Cogs: Grease, Dust, Steam, & Magyk (An Aeropæia Story)

By Tim Baer

What do a Lord, a cat, a bard, a murderer, a giant, a pirate, a dog, and a witch all have in common? Cogs! Constance, to be precise, although she would surely kick you in your shin were you to call her by her given name. Follow the adventures of Cogs and Company as they find their way into, and thenceforth out of, trouble. Along the way, they will do battle with bombers, fight off fierce flying fiends, and duel with dainty dynamos. Won't you come along for the steam-powered fun?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Baer
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9780463406168

Tim Baer

After wasting close to 30 years of his life on Wicca and a life of paganism, Tim, now in his 50s, came to know Messiah in 1998. Since then, he has done as much as possible to make up for those wasted years. A disabled US Navy Desert Storm veteran, he lives in Texas with his wife of 30+ years plus a pack of critters. When he is not at work, or at home busy pounding out more Sci-Fi on his laptop, his time is taken up serving his cats, the LORD, his wife and his dogs--not quite in that order (but don't tell the cats).

Book preview

Dedication

First and foremost, I wish to thank my Savior, Yeshua. Without you I am nothing.

Thank you to my wife, Kathleen, for putting up with my blank stares, my need for silence, my terse replies to her questions of, What are you doing? (as I typed furiously), along with other general shenanigans, disagreeableness, and other assorted idiosyncrasies. Genesis 2:24 Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.(KJV)

Thank you to my children for being the inspiration to some of the bickering scenes in the story. Have I told either of you lately how proud I am of the wonderful adults you’ve become?

Thank you to all my fans for being wonderful fans. I know, I know. Sherpa Holmes, Two. I heard you the first time. Stop nagging. It’s on my To Do list. I’ll get to her, just not before Cogs comes to life.

Thank you to the musical artists who gave my writing the edge it needed. One cannot write steampunk without a little punk. Celldweller and Blue Stahli gave my mind the sharpened edge I needed. Glitch Mob gave me a heavy beat that kept me slogging along when I wanted to quit. Blackmore’s Night gave me the whirling reel for the mindset I needed to write about the magical lands of Aquarnium. Lindsey Stirling, as always, kept me on an even keel in between as I wrote.

Lastly, a special thanks to the Steampunk band, The Cog is Dead for their wonderful albums, Steam Powered Stories and Full Steam Ahead. Many were the hours I had those looped on my mp3 player as I wrote. I wish, however, to inform them that Cogs is not dead. She's merely copped an attitude.

You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club. — Jack London

Prologue

Captain’s Log, final entry—hand written in pencil on a paper logbook: I have had to write this by hand, for I have forgotten how to operate my own electronic tablet logbook. Alas, I also have to print this since I no longer remember how to write in cursive.

We have found a horrific side effect to the extended use of cryogenic stasis sleep. Anyone with an IQ higher than 140 had their memory wiped—if not during sleep, it slowly began eroding after awakening. So while we still have an abundance of blacksmiths, mechanics, farmers, teamsters, and husbandry men, our neurosurgeons, nuclear physicists, geneticists, et al have all had their memories wiped. Still brilliant humans, but we’re back to ABC/123 with them. I, myself remember bits and pieces, but can no longer pilot this ship. This morning I had to have help tying my own bootlaces.

We have attained our goal. We landed on the third planet of our target star (I’m told by one of our blacksmiths the star is labeled WTX-33175 in some star catalog. I will have to take his word for it. I do not remember). I do not remember the beginning of the journey. I am told our shuttle boosted up into orbit to board this ship (called the SS Vivaldi) from the Midland International Air and Space Port in the Free Republic of Texas back on the planet Terra. Now? Now there is no one left who knows how to pilot the ship. There is no one left who knows how to run the . . . excuse me, I had to turn and ask for the words. The engine is run by a Higgins-Goldwicz Dual Orbiting Micro-Singularity Drive. No one knows how to operate it any more. No one knows even how to boot it up. We are stranded here. We have dubbed the new planet Aeropæia. I don’t know why, or perhaps I simply do not remember why.

Luckily the ship had been preprogrammed to auto-send drones ahead of our awakening to seed the planet with some Terran life forms that were expected to prosper on it. So perhaps the loss of our gene splicers won’t be missed quite so much. We at least have some crops and food stock animals available to us. We won’t starve to death come the first winter. Hopefully our new little micro-civilization will manage to survive beyond that.

