Strange Tales From The Scriptorian Vaults

Strange Tales from the Scriptorian Vaults

Edited by Sammy H.K Smith

www.kristell-ink.com

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Smashwords Edition

First Edition printed 2012

Second Edition printed 2013

Prologue Copyright © 2012 Sammy H.K Smith

Grace of Women Copyright © 2012 Zoë Harris

The Boat of Ra Copyright © 2012 Ross M Kitson

The Map Copyright © 2012 Paul Freeman

The Sins of the Father Copyright © 2012 Ken Dawson

The Fae of Craven Street Copyright © 2012 Jake Finlay

Scriptorian in the Stink Copyright © 2012 David JM Muir

Quarantine Copyright © 2012 Robert Peett

Diary of the Frankensteins Copyright © 2012 Steven J Guscott

Pippa’s Iliad Copyright © 2012 Sammy H.K Smith

Epilogue Copyright © 2012 Jake Finlay

Illustrations by Adam Graham (snowwulf.deviantart.com)

Cover Art by Ken Dawson (www.kennydreadful.com)

First printed in the United Kingdom.

A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-1-909845-29-9

Kristell Ink Publishing. An imprint of Grimbold Books.

The publication of Strange Tales From The Scriptorian Vaults is a source of enormous pleasure and significance for me. This is the first book to be produced by a brand new imprint, ‘Kristell Ink’, and it contains work by eight talented authors (excluding me) all of whom I am proud to call friends; their generosity with their time and creativity has been exceptional, and I think the results are entertaining, thought-provoking and inspiring. And we are all proud to be contributing to an excellent and appropriate charity in First Story.

Kristell Ink aims to publish the best in Fantasy and Science-Fiction. When it was first decided to launch the imprint with an anthology, the choice of Steampunk seemed to offer an opportunity for writers to attempt a genre related to, yet distinct from, both of these. Steampunk is, broadly, concerned with alternative worlds in which technology has taken a course distinct from our own, usually with clockwork, mechanical and steam-powered technologies predominating. The Victorian era is a favourite setting for this genre, and often there is a focus on the fashions and manners of that period. Of course, as with most genres, this all becomes a jumping-off point for universal themes, and this is evident in the selection here. Zoë Harris offers us a vision of feminism taken to extremes, while Ken Dawson has the epitome of the pushy parent at the heart of his story; Jake Finlay’s and Ross M Kitson’s stories are concerned with moral dilemmas in research and medicine and both consider the nature of immortality; Steven J Guscott gives a novel twist to the Frankenstein story; David JM Muir’s central character is an apparently immortal warrior; on lighter note, Paul Freeman gives us a hero easily swayed by a pretty face and the thrill of adventure, while Robert Peett shows a world of strange invasions, infections and mutations. And me? What do I bring? Well, all stories have to start somewhere . . .

For all the writers in this anthology, this has been their first venture into Steampunk, and the results strongly suggest it won’t be their last.

The illustrations are by the talented Adam Graham. I saw Adam’s work on the popular online portfolio site ‘DeviantArt’ and I immediately knew I had to have him work on the internal illustrations. I love his interpretations of each story and really feel he has captured the eerie and quirky style of all involved.

The wonderful, kind-hearted and generous – and multi-talented – Ken Dawson provided the cover art and I think the colours, style, script and feel are perfect.

Zoë Harris and Robert Peett gave their time and expertise to edit and proofread the stories. Lighting Source have been wonderfully generous with their time and in their contribution to this project.

Finally, First Story. This whole venture has been very much a group project and so we asked all our authors to propose a charity to benefit from the sales. When Jake put forward First Story, it seemed the perfect choice.

First Story is a small charity that promotes and fosters creativity, literacy and talent within schools and the community. First Story focuses on schools in which more than 50% of pupils are considered deprived according to the Income Deprivation Affecting Children Index and/or GCSE results fall in the lowest third of the national distribution. They currently have thirty-two residencies under way at schools in London, Oxford and Nottingham. They arrange for acclaimed and well-known authors to run weekly creative writing workshops in challenging secondary schools up and down the country, and then First Story professionally publishes the resulting anthology of stories the students have written and again, arranges for book-launch events with the help of each school.

