Captain Albion Clemens and The Future that Never Was: A Steampunk Novel! (Lands Beyond Book 1) (23 page)

Indeed, as Blair looked about, the Captain was right. There were two tracks, and on either side of them, empty space, falling straight down into one of the many hovel-lined quarries pockmarking Leyland like open sores. Up so high, it was easy to see the extent of the mines, and the way the black smoke vomited from stovepipes.

“What happened to this place?” Clemens wondered. Without the dreadful Kobolds chasing them, their ride seemed almost lackadaisical, a pleasure drive over some distinctly unpleasant terrain.

“Mordemere. We have few actual photograms, but the few witness accounts all say the same thing. This is the cost of our militarism, Captain. All the special administrative regions are like this,” Blair recited from memory.

“From your article. I remember. It’s just hard to accept, seen in the altogether,” Clemens amended. “By the way, that would be a train.”

Blair fell back into his seat just in time, for a steaming locomotive took his place on the other track with a deafening roar. Clemens was contributing to the din as well, with laughter born of relief, not malice.

“At least you didn’t scream this time!” the Captain declared, and Blair joined him in his mirth.

“Hey- aren’t those our cohorts, Captain?”
              “Well by Davy Jones’ gym shorts, they are!” Clemens said, his neck twisting to follow the sudden appearance of Miss Rosa Marija and Inspector Hargreaves.

They weren’t easy to miss- the flurry of Miss Marija’s ribbons took up the entire window of a train car.

On the train, Rosa Marija was using her long waist ribbons like a bullfighter’s cape- fooling the gunman’s eyes into shooting where she wasn’t. With each somersault or cartwheel, she moved behind a train seat or compartment division, slowly advancing on the gunman.

“There’s one of him, but with this narrow train I can’t get a fix,” Hargreaves said, her .22 Tranter warm in her hand.

“I can try to get within knife distance,” Rosa Marija replied. “Keep Jonah Moore safe!”

Rosa eyed the next bit of cover, a conductor’s cabin for opening and closing the doors. She measured the distance, and somersaulted.

The train lurched, hard, and Rosa’s leg fell onto a bar between the cabin and the rest of the train. Rosa cursed, clutching the spot where the bar hit.

Nothing broken, but she wouldn’t be doing any more cartwheels. Sparks erupted from the accursed bar, as a bullet winged it.

“Rosa! Are you hurt?” Hargreaves called from further back in the train. There was also some gibberish from Moore, something about a carriage on the tracks. Probably panic, Rosa Marija thought. Now to get an angle on this gunman…

“I’m fine!” Rosa called back. One chance, she thought- she would create a distraction, and in the one moment of opportunity, throw three knives in succession. Hopefully the number of missiles would make up for the low accuracy. If not, she would think of something else, though with this leg, there weren’t many options.

“Moore says there’s something on the track!” Hargreaves relayed. Again with this nonsense!

“Likely a train!” Rosa responded.

She did not need this right now. Instead, she looked about her- mirror, mirror, never more did she miss her vanity mirror, tucked away in her locker aboard the ‘
Berry
. Finally, she found a reflective bit of glass, in which the gunman’s hunched figure appeared quite clearly. He was wearing ordinary clothes- a three-piece suit, no armor. He even had a top hat.

For a moment, the glass showed a glimpse of a buccaneer coat, and a flash of British racing green. Rosa shook it off as a mirage. Battle fever,
yes, that was it. There was no way Albion Clemens would come to her rescue, no matter how much she wished it. He always was an insensitive lout.

“Oy!” Rosa called. “You, twat!”

It was now or never. Rosa waited until the gunman straightened; then, in a flash, she threw one sliver of metal away with her left hand, spun, and launched three more with the momentum out of her right hand.

The left knife struck first, and the flintlock in the core slipped back, setting the gun cotton in the handle aflame. It was her especially flashy mixture, designed to provide an instant spotlight for her particularly glamorous outfits.

