SteampunX: Episode Two: SteamDisco Destruction

By Benjamin Jacobson

In the Victorian tradition, SteampunX is a serial novel released monthly.

It’s 1875 on the Columbian calendar. Anowarakowa, the New World, has been at peace for a century. By treaty and vigilance the land has been divided among the English Colonies in the Northeast, New France in the South, the Aztecs in the West, and the League of Ten Hundred Nations in the Midwest.

The shadow of slavery hangs over New France. The man called Thunder arrives to avert a war he fears may erupt. Little does he know the war began long ago in the hearts of the noirs that work the land. Trapped between the justice of the oppressed and the whims of a dangerous ally, Thunder and his teenage companions struggle to do what's right for themselves and for the Nations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Jacobson
• Release date: Nov 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466127678

Benjamin Jacobson

Benjamin Jacobson is the award-winning author of such stories as “A Hatful of Rabbits” and “Brother, Can You Spare the Time?” His short fiction has appeared all over the Internet and even on paper. SteampunX is his first foray into serial fiction.

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SteampunX –

Episode Two: SteamDisco Destruction

by

Benjamin Jacobson

Copyright 2011 Benjamin Jacobson

Smashwords Edition

In Episode One of SteampunX:

Teenage twins, Funk and Puck, from the Ten Hundred Nations discover poachers hunting the Birch Stag automaton. Risking their lives, they run to inform the machine’s creator, Thunder, about the trespass of this Buffalo Man. The poachers follow and a battle ensues leaving Funk without his hand and all but one of the poachers dead. Before their deaths the poachers revealed their origin as the Marquisdom of Chartres in New France. In response, Thunder and the twins, Puck and the newly renamed Red Hand, embark on a mission into New France to discover the truth behind their actions, find the missing poacher, Crane, and avert a war between the two nations.

Gustave

The severed hand sat upon the table. When the lightening outside of the slave quarters crashed the fingers appeared to twitch. It’s only a trick of the light, Gustave told himself as he examined the bodiless appendage.

The other slaves gave him wide-berth. They always did. Most deferred to him and he hated it. He worked in the house, he dressed like a white man, but he was owned, a noir, like them. On this occasion, he could understand their distance. He didn't particularly want to be holding this hand.

Is it Phillip's? Jean asked from over his shoulder. Jean was the only one who didn't defer to Gustave or anyone else, except the Master and that never felt like a choice. He had enough stripes on his back to show he wasn't afraid of the occasional disagreement.

More importantly, Jean had the respect of the field slaves in a way that Gustave did not, the respect of an honored peer. That equality escaped Gustave even among his own kind. It was an equality they would all soon fight for and many would and had died for. Gustave took an extra moment to respond. He had to choose the right words, so much rode on the next week. The timing of these disappearances couldn't be worse.

I believe it is. Gustave said. Jean nodded. It looks like the harvester caught it, he lied. The harvester would have shredded the hand into pig slop. This hand had been severed with close surgical precision. No accident. He hated the machines as much as any man who'd watched them take the lives of ill-trained slaves. It was easy to blame them now, when he needed his allies strong. The slaves had had superstition bred into them. They'd been given just enough religion to fear the devil and God both. Disappearing friends and disembodied limbs could provide just enough spook to keep them in bondage. The Lord declared a time for every purpose and this was a time for lies.

He must have had an accident. Gustave said, looking Jean straight in the eyes. There is nothing to be done.

Jean harrumphed as if he didn't quite believe it, but kept his doubts to himself. Jean knew as well as Gustave did that a rebellion is like a train, slow to start, but unstoppable once it reached momentum. In these critical days of stoking the furnace, nothing could