The shuttle pilots kept returning to the ship in orbit as long as they remembered how to fly the shuttles. All the colonists are down. They were brought first. Time and time again the shuttles went up and brought back more supplies from the ship. One shuttle disappeared with all our tech manuals, the male pilot, and four female crew members. The last shuttle crashed on landing not three hours ago.

We are now here to stay.

Come Sail Away

In which we first meet one of our characters...

1287, 3 Octobre (Venerdi)

Fairshore City Aeroport, Aquapolis Empire

Ailis wandered from table to table on the Airship Almost a Lady, all the while wondering where in the world they had found all the wondrous items that were on display for purchase. She smiled coyly at the various crew-members standing behind the tables, hoping they wouldn't run her off thinking she might knick an item, at the same time enjoying the sights, smells, and sounds coming from their assorted wares.

After a parrot with riotous plumage scared her half out of her skin with its raucous screeching and flapping of wings, she paused at one table that held a fantastic array of colorful scarves that looked as if they were made of liquid. Reaching out to touch one, she held her breath at her own audacity, glancing up at the woman behind the table. Go on, then. Touch one. I don't bite, the older woman said to Ailis with a smile. The young girl returned the sailor's smile and brushed her fingertips across the sheer, coral-colored fabric. Could it possibly be silk? It was! It was real silk! Ailis had heard about silk and had always wanted to feel it herself.

If you please, ma'am—how much? she asked.

Five gold Eagles, replied the woman. Ailis' face fell.

Thank you, ma'am, for letting me touch it, she said, withdrawing her hand. She was crushed. That was more money than she had ever dreamed of owning! All she had with her was a handful of brass Mice, and one copper Dog.

How much do you have, darlin'? asked the sailor. Ailis held out the hand containing her pittance. The sailor pursed her lips. I see. She leaned down behind her table and rummaged about for a few seconds before pulling out a small piece of cloth the same color as the scarf Ailis had been touching. She rolled it loosely, tying it around Ailis' wrist, bracelet fashion. How's that, love? Ailis' eyes went round with wonder at the feel of the fabric as it caressed her skin. She nodded and held out her hand, offering every coin she had. The woman reached down and took a single Mouse. We're square, love. Be on, now. She smiled and gave Ailis a gentle push towards the next table when the girl tried to hand over more coins. The man at the following table also beamed at the little girl as he handed her a piece of savory roasted meat skewered on a stick.

"That's for being such a pretty lass," he said, waving away her proffered coin. Smiling and nibbling on the meat, she began to head towards the airship's prow. It was time for her to begin the long climb back down the mooring tower stairs to rejoin her family at the fair far below.

An undulating siren split the morning with its shrill cry. Ailis looked up, startled, as the crew began to dash about the ship. Tables were being cleared of their items and shoved aside. A tall, thin woman in uniform slammed open a cabin door as she came racing out onto the deck, fastening her sword belt to her hips while bellowing at the top of her lungs.

"Cast off! Cast off! Cut the blasted ropes if you have to, but cast off! Pirates inbound!"

Pirates! The word sent a chill down Ailis' spine. She felt the ship shift as the mooring lines let go and heard the growl of the engines rumbling to life, the whooshing of the propeller blades increasing as they bit into the air, pushing the ship along. No! she shrieked, darting towards the walkway to the mooring tower. My family! I have to get off and go to my family! The gangplank leading to the mooring tower slid off the deck and began its tumbling fall to the ground far below. She stood horrified at the scupper, watching as the tower slowly receded. Her shoulders heaved as she cried, "Mummy!"

The nose of the ship lifted, throwing her back. She grabbed at the railing, missing. The side of her head hit the deck as she fell, causing stars to appear before her eyes. The tears were flowing freely down her face. Mummy! she called again. Dimly she heard several cracks coming from the direction of the pirate vessel before a score of dull thuds emanated from the traders' vessel.

Man the rails! bellowed the woman in uniform. Prepare to repel borders! The woman fell to her side as the pirate ropes tightened causing the trader ship to lurch sideways. Ailis heard the captain scream as she landed on her right wrist, twisting it at an odd angle.

Ailis looked up in horror from her position on the deck as the two ships bumped together and filthy pirates began swinging across from their ship to Almost a Lady. One stopped to look down at the child with the fiery red hair, before leering at her, and kicking her in the head. His boot coming at her face was the last thing she saw before everything went black.