Whatever her original intention for the invention, it did its job, exploding into a star of white-hot sparks. The gunman’s aim shifted infinitesimally away from Rosa, as he turned to look at the fireworks. The train seemed to slow, the scenery coming back from a blur into cohesion.

She sighted the three knives as they left her fingers. The leftmost would never make it- it had been a Hail Mary, anyway. The other two were promising. Her bet was on the middle, on a straight trajectory for the man’s jugular.

Her focus was so intent, she nearly didn’t see the 1890’s Chapman Eight in British racing green, filling one of the train’s windows with its charming, oblong-shaped grille.

              “How was the crawl?”

             
“Excuse me?”

             
“The pub, the pub crawl, how was it? Any good stouts up here?”

             
Captain Albion looked at Hargreaves, the circles where his goggles shielded his eyes from the soot of the road. They were the wide eyes of an owl.

Lacking any coherent answer, the Inspector ignored him. Albion Clemens was standing before her, just beside Rosa Marija, who was examining her shin where a red welt was beginning to form.

The Captain had offered to look at it for her, but Rosa Marija seemed to be annoyed, perhaps at the method of the Captain’s entry.

Elric Blair was still extracting himself from the straps of what looked to be a very long, narrow vehicle, of the wealthy, young pleasure-seeking persuasion, in a pleasing shade of green. Behind her, the elderly Jonah Moore was approaching, having followed the Inspector forward through the cars. All the while, the train was still moving, trundling along as if nothing had happened. Hargreaves supposed the engine tenders hadn’t heard over the routine operation of the train.

Albion was still looking for an answer.

“Um... fine, I guess. Ale was a bit light for
my taste,” Hargreaves managed, if only to get rid of the Captain’s persistent stare.

“Ah. A shame, I guess,” Clemens said, but at least he turned away.

Seeing Jonah Moore, he looked him up and down.

“Well now!
Old timer, how have you been? Please, sit, it’s a little dicey up in the front here, though, the chairs are all messed up. You know the engines today, so fragile, not safe at all.” One wheel fell off the front of the Chapman, rolling to a stop near Albion’s feet.

Clearly, the crash had been enjoyable for the Captain. Hargreaves walked over to Rosa, and knelt.

“How are you doing?” Hargreaves asked.

“I lost three good knives. Damn,” Rosa replied.

“Are all pirates thrill-seeking madmen?” sputtered Hargreaves. To her surprise, both Rosa Marija and Albion Clemens laughed.

“Right, then. We had better leave immediately. Old timer, you never saw us!” Albion declared.

“Wait, he’s with us,” Hargreaves protested. She took a moment to explain, and the Captain related the journey underground as well.

“THE Jonah Moo
re? Holy Akashic, I was just reading about you,” Albion exclaimed once he had it straight.

“The honor is mine,” Moore replied, finally able to get a word in edgewise. “A real-life aeronaut, and a pirate to boot. I feel our
aeon work was not for nothing, after all.”

Albion Clemens grasped the old gentleman’s hand and began pumping it like he was filling a tire.

“I suppose you had better come with us, then!” The Captain said, and began to stride away from the Chapman.

Hargreaves looked around, shrugged, and followed the swish of Albion’s buccaneer coat.

As they pulled into the station, the group was able to sneak off the rearmost car, walking up another set of stairs until they were once more on the surface.

There were knots of Clankers treading heavily towards the chaotic station. As they passed the worst of the crowd, they saw a brace of Kobolds arrive at the stairway, as well as a shadow pass overhead, some kind of agile dirigible adapted for tall buildings.

Captain Clemens began to caution everyone to be like a rock before a waterfall, serene and placid in the face of a maelstrom, but nobody seemed to understand him except Rosa Marija.

“How about it, Jonah Moore? Would you like to leave Leyland with us?” The Captain asked once they were in a relatively deserted alley. They had actually come up not too far from the Fjord, though between them and it lay five or six busy thoroughfares full of blind corners and tall factories. There were certainly more Clankers, and more Kobolds patrolling the main streets.

