A Clockwork Orchard: Rivets & Rain

By TW Brown

Step inside the laboratory... Alternate realities where science and technology come alive has been the trademark of the genre known as steampunk. Tales of mechanical creatures and skies filled with airships sweep you up and take the reader to worlds that are just a bit different from our own...yet, somehow they seem strangely familiar. Steampunk is more than clockwork creatures and mad scientists. It is an elegant tale told with a deft touch by some of the most creative minds in fiction. Suspend your boundaries of belief and enter: A Clockwork Orchard.

• Language: English
• Publisher: May December Publications
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012

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A Clockwork Orchard: Rivets & Rain

©2012 maydecemberpublications

Split-tree logo a registered trademark of May December Publications LLC

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead, or otherwise, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author or May December Publications.

Printed in the U.S.A.

A Clockwork Orchard: Rivets & Rain

To those who think that Steampunk is a new genre, this book is not for you. You have already made up your mind that what you are holding is just the latest attempt by the marketing machine to attach to the zeitgeist that is alternate history but I am going to tell you different: This is not your father’s Steampunk. They say that brown is the new black and this is just another passing phase in the world of those who seek to be outside the societal norms like the punk or goth movements. I say that this movement—that they so surely wish to push off as a passing fancy—is more than one hundred years old and was the playground of some of the most daring and scientifically analytic minds of the 19th and 20th centuries. To the uninitiated, Steampunk may seem like just brass rivets sewn into the fabric of the rich tapestry of life, but to those who are truly students of the culture, Steampunk is that and so much more. The stories contained within this anthology are a view into the mind’s eye of the children of Verne, Wells, Baum, and Babbage. The minds of the past, influencing the writers of tomorrow with all the precision of a well-oiled machine, given life by the steam that powers us all: imagination. You now have the chance, dear reader: put the book down and go back to your daily routine, or allow it to take you by the hand and lead you through the orchard. The choice is yours, and we are waiting for you to decide…

Edward A. Taylor

Dedication

To all the friends and families of writers

who give us the time and understanding

to do what we love

Contents

Never Mind the Nonsense, Here’s the Sex Truncheons By Michael Seese

Skymanned City By Paul Boulet

Running Out of Steam By Mark C. Jones

A Clockwork Orang(utan) By Adam Millard

A Demonstration of Loyalty By Dorothy Reede

Sheriff Holt and the Purple Stagecoach Mystery By K.G. McAbee

Il Risorgimento By Bob Lock

The Assassin’s Assassin By Christopher Eger

Feast of Souls By J.E. Watts

1

Never Mind the Nonsense,

Here’s The Sex Truncheons

I walked along briskly, purposefully, with my hat pulled low, my eyes cast down. I didn’t want any passers-by to recognize me, though in this part of London and at this hour of the evening, that chance seemed not too likely.

A scant two hours prior, I was not certain that it would take place tonight, as I had not received any correspondence on the matter. Then around 19:00, I received an IM. (If you’re not current on the latest technologies, that acronym stands for Instant Morse.) My inside contact sent me an address and a time: 290 High Street Beckenham, 21:30. I had barely enough time to wash up and hurry out the door.

I had considered taking the Underground, but opted to shun it, lest one of the station’s DVRs were to capture my image. As someone with no artistic talent, I am amazed at the ability of the Dedicated Visitor Recorders to sketch a person’s likeness so quickly.

As I made my way east on Beckenham Road, across the roundabout I saw the looming granite facade of the Odeon Concert Hall. I was momentarily taken aback. I could not believe that they would choose such an obvious and established venue for so subversive an undertaking. Such seemed to be a proposition that was perfectly fraught with peril. However, I soon realized that 290 High Street was in actuality several addresses away.

I walked up to the double glass doors and peered in. The inside was completely dark. I stepped back and read the name above the awning: Ernest M. Ingle Jewelry. Puzzled, I took another glance at the piece of paper, and confirmed that I had not erred. I was, indeed, standing in front of the address I had been provided. Was I sent incorrect—or false—information, I wondered.

I then noticed a small, nondescript white door to the left of the jeweler’s window. The panes of glass were dark, or rather darkened. Whether their opacity represented an intentional obfuscation, or a fortuitous byproduct of the activity within, I could not say. Nonetheless, it served its purpose. I could see nothing, save for a dim glow emanating up from below.

The door was unlocked. I took a quick glance around, entered, and pulled the portal shut behind me.

You have come this far. You should not turn back now, I reassured myself.

