Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion Read online

  Airship Shape

  &

  Bristol Fashion

  Edited by

  Roz Clarke & Joanne Hall

  Wizard’s Tower Press

  &

  The BristolCon Foundation

  Trowbridge, England

  Airship Shape & Bristol Fashion

  Edited by Roz Clarke & Joanne Hall

  First Edition, published in the UK February 2014

  by Wizard’s Tower Press

  with the assistance of the BristolCon Foundation

  This edition © Wizard’s Tower Press

  Case of the Vapours © Ken Shinn

  Brassworth © Christine Morgan

  The Lesser Men Have No Language © Deborah Walker

  Brass and Bone © Joanne Hall

  The Girl with Red Hair © Myfanwy Rodman

  Artifice Perdu © Pete Sutton

  Miss Butler and the Handlander Process © John Hawkes-Reed

  Something In The Water © Cheryl Morgan

  The Chronicles of Montague and Dalton:

  The Hunt for Alleyway Agnes © Scott Lewis

  The Sound of Gyroscopes © Jonathan L. Howard

  Flight of Daedalus © Piotr Świetlik

  The Traveller’s Apprentice © Ian Millsted

  Lord Craddock: Ascension © Stephen Blake

  The Lanterns of Death Affair © Andy Bigwood

  All rights reserved

  ISBN EPUB: 978-1-908039-27-9

  ISBN MOBI: 978-1-908039-28-6

  Cover illustration and design by Andy Bigwood

  Layout by Wild Spark Design

  Ebook conversion by Cheryl Morgan

  Copy editing by Kate Clarke

  http://wizardstowerpress.com/

  http://www.bristolcon.org/

  Contents

  Epigraph, by Gareth L. Powell

  Introduction, by Joanne Hall & Roz Clarke

  Less Than Men?

  Case of the Vapours, by Ken Shinn

  Brassworth, by Christine Morgan

  The Lesser Men Have No Language, by Deborah Walker

  Brass and Bone, by Joanne Hall

  Lost Souls

  The Girl with Red Hair, by Myfanwy Rodman

  Artifice Perdu, by Pete Sutton

  Miss Butler and the Handlander Process, by John Hawkes-Reed

  Something In The Water, by Cheryl Morgan

  The Chronicles of Montague and Dalton: The Hunt for Alleyway Agnes, by Scott Lewis

  Travelling Light

  The Sound of Gyroscopes, by Jonathan L. Howard

  Flight of Daedalus, by Piotr Świetlik

  The Traveller’s Apprentice, by Ian Millsted

  Lord Craddock: Ascension, by Stephen Blake

  The Lanterns of Death Affair, by Andy Bigwood

  Take a walk around Bristol, and history seeps from the walls. The city can claim more than its fair share of firsts, including the first iron-hulled steamship, the first female doctor, the first chocolate bar and the first use of nitrous oxide as an anaesthetic, the invention of the Plimsoll line, the first undersea telegraph cable, the world’s first test tube baby and the first transplant organ grown from stem cells, and a large share of the world’s first supersonic airliner. Now, from this fertile ground comes an anthology charting other realities and alternate histories, in a collection as rich and varied as the true history of this great British city.

  Gareth L. Powell

  Introduction

  Welcome to Airship Shaped and Bristol Fashion, the first in what we hope will be a series of anthologies produced in association with the BristolCon Foundation. When we first discussed the idea of using any extra money generated through BristolCon to give something back to the local speculative fiction scene, we came up with a simple mission statement:

  To encourage the creation and enjoyment of Speculative Fiction, in all its forms, with a focus on the West Country and South Wales.

  We have done this through BristolCon, through our Fringe events which include readings from up and coming local SF&F writers, and, now, for the first time, through this anthology.

  We wanted to provide a platform for new writing, so we’re delighted that so many of the stories in this book are from previously-unpublished writers. We have worked closely with our authors throughout the editorial process, offering guidance, support and encouragement where it was needed, and all of them came through for us in remarkable, unexpected ways. We hope they take away from the experience as much as they’ve given us; it’s been a learning curve on both sides!

  The theme of the anthology comes back to our Bristolian roots. We looked at Bristol, city of brass and rivets, home to Brunel’s SS Great Britain and the Clifton Suspension Bridge, and we thought “Steampunk.” And then we thought, “Why not?” But we wanted to do more than collect stories about swashbuckling adventurers in rose-tinted goggles, so we asked for stories that delved a little deeper into the dark side of Victoriana. We received a terrific spread of stories, ranging from light-hearted to shadowy and tragic. Some strong themes emerged, and we have organised the anthology to bring these to the fore. “Less Than Men?”, opening the anthology, deals with slavery and the growing desire for emancipation. “Lost Souls” is where you’ll find the creepy and the fantastic; ghosts and ghouls and wandering spirits. And “Travelling Light” is where you’ll find the bold adventurers; the magnificent men and women in their flying machines, slicing through space and time.

