The Thousand-Year Tattooist and other Steampunkery

By Sean E. Graham

What can the right design with the right ink administered to the flesh by the right hand do? Conquer the world. Duke Tattingham believes he’s found the Thousand-year Tattooist, the young magi, the one person capable of inking the legendary dooms-day tattoo and he will stop at nothing to get his hands on the boy. It falls on the shoulders of the queen’s special operative Abner Hornsby and his Maori partner Tapu to save the child... and mankind.

First published in Steampunk: An Anthology by Sonar4 Publishing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean E. Graham
• Release date: Jun 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466100572

Sean E. Graham

Sean lives in central Oklahoma with his beautiful wife Tammy. They share their home with a couple of short haired felines and a pair of three legged dogs. His short fiction can be found in various anthologies, e-zines and periodicals.

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The Thousand-Year Tattooist

& Other Steampunkery

By Sean E. Graham

Smashwords Edition

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PUBLISHED BY:

Sean E. Graham on Smashwords

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The Thousand-Year Tattooist & Other Steampunkery

Copyright © 2011 by Sean E. Graham

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Table of Contents

Thousand-Year Tattooist

Dimensionator

Uprising at Red Hawk Reservation

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Thousand-Year Tattooist

Originally published in Steampunk: An Anthology by Sonar

The collar of his overcoat was pulled up high around his face and his top hat sat low to fight back the driving English rain. Horses clopped on the cobbles behind him as he stepped off the main street and into an alleyway and made his way past the piles of rubbish, stopping at a nondescript wooden door. Three knocks, pause, four knocks, pause, then two knocks. The peephole darkened from the inside and he presented his face to the hidden peeper. Many locks rolled back in a short symphony of metal on metal.

A small Asian man in loose-fitting black trousers and shirt stood in the doorway. He nodded sharply, his waist-length queue swaying like a pendulum, and disappeared into the darkness. The coated man followed and the hall opened into a wide room. Smoke lingered in the air like coastal fog. Men and women, like apparitions in the dim candle lighting, lay about on filthy mattresses and loose bedding passing long pipes between them.

They continued past several scantily clad Chinese girls waiting outside tiny rooms and room set apart from the rest. An ancient Asian sat on the floor, a low tray before him, shoveling noodles into his mouth from a bowl with a pair of chopsticks.

Missah Tattingham, so nice see you, he said. His long, thin beard bounced as he spoke. He motioned with his elbow towards a nearby pipe. Smoke?

Tattingham brushed the water from his coat and pulled his hat off, revealing a deeply scarred face. Molten, raised flesh covered his left cheek and ran across his shorn scalp.

Have I ever? he said sharply, but slurred as the right corner of his mouth was scarred and drooped. The artist, Lee, where is the artist? His gray eyes flared like coals.

Lee chuckled. Yes, Missah Tattingham, yes, yes. Long-life tattoo, as ordered. He rose gingerly, staggered, and Tattingham’s escort bolted to his aid with incredible speed. Thank you, Chang, the old man wheezed. Come.

The trio went back into the hall and through another locked door before descending a spiral staircase ending at an iron door. Lee drew a ring of keys from his robe and opened the series of locks. The door groaned and swung inward. Tattingham stepped in behind Chang and grinned with the side of his mouth that still responded.

Sitting on a stool next to a plush couch was a small boy, brown skinned and slight. He could not have been more than eight or nine, much younger than Tattingham expected. He looked the boy over greedily. On a small, circular table next to the boy sat a tray of long bamboo needles and small tins of jet black ink.

Lee extended his hand. Payment prease—half now, then begin.

Tattingham pulled a fist-sized bag from his coat and dropped it into Lee’s hand.

Good ruck, Missah Tattingham. Lee bowed several times as he exited the room. Chang remained and closed the door, shutting the trio inside. They heard Lee lock it from the outside.

Chang stood cross-armed, back to the door. Tattingham smiled and began to undress, placing his top coat on the couch arm. He undid the top tie of his shirt, pulled it over his head and flapped it out dramatically like a bull fighter. His chest and arms were covered in spiraling, looping, linking, intertwining tattoos. Under the ink lay more thick scar tissue.

It’s not polite to stare, boy-oh, Tattingham said to the gawking boy and winked at Chang, who remained stone-faced. Tattingham lay face down on the couch, closed his