Capes & Clockwork: Superheroes in the Age of Steam

  Capes and Clockwork

  Edited by

  D. Alan Lewis

  Capes and Clockwork: Superheroes in the Age of Steam

  Copyright © 2013 D. Alan Lewis

  Cover design by Allan Gilbreath and D. Alan Lewis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, duplicated, copied, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written consent and permission of the editor and publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any person or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Published by

  Dark Oak Press

  Kerlak Enterprises, Inc.

  Memphis, TN

  www.darkoakpress.com

  E-Book

  ISBN 13: 978-1-937035-79-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013958415

  First Printing: 2013

  Special thanks to everyone at Dark Oak Press for all of the encouragement and assistance.

  This book is printed on acid free paper.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Copyright Acknowledgments

  Roger Dawkins and the Steam Daemons © 2013 Adam Millard

  Keely © 2013 D. Alan Lewis

  Catching Steam © 2013 Andrea Judy

  Clockwork Demons © 2013 Logan L. Masterson

  At the Quiet Limit of the World © 2013 David J. Fielding

  Indestructible © 2013 Alexander S. Brown

  Ectoplasmic Eradicators Wanted: Professional Inquiries Only:

  A Timothy Flood Adventure © 2013 Nikki Nelson-Hicks

  Captain Amy and the Steam-Driven Kittens of Doom © 2013 Azrael Wolf

  Thursday Morrow © 2013 Robert J. Krog

  Lost Child’s Little Protector © 2013 Herika R. Raymer

  The Gears Of Justice © 2013 Brent Nichols

  Aeolus, Chiron, and Medusa © 2013 John A. McColley

  Blastbucket © 2013 Christopher J. Valin

  Beneath Familiar Suns © 2013 Konstantine Paradias

  Deep Diving Death Defying Dwarves of the Deep:

  A Tale from the Cycle of Ages Saga © 2013 Jeremy Hicks

  White Lightning © 2013 John G. Hartness

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Roger Dawkins and the Steam Daemons

  Keely

  Catching Steam

  Clockwork Demons

  At the Quiet Limit of the World

  Indestructible

  Ectoplasmic Eradicators Wanted

  Captain Amy and the Steam-Driven Kittens of Doom

  Thursday Morrow

  Lost Child’s Little Protector

  The Gears of Justice

  Aeolus, Chiron, and Medusa

  Blastbucket

  Beneath Familiar Suns

  Deep Diving Death Defying Dwarves of the Deep

  White Lightning

  About the Authors

  Introduction

  When it comes to entertainment, we live for all things new and exciting. And should a new fad come along that excites us, then we find ourselves mixing everything else we love with it. So it wasn’t a surprise that many artists have been combining their love of comic books with the growing popularity of Steampunk.

  That was the real inspiration behind this collection of stories. For years now, drawings and paintings of some of the most beloved comic heroes, such as Batman, Wonder Woman, Supergirl, the X-Men, and so many more have been ‘Steampunked’. A simple online search will bring up hundreds of images of our heroes, re-imagined with steam and clockwork.

  What makes a Superhero? At their core, they are just regular folks who want to do something good for their community. What makes them ‘super’ can be anything the author thinks up and the reader accepts.

  Centuries ago, mankind needed gods and heroes, partly to explain the mysteries of how our world works, but also as a way to inspire and entertain the youth. Stories of heroes that fought terrible monsters and saved humanity were passed from one generation to the next. There is a reason those myths are still known to us, they worked and still do. Each year, more movies, books, and such are made about the gods of old.

  But in our modern world, we’ve moved away from the ideas of gods and myths. They’re old fashion now-a-days and have been replaced by fictional people with superhuman powers, skills, or in some cases, other-worldly origins. They were first brought to us in the pulp novels of the early 20th century, then drawn out in the comic books and eventually turned into blockbuster movies.

  So the question is, why ‘Steampunk’ them? The answer is simple: Why not?

  With the growing popularity of the Steampunk genre, there is plenty of room for stories of all types. Steampunk doesn’t have to be all about airships, corsets, and romance. The more the genre grows, the more diverse people will expect their tales to be within it. With the number of comic book fans growing every year, this book will hopefully give them a new source for ‘Super’ entertainment outside of the traditional comic books formats.

  I hope you enjoy reading the stories in this collection as much as we did writing them.

  D. Alan Lewis

  Roger Dawkins and the Steam Daemons

  Adam Millard

  “The machine does not isolate man from the great problems of nature but plunges him more deeply into them.” – Antoine de Saint-Exupery

  The Contraptor stood back, offering his creations a scrutinizing glance. There had been various occasions whereby his inspections proved unsatisfactory, but this was not one of them. The daemons were beautiful, perfectly in keeping with his initial vision; they would do the job they were designed to perform quite nicely.