  We are indebted to Gareth L. Powell for his epigraph but most importantly for the excellent title. Thanks also go to Wizard’s Tower Press for support during the editing and publishing process, and for pushing us to do a steampunk anthology in the first place, Kate the proof reader for herding everyone’s semi-colons into the right places, Andy Bigwood for the lovely cover art, and of course all our authors. See you on the other side of the aetheric portal…

  Roz Clarke & Joanne Hall

  November 2013

  PART I

  Less Than Men?

  Case of the Vapours

  - Ken Shinn -

  “Bodysnatching.”

  I paused as I raised the match to my cigarette.

  “That’s… unusual. Resurrectionism is pretty much unheard of in these enlightened times.”

  It had given me pause. I felt unwelcome heat at my fingertips, applied the flame to the fag, and shook it out. “So, why bring it to me? Wouldn’t the police be more obvious?”

  “Mr. Bowyer, this is a private matter. A valuable possession has been stolen, but that is very much my household’s concern. We would like this affair resolved with the minimum of bureaucratic interference, and we are prepared to pay you handsomely.”

  She wafted smoke from her own cigarette elegantly away with a velvet-gloved hand. A small woman in her early twenties. Slender almost to the point of skinniness, but not unattractive, with a sharp, intelligent pair of green eyes and a mop of red hair pinned carefully in place. Not my usual sort of customer; altogether too well spoken, too well dressed, and too wealthy.

  “Mrs. Willans, if you’ll pardon my saying so, it’s rare to find anyone who describes a slave’s corpse as a valuable possession.”

  “But this man was one of our most trusted servants. A highly-educated and much-loved family member. And he was an extremely expensive Vapour. Fluent in eight languages, well-versed in etiquette, expert on champagnes, and an experienced chef in schools from the Orient to the Mediterranean. My husband and I are most anxious to discover why someone decided to break into his sarcophagus, on our o
wn grounds, and remove his body for purposes unknown.”

  “I see. A family affair, as it were. Well, you’ve piqued my interest. I’ll investigate for you. My fee is fixed at 10 guineas a day, plus expenses.”

  “That’s a high price.”

  “It’s a high-risk occupation.”

  “I can imagine. The constant risk of eviction.”

  “I’m the businessman, Mrs. Willans. And that’s my price.”

  “Done.” She shot out a hand, gripped mine, and shook it quickly and firmly. “Start as soon as you’re ready.”

  The ball was awash with the best quality foods, wines, and beers. I was in no hurry to start immediately, and told her so. She inclined her head graciously.

  “Then at least have a good look around at this gathering. It seems highly likely that a member of this household was key to the success of the theft; it was carried out undetected, after all.”

  Mrs. Willans didn’t beat about the bush. I rather liked her. Pausing only to snag a fresh stout from a passing Vapour flunky, his whirring clockwork implants freshly-polished against his dark skin and crisp linens, I mingled as unobtrusively as I could.

  The gathering was as generally vacuous as it was large. There weren’t many unpleasant individuals, but the impression that my meanderings gave me was of a throng more interested in the latest fashions in gowns, snuff and hunting-horses than in the more pressing issues of the day. I kept a pleasantly neutral expression. After all, they were at worst annoying, and that still wasn’t a crime to my knowledge.

  A knot of revellers was gathered around a stage discreetly tucked to one side. On the low dais, a string quartet performed a Strauss waltz with practised mediocrity — much technique, little feeling. At centre stage, a dancing pair of Vapours — one man, one woman — were whirling gracefully, both decked out in incongruously Oriental silks. They were clearly more expensive than the norm, more than usually physically attractive, and their steam-driven workings were clearly designed for aesthetics as much as practicality, looking more like moving jewellery against their smooth brown faces and wrists than the clanking chunks of metal of the more common slave — oh, so sorry — “clockwork servant”. I had problems with that mealy-mouthed phrase. It suggested an automaton out of Verne or Wells, rather than the blunt synthesis of metal and invariably black flesh of the actuality. However delicately the workings may be fashioned, you were still left looking at somebody who’d been forcibly transformed, purely for the sake of improving their work.

  The couple passed gracefully back and forth; the music swirled and fluttered as it was meant to, then the man stopped in his tracks. The music stuttered on for a few bars, then stopped.

  A look of anger crossed the man’s calm features. He spun on his heel, snatched a violin from a startled musician, and raised it like a club. And then he froze in his tracks. A fine but clear mist of steam, far greater than the usual gentle hissing caused by the everyday mechanical workings of the average Vapour, gushed from the valves at his temples. His face creased into a mask of agony, and he sank awkwardly to his knees while his partner looked on in dismay.

  The quiet that had suddenly settled over this corner of the room was broken by a harsh bray of laughter.

  “Ha! Looks like the silly ass has got an Attack of the Vapours!”