Moore looked a little taken aback, as if the thought of leaving had never once crossed his mind.

“There were probably a lot of people who saw you with us. You wouldn’t be safe here anymore, once Mordemere finds out,” Rosa
said.

“There’s always room on the Huckleberry,” the Captain said. Moore looked around to see Hargreaves and Blair both nodding agreeably.

“I don’t see why not. I can help you dismantle Mordemere’s plans… My word, I haven’t seen London in years… think of the photogram opportunities!” Moore proclaimed. “A real airship! Yes, I think I rather will.”

“We had just gotten round to
asking what exactly Mordemere was planning,” said Rosa Marija, getting into the swing of things.

“You’ll have to explain further once we get to our transport. It might get a little rough.”

Hargreaves agreed, thinking on Westminster.

The Houses of Parliament, not to mention Big Ben, were the focal points of the devotion and faith of the entire Commonwealth, not simply the Pax Brittania.

If Moore had been telling the truth, then so far Mordemere had three such symbols on his hands: The Houses, Paris’ Eiffel Tower, and the most part of the Vatican. He must have a veritable island fortress floating in the sky by now, positively brimming over with aeon power.

The group marched off as one, headed roughly towards their old Fjord. Following Clemens’ lead, they took cover
before the roving Clankers. Thankfully, the racket at the station was an efficient decoy, drawing enforcers from all directions. The Kobolds crunching the roads to powder were loud, and easy to avoid.

As the pirate gang snuck past street after street, Hargreaves noticed the ever-observant Elric Blair with a far-off look in his eye.

“A penny for your thoughts?” Hargreaves whispered, drawing up level with the journalist.

“It’s probably nothing,” Blair answered distractedly. The Clankers had an unnerving effect on most, but on Blair most of all. He carried no real defenses, save his quick thinking. Even Jonah Moore was calmer. After all, they would simply detain and return him if caught. “But when we ran into the Ottoman Balaenopteron warship below Leyland, they were transporting something heavy into Mordemere’s stores. They hid it in the boots of the engines, and it wasn’t weapons, those were out in the open.”

“Most likely some currency not likely to depreciate during an armed conflict, like gold,” Hargreaves replied.

“The Ottomans are pushing outward every day, and their raiders threaten all dirigible traffic on the Eastern Mediterranean. War might be the only option in a few months.” When it came to pirating, clandestine investigating and wanton acts of civil vandalism, she was an amateur, but as to the tactics of common criminals, even those working on a global stage, Vanessa was positively a pundit.

“Or aeon stones,” Blair continued. “Think of it, how many stones would it take for Mordemere to lift one building? Let alone several city blocks? Is it even possible?”

“And unless he’s setting it down very near to its original destination, he would have to keep the piece of real estate hovering in the air long enough to work it with his alchemy somehow,” Hargreaves agreed.

It was certainly an interesting problem, but she knew little about lift compound. She made a note to look into it with the pirates, perhaps Cid, at a later date.

Meanwhile, the group was very close to where they had parked their Fjord steamer. Clemens drew up to a halt, behind some old rubbish bins, and peeked over the edge while everyone else held a painful crouch. It was certainly difficult to do in a form-fitting outfit, Hargreaves thought. Perhaps Rosa Marija had the right of it with her more liberal dress sense: extra exposure also meant extra wiggle room.

“All right,” Captain Albion was saying. “The Fjord is across the street, but they’re trying to commandeer it as we speak.”

“Have they made the connection to us?” Vanessa asked, already scouting an escape route.

“No. I think I may have parked in an illegal zone,” Albion admitted sheepishly.

The look went away as soon as he drew his Victoria, the big black gun making both Blair and Moore cringe.

“Anyway it’s two Clankers. I say we take them.”

“Captain Albion Clemens, shame on you!” Inspector Hargreaves hissed.