Autumn in the Park

In which Wesley first meets Cogs…

Cogs’ Journal

1301, 3 Octobre (Martedi)

I’ve met the man I’ve decided I’m going to marry! He surely doesn’t realize it yet and most certainly does not even look at me in such a manner. To him I am a mere twelve-year-old little girl, a child, and he is in his mid-thirties, by my best guess. But he shall come around. Of this I am certain! Once a woman has made up her mind about specific things, a man has no choice but to follow. There was a wise person in ancient history who once wrote, Women and cats will do as they please, men and dogs should get used to the idea. I’d placed a four-leaf clover in my shoe just a few moments before walking across the park. He was the first man I met. The clover never lies. It has to be him!

1301, 3 Octobre (Martedi)

Bassinger Park, Fairshore City, Aquapolis Empire

'Twas a crisp autumn day as we stood on the Common of the Bassinger Park, the crowd's susurration dwindling off as the Queen began giving her speech. The air was tinged with a myriad of scents—popcorn from a passing costermonger, salt air from the sea, plus the ever-present effluvium from the sewerage dumping from the city into the bay. The morning’s fog had lifted and the afternoon’s smog was settling in to replace it.

My mind wandered as it was wont to do. Was it fate? Chance? Destiny? Fortune? The fortunes of war? Nay, the horrors of war! A happy bachelor was I, mucking about the world doing research for my doctoral thesis. A blink of an eye—a flash—a bolt from a super-heated luminiferous æther raygun put an end to that time-thread—and my eldest brother.

I found myself named my father's heir, someday to be Lord Somerville myself. In that horrific moment I became not only the heir to the Duchy of Stonewater, but third in line for the very throne itself. Me! I was a second son. I should have finished my doctorate program at the University, and after, perhaps, found employment as a tenured professor there. Or, better yet, gone on to enjoy the life of a playboy—gallivanting about the world in explorations congruous with my doctoral training.

Moot point at best. One sniper. One unguarded moment. One gentle squeeze of the trigger. In an instant a life snuffed out, leaving behind the smell of ozone and burnt flesh. My brother. The former heir to the duchy. Dead.

Now? Now I was betrothed to that wonderful bedazzling creature up on the machine next to her mother. Her mother, the human goblin, the human troll. Troglodyte? Her mother, the fattest, most hideous beast I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. Her mother, the Queen—which, upon my marriage to her daughter would make me the Prince Consort—Prince Wesley. Lord Wesley or Prince Wesley—neither concept would promote my selfish goals for my own future. Why should they? Duty, honor, Crown, and country! What, what?

The Queen, God bless her black soul, must be the ugliest woman I have ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon. And fat. Did I mention how fat she was? She was immense. And ugly. A moment—my humblest apologies. I have already mentioned how ugly she was. I shudder to think of how her grandchildren will turn out. My children. Procreated with that angelic being that came from the womb of—

fffwwweeeEEE—CHUNK! My train of thought crashed as the noon garbage catapult hurled its steam-driven bundle of refuse out into the bay. I still fail to understand why the Union of Refuse Collectors even bothered. It would simply wash right back to shore on the next tide. I suppose it was much better than the old gunpowder-driven twenty-three-inch barrel blasting off every high noon—but that at least got the refuse out far enough that the current carried it away to sea. The catapult does seem to be quieter. Not by much, but some. I still do not believe I will ever get used to its noise, though. I don’t care how much the Ministry of Public Affairs claims that we citizens will.

I remember when they first proposed putting up the catapult vice the cannon. It would have been a mere three-hundred yards from my family's hereditary house in the capitol city. My father was apoplectic! Nor was I too fond of the idea. First the constant noise, additionally the infernal traffic as the refuse would have been carted in past the house—all day, and most of the night. And the atrocious smell! My father managed to get the city planners to move it farther away from the property. Not a lot, but some. Lump on top of that the squeals, groans, and clangs as the steam made its way through the various pipes and actuators (not to mention the roar of the fire from the boiler, as well as the billowing clouds of black smoke from the coal within the furnace) as enough pressure was built for the launch.

Why the rest of the population cannot seem to recycle the way the aristocracy does is beyond me. It is so simple, really. Burn the burnables. Feed all leftover foodstuffs to the swine. Save all the metals for the Tinkers to use as they see fit. Oh, I’m not saying we should just give it to them. By no means! It is proper that the government should make some minor profit off of it.