I descended the rickety staircase quickly though cautiously, fearing for my safety. I was concerned about the potential for their imminent collapse, as well as the prospect of encountering a contingent of ruffians at the bottom. Suffice to say, upon reaching the cellar level I was pleased and relieved to find a sedate gathering of young ladies and gentlemen, all properly attired and observing general decorum. There were perhaps fifty assembled there. I would have guessed that most were approximately of age eighteen, with a span of two years either way.

The light was dim and the air heavy and thick. The pall was not due to the crowd, however, as the clearly expectant youth had not yet begun the maniacal gyrations reportedly associated with these happenings. Rather, it was a result of the stoker feeding a boiler near the front of the stage, to the point where it nearly glowed.

I paused for a moment and appreciatively began taking stock of the apparatus. It was one of the stranger contraptions that I had ever witnessed in my entire life. From one side of the boiler there jutted out a two-foot-long metal pipe. It ran into a large, wooden-handled bellows. From there, another pipe was laid out and across the front of the stage, disappearing into a large wooden box—perhaps six feet in height—with a face that appeared to be made of some sort of thin fabric. Though I could not see clearly the contents of the box, there appeared to be several circles within, stacked on top of each other.

At that moment it occurred to me what a brilliant choice of location this was, on several counts. First, being that it was in the vicinity of the Odeon, their appearance would not have been out of place. Second, since we were situated in a cellar, very few sounds from below would have filtered up to the street level. Finally, assuming they began promptly at 21:30, the full orchestra performing at the Odeon most likely would have been in their third—often the fortissimo—movement, which effectively would mask the sounds coming from this locale.

I was forced to admit that I had to admire the cleverness of the lads.

After a few more minutes of toil, the stoker called back. Oi! he yelled, quickly establishing his Cockney roots. With that, the curtain parted, and four dignified young men took their place, center stage, to polite applause. They bore in their hands the instruments typical of the string quartet.

The crowd hushed. The spectacle was about to begin. I had heard about them. Now I was one of a select few experiencing them firsthand: the Sex Truncheons, live.

The first violin—who sported a shock of red hair, though it bordered on orange—raised his Strad to his chin. After making eye contact with the others, he put bow to instrument. After pausing for a moment, he drew across the D string, and launched into, if I recall, Mendelssohn’s String Quartet in D Major, Opus 44 No. 1. The others quickly joined in.

The notes were sweet and pure. Clearly, they were talented and accomplished young musicians.

As the movement reached its crescendo, the first violin stood bolt upright, and with a flourish insouciantly kicked back his chair with one leg.

1-2-3-4! he yelled as the four of them abruptly launched into a different, more up-tempo number. The sound intensity grew tenfold, as it appeared to be somehow emanating from the box center stage. I looked over and saw that the stoker now was furiously working the bellows. After a brief musical introduction, the first violin put down his instrument and began singing a tune, one which was quite unfamiliar to me. Certainly, though, it was not based on any composition of Beethoven, Mozart, or Bach.

I do pray the almighty God to save the queen.

I do not believe that she is a human being.

I consider it an exercise in wasted time

Contemplating England’s dreams.

Queen, being, dreams." I was never a fan of slant rhyme. It just seemed too...unconventional and free-spirited for my tastes. But my opinion hardly counted. The young ones who had gathered for this concert clearly were enthralled by it.

After several minutes—a rather short time, by musical standards—that piece ended to raucous applause and even foot stomping. But rather than acknowledging the audience’s gratitude, and bowing to them as one would have expected, the leader called out, 1-2-3-4! yet again. I assumed they were beginning the second movement. But, though this work shared the same prestissimo, agitato tempo and mood as the first, it sounded as though it were being performed in a completely different key, if the musical training of my youth still held. So I was forced to conclude that it was an entirely different composition altogether.

We endeavored to holiday in a sunny warm clime,

In the Channel Island of Jersey.

But we were less than successful,

And they requested that we depart.

The crowd was now agog, even worked into a froth, one could say. I could see why. The lyrics were scathing, scabrous, even scandalous! Corsets, long gloves and cravats all went flying. I felt as though a riot were imminent, and wondered how they planned to reclaim their own garments and, failing a successful retrieval, how they would explain the items’ disappearance to their parents upon their return home.

The audience then began a strange dance, the maniacal gyrations I referenced earlier. Rather than following any traditional, formal steps, they simply jumped straight up and down, repeatedly, without making contact with any specific partner. It was a most bizarre sight. I decided to coin the term lifting, a reference to that relatively new American invention, the lift, which simply takes one up and down.

Then, some adventurous young men climbed onto the stage. I thought for a moment that they had planned on assaulting the musicians, who clearly were decimating musical convention on multiple fronts. But rather, they faced back toward the audience, pointed, and hurled themselves with abandon through the air. I fully expected that they soon were to meet a rude impact with the floor. But, quite surprisingly, the assemblage spontaneously raised their collective hands and caught the falling free spirits, who then rode along on the sea of supporting hands. I immediately labeled those two actions stage hurling and crowd sailing, respectively.