  The humourist was Mrs. Willans’ husband, Anthony. A stocky man in his mid-thirties, with a close-cropped skull and incipient jowls. A regular Toad Of Toad Hall.

  I’d taken an irrational distaste to him on first introduction. Now I realised that my instincts had been sound. The man was a school bully made good.

  Nevertheless, his quip — an old joke which had first been recorded in Punch some two years ago — set that corner of the room on a roar, as the gathering seized gratefully on the chance to make light of the situation.

  It was clear what had happened. The Staunton Limiter, more commonly known as the Clockwork Conscience, had activated. This ingenious little device was fitted as standard in any Vapour required to retain any degree of their higher functions. Should the host think any impure thoughts of rebellion or anything above mild and momentary discontent, then it detected changes in the body chemistry and mechanically caused a powerful, debilitating migraine. As Staunton himself had said when introducing this boon to the gentlemen of the press, “It’s like they’ve had a half-Nelson put on the old brain.” People like Staunton made me uncomfortably glad to be white.

  I looked away at the rest of the room, and saw that Anthony’s beloved Jessica had a look of cold disdain on her face. And it seemed aimed at her husband.

  Interesting.

  As the party settled back into frolic and laughter (and the stricken Vapour had been quietly ushered away to recover), I quietly drew the husband and wife to one side. I asked them to also bring over their major-domo, who proved to be the Vapour who’d been providing my drinks, a distinguished middle-aged man who was introduced to me as Joshua. I needed all of them to set out my terms.

  “I’ve agreed to take on this investigation. My payments have already been agreed” — at this, an ugly flush suffused Anthony’s face; he obviously preferred to be the man who made the deals — “but I will need complete access to this house and its grounds. If possible, I’d prefer to be left to my own devices until I’ve reached my solution. Also, I’d prefer to take a look at the scene of the crime right now.”

  The hour was late, but a lantern was found, and Jessica and Joshua escorted me across the landscaped grounds to a small marble building below an ancient yew tree. Anthony followed as far as the end of the terrace, then cheerfully stayed there and gazed after us, seemingly more interested in his champagne.

  Joshua carefully opened the door, and handed me the light. “The mistress and I will stay here. Nothing’s been disturbed since we found out.”

  I thanked him, and stepped inside. Cool shadows engulfed me, and the glow of the lantern disclosed the open sarcophagus. I stepped over it and examined it carefully.

  The first thing that I noticed was that it had been opened neatly — no sign of forcing. That tended to support the theory of this being an inside job. The winding-sheet had been carefully removed and folded. I read the inscription: “Tobias Clayton, True And Faithful Servant, 1818 to 1888. Your Labour’s Over; Rest At Peace With The Lord”.

  There seemed to be little else of interest, and I was walking around the sarcophagus to exit when my foot struck something. I stooped, and found myself looking at a pendant: small, delicate, and very beautiful. A clear, multi-faceted stone shone in its golden housing. I pocketed it discreetly, and left.

  Having been escorted back to the house, I thanked my hosts, and took my leave, picking up one of Anthony’s business cards from the hallway on a whim.

  As I walked home to my rooms in Redland, I turned matters over in my mind. The thing that struck me most was that this seemed set to be an extremely easy case to solve. The number of plausible suspects was small: those members of the Willans household with full access to the grounds and the means (and will) to remove a body. The real mystery: why? What advantage did anyone stand to gain from stealing the corpse of a Vapour?

  I rubbed the trinket in my pocket. Tomorrow morning, I had some visits to make in the city centre. And some questions to ask.

  The next day dawned warm, and sunny. I dealt with a minor hangover by dosing it ruthlessly with coffee and cigarettes, shaved and dressed, and by eleven was walking with some semblance of wakefulness and good humour to the centre of Bristol. Business falling before pleasure, I made my first call to a small pawnbroker’s on Hobbs Lane.

  Howard Gold greeted me cheerily as the shop-bell rang. “Good morning, Dan! And what can I do for you this fine day?”

  I gazed at the short, wild-haired septuagenarian with affection. Howard and his money-lending abilities had kept me afloat during some very lean periods for a Bristolian man of investigative business. Also, while he was genuinely friendly to his clientèle, when it came to valuations he had
an intellect as cool and vast as any Martian’s. And that was exactly what I needed right now.

  I reached into my pocket, drew out the pendant, and placed it squarely in front of him on the counter. “I’d like to know how much I could get for this, if you don’t mind.”

  My tone had been light, playful — deliberately jocular. But Howard’s reaction was anything but. It was as if a switch had been thrown; in an instant, he was leaning forward to examine the jewellery with an expression composed of equal parts amazement and cold intensity.

  “Where did you get this?” His voice was blunt, almost brutally business-like.

  “Found it while I was taking a constitutional.” I tried to keep my voice airy. I’d never seen Howard react like this, and to be honest it unnerved me a little. “Anyway — as I was saying, how much is it worth?”