Penny Dreadnought: The Lone and Level Sands

By Abominable Gentlemen

The Abominable Gentlemen build four worlds only to destroy them in this issue of apocalyptic fiction. Witness four unique visions of the end in:
“Precious Metal” by Aaron Polson
“Only the Lonely” by Iain Rowan
“The New Words” by Alan Ryker
“He” by James Everington

Penny Dreadnought: The Lone and Level Sands is 20,000 words, or approximately 80 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abominable Gentlemen
• Release date: Feb 14, 2012

Abominable Gentlemen

Foreword to "Introducing Penny Dreadnought..." by Alan Ryker I’m a romantic. There’s no hiding it. I’m too sincere. I’m too enthusiastic. I can’t play it cool, so I’m just going to come out and tell you what publishing this first issue of Penny Dreadnought means to me. I believe that fiction can matter. I believe it can even be dangerous, but only if the writer is fearless. That’s not an easy thing. We tend to be an anxious lot. A dreadnought is a battleship, but a literal paraphrase for “dreadnought” is “fear nothing.” Penny Dreadnought began as a wish to get my work alongside the most talented and fearless writers I know. Somehow, I was lucky enough that my first choices all agreed. And thus began the accursed fraternity of the Abominable Gentlemen. These men do not care about false genre boundaries, only making the best stories they can. They don’t care about the next hot subject, only their next impossible-to-ignore idea. They’ve put in their dues and know the rules, so they know exactly when and how to break them. And they’ve agreed to let me place my stories beside theirs on a regular basis. So, I’m very proud to introduce Penny Dreadnought, the insidious indoctrination engine of the Abominable Gentlemen. Writers are still adjusting to the idea that when we sit down at the keyboard, we need only worry about creating the best work possible. We need not dread pouring our time and hearts into something we can’t get past gatekeepers with more conservative (or fiscally-focused) aesthetics. In this climate, I expect our work to only get better. More dangerous. Stranger.

Book preview

PENNY DREADNOUGHT: DESCARTES' DEMON

flagship publication of

The Abominable Gentlemen

Copyright 2012 Jeffrey Rice

Published by the Abominable Gentlemen at Smashwords

Ozymandias by Percy Shelley, first published in 1818 in The Examiner in London.

He Copyright 2012 by James Everington.

Precious Metal Copyright 2010 by Aaron Polson, first published in Albedo One #38.

Only the Lonely Copyright 2001 by Iain Rowan, first published in Not One of Us.

The New Words Copyright 2008 by Jeffrey Rice, first published in Bound for Evil.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author, except where permitted by law. Contact: [e-mail]

These are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Jeffrey Rice

Japan Apocalypse images by Thierry Ehrmann licensed Creative Commons 2.5

Leave the safety of the bunker, and enter the wasteland.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Precious Metal by Aaron Polson

Only the Lonely by Iain Rowan

The New Words by Alan Ryker

He by James Everington

Foreword

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said:—Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,

The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains: round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

—Percy Shelley (Jekyll and Hyde Pub regular)

Precious Metal

by Aaron Polson

Two rivers flowed from the twisted ruins of La Ciudad, and a small, metallic crow followed the smaller of the two. The river once had a name, but that was of no importance to the bird. Inside its metal skull, gyros whirred and tiny switches clicked, forcing wires and servos into motion, spreading its wings like layers of crisp, aluminum paper to catch the warm updrafts and sustain his wobbly flight. A brace of its black, feathered brethren glided past as a black box came into view on the ground below: a car, spreading billows of brown dust as it sped on a parallel trail to the river. The metal bird swept back its wings and followed.

At the end of the road, Santiago's shack rested amid rolling dunes of wreckage from the old world. He sat and rocked gently on the shaded porch, occasionally wiping his forehead with a soiled handkerchief. Across from the clapboard shack, a row of sculptures sat under the noonday sun like a scrap metal zoo. He closed his eyes and sighed as the black car growled to a halt in his yard.

The dust settled, and a tall man in grey popped from the passenger door. You Santiago? He fidgeted with his collar, loosening a button against the warm air and aggressive sun.

The old man nodded.

The tall man pulled a pistol from his coat. We're with Arrow. We're here for the collection….

It is that time of the month again? Santiago continued rocking, and a smile started to spread across his lips. You would think Mr. Arrow would want to ignore an insignificant like me… out here in this, he waved a hand to the dunes, wasteland.

It's what you can salvage for us, buddy. We wouldn't be out here otherwise. The tall man stepped closer, holding the gun at his side as a reminder. No funny stuff, right? He squinted against the bright sun.

Santiago smiled and pointed to a box on the other side of the porch. A few pounds of copper and lead this time. Some quartz, if you need it. He stopped rocking and chuckled. I'm not a funny man. His eyes caught a glimpse of something moving just behind his row of sculptures.

The tall man nodded to the car. His partner, a shorter, stouter man climbed out, hefted the box, and tucked it in the trunk while the tall man watched with one hand at his side. His coat bulged just under the hand. You have a month, old man. We'd like to see a little more next time, understand?

Santiago shrugged his shoulders and started rocking again. I only have what the junkers bring. I will do what I can.

The tall man turned, and kicked one of Santiago's sculptures, a cat cobbled together from aluminum and bits of rusted iron. Junk, he muttered before ducking into the car. The engine barked again, roared with a puff of foul methane as the car turned and crawled away.

Santiago frowned, but continued to rock as if at peace until the dust cloud subsided and the men in grey were gone. He stroked his chin with one hand and waved to his menagerie of junk animals with the other. You can come out, my friend. They are gone. He stood and spit on the ground. "Thugs. Cerdos. Those gangsters don't create anymore; they just foul what's left of the cities with their fighting. Scavengers who cannot do their own scavenging."

The clockwork crow clicked out of the stationary zoo, approaching the shack on shaky legs. His beak poked forward, pointing to the old man, a cautious gesture.

"I'm sorry; just my temper. You have been gone long this time, el pequeño. Come inside, we