  “You’re magnificent,” he told the small army of steam-powered minions. “Most wondrous and…shinier than one might have expected.” He subconsciously buffed the shoulder of the daemon nearest to him and was rewarded with a mechanical chirp of approval. “Ah, you recognize me as your father, your creator?” Another chirp – this time from all seven of the rudimentarily-constructed beasts – answered his question suitably. “Then you will already know my reasons for constructing you. At sun-up, London will fall. There is nothing standing in my way. A million Londoners will scream their way through the streets; a great conflagration will remind them that their petty laws and ideologies mean nothing to me. You will each be remembered as heroes to the cause; martyrs, if that is the way the morning plays out. We shall bring this once-great city to its knees and I, The Contraptor, will be taught from the history books of the future.”

  The daemons straightened up in a cacophonous din of creaking metal and saluted their creator. The Contraptor erupted in hellish laughter, for there were seven steam daemons, each waiting to do his dirty work. As far as he could tell, that was six more than was necessary.

  *****

  Smoke lingered in the atmosphere, partially obscuring the morning sun. The scent of something distant and unsavory caught in the throats of elegantly suited gentlemen and gracefully dressed ladies as they exited their hansoms. For mid-March, it was remarkably warm. Those with suits removed the jackets, and shrugs were shrugged off to accompany the unforeseen heat-wave. One would be forgiven to confuse the current month with one further along the calendar.

  Several street-performers were already setting up along the market; a mime-artist–dressed as the once-worshipped hero, Dawkins–began to work
through the staccato motions that made up his bit. A man sidled up alongside him and tossed a coin (something of a low denomination, but it all helped) into the upturned bowler on the pavement.

  “Thanks, guvnor,” the mime said as the man continued past. There was something remarkably familiar about the gait of the kindly gentleman, but for the life of him he couldn’t place it.

  Farther along, the same man purchased a loaf of freshly-baked bread and a wheel of cheese.

  “Go down lovely with a nice cup o’ tea, that will,” the vendor opined, but the man was already walking away, intent only on returning to his apartment in the middle of the city. A city he had long watched over; his London.

  Things were changing, and had been for quite a while. The police were doing their jobs–too well, as far as he was concerned–and the majority of the villains had been either arrested or exiled. The people of London no longer relied on the likes of him to save them from peril and imminent death, not when they had the local constabulary. Sure, he still had a fan or two, and it was always pleasant to be recognized. The trouble was, it didn’t happen that often.

  No. Roger Dawkins had resigned himself to the fact that the city was finally under control. He should have been happy, really. He wasn’t getting any younger. Twenty years of battling cockney super-villains had taken its toll, and yet he yearned for more, for somebody else to step up to the plate. Never before had he felt so obsolete.

  He returned to his apartment at the center of the city, ate a sandwich of thickly-sliced cheese, and gazed out over the capital. There had been times, not so very long ago, when he’d donned his bronze armor and leapt from the window he now stood before, soaring out across the city to the chants and whoops of joy from beneath. Even flying into battle, he would smile, for his city was behind him, relying on him, hoping he prevailed, for his sake and their own. He’d taken down the Dragons of Dundee without breaking a sweat, and the Martian Mechas had fallen into the Thames, defeated, whilst he’d been in the throes of a terrible hangover, such was his magnificence.

  “What I’d give for a little action,” Roger sighed, turning to face the suit of armor gracing the corner of the room. It glinted as the sun bounced off it. His own design, the suit had survived for almost three decades. Pock-marked in places from various bullets and projectiles, it remained impenetrable. A good coat of oil had remedied an inevitable bout of rot. In short, it was as good as the day he’d built it.

  It didn’t fit as well as it once had. Roger’s belly had spread ever-so-slightly outwards, and his backside had disappeared completely, replaced by some sort of antique doorstop. On the few recent occasions he had climbed into the suit, he’d found it uncomfortable, stifling, and sweaty. How he’d destroyed the Eye of Thorax wearing such heavy apparel was beyond him.

  Deciding on a second sandwich, Roger switched on the wireless and took a seat. He almost choked on a crust when he heard the concerned report crackling through the speaker.

  “…not sure where…from…only that there…seven…oh, God…only someone could help us….”

  Roger brushed the crumbs from his lap and stood. Whatever was happening, it didn’t sound good.

  “…Daemons of some…iption…mechanical devils…coming for us….”

  Just then, something exploded out in the street. Roger almost hit the far wall as the blast shattered his window and those of the apartments above and below him. Glass tinkled down to the street; frenzied screams crawled up the wall to remind him that the second cheese sandwich had been a bad idea.

  He launched himself across the room toward the wide-open wall overlooking the city. The first thing that hit him was the heat, resultant of whatever had exploded. The second thing was the shapes beneath, clambering over hansoms and assaulting the fleeing crowd.

  “What the…?”

  One of the things landed atop the back of an elderly lady and pulled hard on her fascinator. Even from seven floors up, Roger Dawkins heard the snap of her neck and the final choking sounds from her throat. Two of the thing’s cohorts leapt through the air and savagely knocked the approaching have-a-go-heroes aside before unleashing twin jets of fire upon them. As they ran, screaming and ablaze, toward nowhere in particular, Roger Dawkins tried to gather his senses. Only when they were charred remains did he realize he had to do something.