What, ho! That seemed to be the topic of the Queen’s current rant—recycling. Although, I don’t see too many of the populace actually paying attention to her words. The Queen herself was not really paying attention to the speech she was giving to the peons. Far from it. She was reciting from rote memory. I am quite sure her thoughts were more about the war with Ursygus, not to mention the constant battle with the terrorists from Smaragaid over home rule.

I shook my head, clearing those stray thoughts, and attempted to listen to the woman's droning words.

Blah, blah, blah . . . horse manure. Bull manure. Pig manure—with balderdash and humbug for all! That was not quite what she said, but it might as well have been for all the attention being paid to her words. Several protesters were now chanting loudly about Smaragaid home rule and "Elsie’s too wealthy!"

The Queen and her entourage got back into her Shorewick Steamer. The fireman shoveled more anthracite into the open firebox. Belching immense clouds of black smoke and steam, it began to chug the Queen’s disgusting black clad bulk back to her castle. Her daughter, the younger of two, blew a tender kiss in my direction. Ah! Young love! But the baggage accompanying that love? Her dam? My mind drifted to thoughts of my spawn resembling their grand dam.

I physically shuddered at the thought, my shoulders rolling violently as I pulled my favorite pencil stub out of the breast pocket of my vest. I walked over to a sidewalk bench at the edge of the park. Seating myself, I pulled out that day’s Times and began to work on the crossword puzzle. I had my papergirl well trained. I so disliked the horrific news about the war overseas—she always folded my paper open directly to the puzzle for me. For this simple act I always tipped her double the standard five brass Mice that most folks gave out.

I began pondering fifteen down, Loosen by turning. It could not possibly be that simple an answer, now . . . could it?

‘Unscrew,’ breathed a young female voice in my left ear.

I b-beg your pardon? I stammered, startled by the proximity of the voice. Turning slightly I came face to face with a pair of huge, chestnut brown eyes attached to a young, thin wastrel girl, perhaps twelve years of age, leaning on her forearms over the back of the park bench, her toes hooked in the slot between the seat and the back, her posterior stuck high up in the air.

Fifteen down. It is ‘unscrew.’ Loosening by turning. Unscrew. Her speech had that lilting brogue that the Travelers all had—I had always thought it was an affectation. But it couldn’t be such in one so young, could it? She smiled, a smear of grease under her right eye crinkling as she did. I’m Cogs, she said, jabbing her gloved right hand towards me. On her wrist she had a watch. Its face was made out of a fairly large brass gear. Its center was painted white. The numbers were meticulously painted on it with black in a Germanic style font.

I was startled at the presumptuousness of this waif—this female commoner—in thinking she could address me as an equal. I, a lord to be, and betrothed to the Princess! But to what end would returning her familiarity with rudeness bring?

Wesley, I replied shaking the proffered hand. Her hair was of a brunette color with blonde streaks shot through—with the exception of a large pink stripe making up the leading-edge lock, all of it cut similar to that of a pageboy’s, although it was bobbed up much shorter in the back than the front and parted on the left. Her bangs were far too long and I could tell that the grease smudge was from her constantly flipping them up out of her eyes with her fingers—fingers hastily cleaned of the grease that had adorned them some time in the recent past, some greasy bits still lining the nails and cuticles—fingers that were poking through the tips of her leather gloves.

‘Cogs,' I repeated. That’s quite an intriguing name. Did your mother not like you? Or did your father win the name game at your birth?

She pursed her lips a moment before answering; her fingers nervously reached up to the brass goggles at her throat. "No, it’s actually Constance. But I detest that name in all its horrific variations—Connie, Constancia, Constanze, Constanza, Stanzy, and any others you could possibly dream up. She spit on the grass behind the bench, following it up by making a fake retching motion, partially sticking the index finger of her right hand down her throat. If you ever call me anything other than Cogs, I shall kick you extremely hard in the shin—or worse." I peered down at her feet. The hobnailed leather boots sticking out from beneath her threadbare black skirt were perhaps four sizes too large, tied on with extra twine around her stocking-clad calves. I had no doubt that she would not only kick me very hard in the shin, but that she would very much relish the act. Lounging on the ground beneath her feet were a large gray and black tabby cat, and a tricolor rat