First Story had this to say about Strange Tales:

First Story is passionate about celebrating the art of storytelling. We are delighted to be associated with the nine talented writers who have shared their stories in the first publication from Kristell Ink, Strange Tales from the Scriptorian Vaults. We would like to thank them for their generosity in selecting us as their charity, which will enable a new generation of young writers to tell their stories. We wish them every success on the publication of their book.

Contents

Prologue

Grace of Women - Zoë Harris

The Boat of Ra - Ross M Kitson

The Map - Paul Freeman

The Sins of the Father - Ken Dawson

The Fae of Craven Street - Jake Finlay

The Scriptorian in the Stink - David JM Muir

Quarantine - Robert Peett

Diary of the Frankensteins - Steven J Guscott

Pippa's Iliad - Sammy HK Smith

Epilogue - Jake Finlay

Contributors

Prologue

‘Congratulations.’ The Minister held out his hand and Crystal grasped it firmly ‘This promotion was overdue.’

‘Thank you, Minister Lang. I don’t know what to say.’ Crystal released his hand and clipped the two gold wing pins to her lapel. Finally she’d made sergeant.

‘A woman of few words, a rarity,’ he replied, laughing at his own joke. She smiled thinly and stood to attention. ‘Now, I have a mission for you – Sergeant. Our researchers have discovered a new Earth planet capable of sustaining life. The reports are confusing, however: there’s no dysian shield protecting the planet from the Chromericans, and yet there are no signs of attack. Alpha and theta levels are high, but there are no signs of our looping technology. However, the radiation signature is unmistakeable. They have the technology for interplanetary travel.’

He sat behind his enormous desk, pulling a thick file from the top drawer. He slid it across the table.

‘I want you to take Team C to Alpha site and loop into their Oxbury. Intelligence suggests the origin of the theta waves is in that city. Find out for sure if they have looping technology – and find out how they’ve managed to avoid the Chromos.’

As Crystal opened the file and flicked through the reports, the Minister walked to a small cupboard, muttering under his breath. Crystal focussed on the grainy photographs of a sky, frowning as she saw a strange object in the centre of the image. What was that? Squinting and frowning she made out the shape: a ship. A ship with sails.

‘Sergeant.’ She looked up and choked. The Minister held a boned corset in one hand; and a bustled skirt in the other. ‘This is covert and top secret. You’ll see from the report that this is the attire worn by the women of Earth 267.’

‘Are you kidding me, Sir?’

‘No. The historian will brief you.’

She snatched the outfit with a grunt and started to head out. This was ridiculous – but the thrill of an impending mission was undeniable. Her own team, her own assignment.

‘Sergeant Lewis.’

She turned. His pudgy face had an infuriatingly knowing expression as he gestured at the clothes in her arms.

‘Have fun.’

*

The streets were curiously calm. Crystal glanced at the building across the road from where she stood. That was the one from the file – but this town wasn’t known as Oxbury. It was called Londonborough. As the sun set, a lamplighter worked his way steadily along the streets with his ladder and pole.

A gentle whirring filled the air. Checking her small handheld talon computer she scanned the area. The theta waves were in that building, so for once the researchers had got it right. The flaking paint of the sign made it difficult to read, but after a few moments she made out the words: London Library. The streets were quieter than she had anticipated. Only five people had crossed their path since their arrival.

‘Where is everyone, sarge?’ asked Prideaux.

‘No idea.’ She checked her team. All six accounted for; no one had bubbled and dropped off the radar. ‘I’ll head to the library, the rest of you fan out. Any trouble, you loop back. Got it?’ Crystal watched as they strode away, shaking her head at the incongruous sight of her five teammates dressed to the nines in top hats and tails, talons in hand: they looked more suited to dinner and the opera than scouring an unknown and possibly dangerous terrain, collecting data.