  “This is what you’ve been waiting for,” he said, somewhat apprehensively. He turned, sucked in his distended belly, and ran for the bronze armor standing behind the glass in the corner of the room.

  *****

  The daemons came from nowhere, which was where most of the Londoners wished they’d remained. Three gold, two silver, and two bronze contraptions appeared at the stroke of nine. By quarter past, half the city was ablaze. The mayor had started to evacuate his people, but London Bridge had collapsed under the sheer weight of panicked Londoners, sending bodies and hansoms into the Thames. Waterloo Bridge befell the same fate, and by half-past nine, Blackfriars Bridge was also floating east towards Margate. The city was trapped, which was exactly how The Contraptor had planned it.

  Flying his dirigible over Whitechapel afforded him a most splendid view of the carnage without getting too close. He’d created the steam daemons, but that didn’t mean he trusted them not to blow a bloody great hole in his airship.

  “All going well?” a voice said, startling him for a moment. Gazing out over the falling city was so mesmerizing – and also, he thought, therapeutic – that he’d failed to notice the entrance of his secretary, Mary Porter.

  “Better than I could have anticipated,” he said, accepting the cup of tea she held towards him. “The little buggers are destroying the place.”

  The secretary chuckled. “It was half destroyed already,” she said, glancing out at a chunk of St. Paul’s cathedral as it drifted along the river towards Shadwell.

  “Don’t you have anything important to be doing?” The Contraptor asked, hoping that she took his irritated tone as a dismissal. He prided himself on clarity, so it came as something of a surprise when instead of disappearing back from whence she came, Mary stepped up to the cockpit window and pointed out across the blazing city.

  “Nice touch,” she said.

  Not knowing to what she referred, The Contraptor glared out through the glass. It was almost impossible to see clearly; everything was painted in various shades of red and orange. It was only when he squinted that he saw the shape flying along the riverbank, the sun reflecting from its…armor?

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I thought he’d retired.”

  Mary Porter shrugged.

  “Dawkins,” The Contraptor spat as if the very name burnt his tongue.

  *****

  He couldn’t believe that after all these years he was back doing what he did best. Stepping into the suit once again, he’d felt the pride within him swell; his sense of duty had overpowered the marginal discomfort. Now, as he soared along the river’s edge into battle with a small legion of mechanical daemons, he realized that as long as London remained, there would always be a place for him.

  Three of the steam daemons were clambering up Big Ben’s north face. There was nothing up there for them–no people to break, no hansoms to burn. Dawkins could only imagine that they simply wanted a better view of the carnage they had caused.

  The heat from the burning city was immense. Dawkins could feel the sweat seeping down his spine, pooling in his iron boots. If he didn’t burn first, he feared he might drown in his own bodily fluids.

  Angling himself towards Westminster, he could hear the exasperated yells from below.

  “Is that who I think it is?”

  “Look who’s returned.”

  “He’s packed into that suit, innee?”

  Ignoring the noise from the ground, and focusing only on the task at hand, Dawkins altered his trajectory ever-so-slightly to avoid smashing face-first into the
great clock. As he approached, the daemons ceased climbing and turned to watch, their metallic horns reflecting the light of the mid-morning sun and the flames from the adjacent palace.

  The sole bronze daemon scarpering upwards was in the middle of turning when something fast and heavy clattered into it.

  “Going down,” Dawkins said as the mechanical creature chirped and whirred, fighting for purchase to no avail.

  It fell, somersaulting to the street below where it shattered into hundreds of pieces. Cogs rolled along the pavement; the daemon’s dented cranium bounced off along Parliament Square, still chirruping in what was probably a display of dissent.

  The two daemons still hanging onto the side of the great clock paused to watch the newcomer loop through the air. Offering one another a cursory glance, they began to climb down. They had more time than they could have hoped for as the stranger in the flying armor seemed to be struggling to maintain control of his course. If they had listened very closely, they might have heard him cursing as he fought to arc back towards the clock-tower.

  Dawkins, from within the suit–which now smelled rather unsavory–watched the little blighters crawl earthwards and reunite with the four at ground level. He could tell from their stolid countenance, if there was such a thing with mechanized daemons, they hadn’t counted on their plan being thwarted. Dawkins had to remind himself, however, that he hadn’t quite thwarted anything yet, and as the steam daemons began to tear into a gathering throng of unsuspecting policemen, he knew he had his work cut out for him.

  He swooped in low, knocking one of the golden daemons from the back of a sergeant. He hollered in a display of self-satisfaction, only stopping when he turned in time to watch the headless sergeant topple to the pavement. The golden daemon skittered away carrying the man’s helmet with the head still inside it.

  That’s just wrong, Dawkins thought, swinging round to take another run-up at the savage contraptions. This time, he pushed two buttons on his arm. From his hip emerged a row of minimal yield missiles, though it would be enough to smash the contraptions to smithereens if direct contact was made. The missiles flew out, leaving a quivering line of smoke in their wake. As they hissed through the air, the policemen dived for cover, for they were clever, and knew that approaching missiles were not to be obstructed unless absolutely necessary.