After two more pieces entitled, as nearly as I can tell, Civil Disobedience for Mother United Kingdom and Comparably Uninhabited, the lads stood and bowed politely to uproarious applause, whistles, and shouts of Huzzah!

The leader held up his hand to silence the throng, and said, Now sod off! before leading his mates backstage.

The audience then began chanting their name and igniting and holding aloft their Döbereiner’s lamps. I did not understand the significance of the ritual. Perhaps it was to help them find their way out, now that the performance had ended.

After a few minutes, though, the oil lanterns were brought up to a collective Awww from the spectators. Realizing that the show apparently was over (why that would not have been obvious when the musicians left the stage, I am not certain) the youth began crawling around on the floor in an effort to retrieve their carelessly cast aside wardrobe components.

It was then that I finally spotted Martha, my eldest sister’s niece (by virtue of her husband’s side of the family tree) who had been my confidant, and who had sent me the IM earlier this evening.

Malcolm, she said, taking my hands and kissing my cheeks, how are you?

Martha, my dear, I am well. How are you?

I’m all out of breath, she said, putting an ungloved hand on her white, heaving bosom. I had to struggle to remember that I am engaged to be married and quickly averted my eyes from her excessive display of skin. What did you think of the show?

To be honest, I was not certain. Clearly, the music was dreadful. The words noise racket and dissonance came to mind. Still, there was no denying that the audience found them appealing.

I was intrigued, I said, diplomatically.

Would you like to meet them? she asked.

I suppose that would be proper.

Let’s go then, she said, grabbing my hand.

Please remind me. What are their names?

She rolled her eyes.

The first violin is Jonathan Joseph Rotham. Second violin, Philip Stephen Jones. The viola was played by James Paul McCooke. And finally, cellist Simon ‘Sid’ Virtuous. He replaced the original cellist, Glen Flintlock, who was asked to leave after repeatedly insisting that Antonio Salieri possessed a far superior talent to Mozart.

All right, Jonathan, Philip—

He prefers Stephen.

Stephen, James—

He prefers Paul.

Paul and... I said, waiting for a correction, which was not forthcoming. Sid.

Yes.

Jonathan, Stephen, Paul, and Sid. Right, then. Let us go.

Hold on one moment, she said, scanning the floor, before locating and retrieving a single off-white glove. She then hurried me around the stage.

A burly gentleman with crossed arms stood in front of a door. She winked, blew him a kiss, and bent over slightly.

He smiled and stood aside, and she pushed her way in.

Hey, mates, she called out as we entered.

Oi, Martha, said the cellist. How are you this fine evening?

I’m swinging, love, she said, adopting a working-class accent that clearly contradicted her upbringing. Seeing that Jonathan was eying me suspiciously, she proactively offered, Let me introduce you to my cousin, Malcolm. I’ve told him about you, and he said he wanted to see you perform.

Mate, said Sid, offering his hand.

Delighted.

Pleased, sir, from Stephen.

Charmed.

Nice to meet you, said Paul.

Thrilled.

Oi! The honor is all mine, missus.

I must admit, I was not building a favorable impression of Mr. Rotham. But I decided to give him an opportunity to redeem himself.

Enchanted, I forced myself to say.

They looked at me blankly for a moment. I suppose it was my move.

Right. Well, chaps, that was an engaging recital. One cannot deny that your audience enjoyed every minute of it. Tell me, do you have designs on performing at any larger, more established venues, perhaps closer to the central city?

No, said Jonathan.

More silence.

"Right. Well, perhaps you might consider recording a CD, a concerto drammatico, I said in an effort to demonstrate that I was current with the latest trends. I hear that Mr. Edison’s latest gramophone captures the nuances of smaller halls very well."

More silence.

Right. Well, you’ve chosen a most catchy name for yourselves. No one certainly will forget it. But don’t you think it might be a bit radical?

How about the white globes, then? Jonathan asked, overtly ogling Martha’s exposed flesh.

You nasty, evil boy! she exclaimed, seemingly not offended by his utter disregard for decorum.

Yes, I said, trying my best to contain my growing ire. Both are quite clever. But the Sex Truncheons, I believe, is too...inflammatory. How about something like the ‘Fab Four?’

Sounds too cheery, said Sid.

Sounds too cheeky, from Stephen.

Sounds too mopey, said Paul. We’d be known as the ‘Mope Tops.’

Mope? I asked. How does ‘fab’ sound mopey?

"Fab? Oh, I thought you said