Nestling her talon in her over-exposed cleavage, she lifted her skirts and stepped onto the cobbled road. The strange whirring grew louder as she crossed the street, and she looked up to see a huge floating ship hovering above the library. The sails were still, almost melting into the clouds; the wood was polished to a shine and even forty feet below the bow she could smell the wax. Offering a small prayer to the god Morpheus, she walked on, forcing herself not to stare. Covert operation, Lewis. You’re one of them. A whine and a creak rattled behind her and she span round to see a carriage clattering past. The crack of the driver’s whip urged the gold-clad horses onward. She plunged her hand down her corset and pulled out her talon, scanning the four-legged beasts as they disappeared into the distance. That’s not possible. A red line. No life signs? After a few moments the alloy data reconfigured: gold, iron, copper, bronze and steel. Horses made of gold? This was definitely an odd one.

As she reached the charred wooden door her talon blinked furiously and she hid it away. The smell of soot made her cough and, peering through the broken glass, she could see nothing. She looked around before entering the building and closed the door behind her. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she surveyed the room.

A crematorium of books. Piles of ash and curling burnt paper covered the floor, while huge scorched wooden bookcases lay diagonally across the once grand Georgian windows. She wound her way through the library. This place was a maze, and so much bigger than it appeared from the outside. Her heels clipped along the steel floor and, looking down, Crystal realised that the library had other levels. Her hair fell around her face, curling and breaking free of the ornate pins with which the historian had carefully, and painfully, imprisoned it; impatiently she threaded her fingers through the net, tearing it away and letting her hair cascade down her back. Further along the walkway the path opened out and Crystal stepped down and around a spiral staircase.

It was darker now, and impossible to see anything. Running her hand along the handrail as she went, she reached the bottom. Her foot hit something with a clunk. Using her talon, she illuminated the small space in front of her. What appeared to be a metal spider lay on its side, eight shining legs splayed across the floor. She kicked it lightly. It creaked but didn’t move. An alloy scan revealed it had an iridium casing. She sat next to it and ran her hand along the engraved leg: there was a beautiful filigree pattern etched in the metal, extending from the body to the ends of the legs. Then she found a small circular plate which sprang open as she pressed it and saw inside: a complex network of cogs and wheels filled the machine. The sound of breaking glass made her jump. A thin red disc the size of her fist lay cracked on the tiles underneath the machine. Instinctively, she picked it up and slotted it into the spider, and at once it whirred to life as Crystal scrambled back and withdrew her Browning Hi-Power from under her skirt. Idiot. Teetering on its ornate legs, the spider turned towards her, blue glass eyes locked on hers. It scuttled across the tiles and blocked her from leaving the bottom step. With her gun trained on the machine, she scanned it. Just like the horse. No life signs. Were these Chromericans? Had she found the home world of their greatest enemy?

Suddenly, the spider ran across the tiled floor and out of sight, the gentle whirring disappearing with it. Blinking at the now silent and empty space, Crystal raised her gun and peered into the darkness. The waves were stronger: she was almost at the epicentre. Her talon barely cast any light, but waving it from side to side in steady strokes revealed piles of undamaged books around her, stacked in precarious towers.

‘Guys, status report,’ she whispered, pressing down on her earpiece. Four of the team responded with a disappointing and short: negative. But then Prideaux spoke.

‘Sarge, you won’t believe this. There’s a massive clock in the centre of this city. I mean, huge. You can see the mechanisms and everything. But it’s powered by an enormous lump of aragonite. I can’t explain it.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. That ship in the sky. There’s more of them. A lot more. I’ve counted forty so far and talon readings are all over the place. They’re not powered by anything recognisable in our system.’

‘Keep searching. Out.’ She clicked off and stopped by a small alcove. On a small shelf was a hand-held oil lamp with a box of matches next to it. She lit it and picked it up. The smell of burnt hair filled the room, and the light spread along one wall. There was a row of alcoves leading deep underground. The spider suddenly bolted to the centre of the room and then up the wall to the centre of the ceiling, clicking each limb and twisting with a series of clicks and whirs.

Tiny metal flies emerged from between the tiles on the floor, they were like glowing white lights buzzing and flickering around her face. Crystal grunted and batted them away, knocking one to the ground. It splintered and dulled immediately. The pieces crumbled as she picked them up: more cogs, more wheels, and more unidentifiable metals. The remaining lights hovered around a painted symbol on the far wall. With the broken machine in her hand she walked over, flicking glances to the now stationary spider in the ceiling as she went.

