining two men from the inner ring, he pressed a button and a blue electric arc reached across the room and gripped the man in its tingling embrace. The man twitched and danced for a handful of seconds before collapsing to the ground.

  The last man closed the distance and batted the contraption from the older man’s hand, snapping the leather strap that held it to Croaker’s side. The cultist pummeled the detective, slamming his fist into the older man’s stomach, chin, and face, forcing him to collapse to the floor.

  Norge was no stranger to a fight. He did not have the grace and style of his younger friend, but he had his share of bar fights and scrapes and was not defenseless. He snapped his right wrist and a pair of rubber coated brass knuckles shot from his sleeve, held in place by two metal rods. He slipped his fingers into the waiting circles and the only metal not coated shone in the dim light.

  The man continued to pound on Croaker as the older man pressed a button on his knuckle weapon and a humming noise began. The robed figure swung a fist and it connected with Croaker’s own hand. A spark and crackle sounded as the two met. Electrical current ran through the assailant’s body and he did a small jig before falling unconscious to the ground.

  Croaker stood and wiped
blood from his nose and mouth as Phoebus stepped into the room behind him.

  “You ok?” The younger man asked.

  “I’ve had worse,” Norge answered, looking at the two figures that remained. The leader of the cult barked a command in a language that twisted in the men’s ears and the monstrous creature at the foot of the sacrificial table lunged forward. Phoebus shoved Croaker aside and ran to meet the inhuman beast.

  “No!” the older man shouted as his younger friend fell into a fighting stance, feet wide for balance, and swung his walking stick. The creature caught it in one hand and snapped it. Punching into Phoebus’s midsection with the other, the beast propelled him backwards across the room and slammed him into the wall beside the doorway.

  A deep laugh came from the man at the head of the table as he raised his blade to finish the ritual. Croaker’s left hand blurred and the rat laden knife flew across the room, burying itself in the man’s armpit. The cult leader’s arms dropped as tendons were severed, the curved dagger striking the table beside the girl’s head. Blood welled from the wound and the beast stopped in its tracks, turned and sniffed the air. It cleared the space between itself and the hooded man in two strides and tore into the man with claws that hadn’t been there moments before.

  Croaker Norge watched as the force of the attack carried both to the ground and the creature began to feed. It had devoured half of the screaming man’s chest before it slowed, then stopped. Convulsing, it vomited blood and chunks of flesh onto the dying man. It raised its head and howled a monstrous keening noise that rattled the fixtures in the room. It scrambled towards one of other exits from the room, clutching at its chest, and disappeared into the dark tunnels.

  “What the hell just happened?” Phoebus asked, standing on unsteady legs, touching the back of his head and looking at the blood on his hand.

  “Simple deduction. They needed pure victims. I gave them one. The rat,” Croaker answered as he drew a metal stick wrapped in copper wire from inside his coat. He flipped another switch and the small magnet hummed to life. He held it to the first lock that held the restraint on the girl’s ankle closed. It popped open as he brought it close. He continued to the next lock.

  “You have a gizmo that opens locks, too?”

  “A simple electro magnet, super powerful. It interacts with the mechanism and rolls the tumblers, unlocking the padlocks.”

  “Well done, old man! Now, why did that thing run off instead of killing us?”

  “Again, you weren’t paying attention. The rat finally died when the knife completely filled its body as it entered the man’s armpit, and it became the sacrifice. The cult leader dropped his arm, stopping the beast from getting to the sacrifice it needed to devour and instead it ate him. He was not pure, so the ritual was unable to be completed.”

  “A rat? Why didn’t they just kill animals the whole time if that would have worked?”

  “I don’t know it would have worked. I don’t think they have enough psychic energy to do the job, even if all animals are pure in the sense they needed. Now, we need to find the constable and bring them down here.”

  “I’ll go get them.”

  “No need. They have already gathered at the elevator because of the sparking that would have started about fifteen minutes ago. I set the machine up to malfunction and draw their attention. They will see the forced maintenance door and find my marks on the walls that will lead them here.”

  “You, you brought the police here, already?”

  “Yes, if I am correct they should be here…” holding up a hand for silence, they could both hear shouts of men from the direction they had come, “in just a few minutes.”