The flies crowded against the wall, each one delicately nestling into the smooth metal-lined grooves dotting the symbol. Crystal nodded in sudden recognition. An ornate sea compass – but with none of the cardinal directions familiar to her. Instead, unknown star constellations decorated the points. One metal space remained empty and she opened her tightly clenched palm and rolled the clear crystal stone between her thumb and finger, the parts of the fly dropping to the ground like pins.

With a deep breath she pushed the stone into the gap and stepped back as the compass moved. North now pointed to the spider. Retreating to the centre of the room, Crystal tilted her head back and stared at the motionless pseudo-arachnid. Nothing . . . wait, a leg twitched and then lashed down to the ground like a whip cracking through the air. The iridium blade caught her shoulder and, crying out in pain, she hit the floor, her gun bouncing along the tiles. Then another leg, and another. All eight extended down and encircled her in a metal cage. The head of the spider twisted and stared at her, the creature’s eyes growing brighter and brighter until she could barely see. She closed her eyes tightly.

The odours of wax, paper, ink, and the sweet smell of rum permeated the air. Crystal opened her eyes, breathing in deeply. It was warm, welcoming. She was in a small room lit by a domed disc in the centre of the floor. She crouched down and touched the dome. The surface was soft, almost viscous, and it covered her fingers and evaporated. What was she doing touching some strange liquid? Idiot! Looking around at the octagonal room, she wiped her hand on her skirt and settled her gaze on the table. One book, covered in an enormous glass bell jar, sat in the middle of the surface. She scanned the table. Only one unknown element, but it covered the boards of the book. Removing the glass jar, she pulled a pin from her hair and used it to slowly lever open the cover.

Tales from the Scriptorian Vaults.

The ink rolled across the page, the cursive handwriting bold, romantic, and dark. She turned the page and read:

Grace of Women

Zoë Harris

Record S/Alt209/32887xc

Filed by: N.G.

Earth: 246e

Date Home: 9/1863

Date Target: 1834

Nature of report: Primary

When I first came to work as her assistant, I thought Grace a wonderful, admirable woman, and I was proud to be recording her progress. But as I watched her servant girl bleed out on the table before us and saw annoyance, not pity, on Grace’s face, I began to wonder if I was witnessing not science, but murder. Trying not to bring her attention to the movement, I adjusted the small brass Bee that clicked and whirred in my left ear, but the thoughts it relayed to me revealed nothing more than what was already plain on Grace’s face: she took it as a personal slight that the girl had failed to cling to life. Grace stared down at the ashen face and shook her head.

‘This one showed promise, Nora. Now look at her.’

Yes, she’d shown promise; she was young and strong, and had wanted nothing in return for her participation but food, a place to sleep, and someone to cleanse her of her shame.

I listened: Grace couldn’t even remember her name. Mary? Elizabeth? What does it matter – they’re all the same.

Now that yet another experiment had failed, not only would she have to start the procedure all over again, she’d have to start it all over again with a new girl. Not that finding fresh subjects was any kind of problem; when Grace’s late husband left her the underground deslar factories, he’d left her an inexhaustible source of young, desperate women, and Grace knew exactly what to look for.

She huffed a sigh of frustration, her thoughts beginning to tick so fast I had trouble listening to the Bee and recording my notes at the same time.

It’s so disheartening to have come so far, to glimpse success, only to be faced with the disposal of another body.

‘Bodies,’ I whispered as she wiped a bloodied hand on her apron and blew a strand of hair from her eyes.

‘Why didn’t it work, Nora? It can’t have been the apparatus, I spent months perfecting it.’ She shot me an accusatory look as if it were all my fault, then she pushed the tiny form back inside its mother and turned her face away. ‘Nature is so cruel.’

We set about sewing up the girl, cleaning off the clotting blood and strapping her back into the plain brown uniform she’d arrived in four months earlier. Grace tugged impatiently on the buckles, forcing the girl’s still-swollen belly to fit into the tight bodice. She was to be laid out in the upstairs parlour to wait for Mr Bleesley. If anyone asked, I was to say she had gone into early labour and died before we ever caught sight of the child. I doubted anyone cared. Since the influenza had begun to spread again, Mr Bleesley, the undertaker, was doing