Fiction River: Alchemy & Steam: Fiction River: An Original Anthology Magazine, #13

By Kerrie L. Hughes, Dean Wesley Smith, Kristine Kathryn Rusch and 13 more

Alchemy changes more than dross into gold. It changes steampunk stories into stories of magical transformation. These thirteen stories combine science and magic into do-not-miss alternate history stories that span the globe. Travel with a soul-stealing carnival, meet the Grand Dangoolie, put on some perfect perfume, and sample some magical chocolate. These adventures grace the pages of the most creative volume of Fiction River yet.

"If you haven't checked out Fiction River yet, you should. There's something for everyone."

—Keith West, Adventures Fantastic

"… fans of the unconventional will be well satisfied."

—Publishers Weekly on Fiction River: Pulse Pounders

• Language: English
• Publisher: WMG Publishing
• Release date: Mar 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215018149

Book preview

Foreword

An Arcane Science

Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Once upon a time, I edited The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. My mandate there was this: I had to edit a brand new issue of the magazine that felt like previous issues, but was completely different from the previous issues.

Every magazine editor deals with that mandate. In magazines from Esquire to TV Guide Magazine, from Asimov’s to Lightspeed, editors must do what they’ve done before, only different.

Here, at Fiction River, Dean Wesley Smith and I designed the anthology series as a magazine in that it comes out at regular intervals. But we want every volume to feel different and not be the same as previous volumes.

We act as series editors to ensure that story quality remains high, and that’s all we do. The rest is up to the individual editors. And so far, our guest editors have gotten into the spirit.

Alchemy & Steam is the second Fiction River volume that bestselling editor Kerrie L. Hughes has edited for us. The previous volume, Hex in the City, involved magic and cities and spells. This volume is pure steampunk. Yes, there’s magic. But there’s a sense of history here that the previous volume didn’t have and a scientific attitude completely missing from Hex in the City. Kerrie has hit steampunk perfectly—and in doing so, made this volume different in both style and substance from her previous volume.

Editing is an arcane science, much like the alchemy that Kerrie mentions in her introduction. Ask any editor, and she’ll tell you everything she wants in a logical, laid-out fashion. Then present her with a story that’s brilliant but might not fit the logic perfectly, and she’ll make it fit.

In fact, it’ll seem like that story belonged right from the start.

Kerrie has the editing gift. And it shows in this volume. I recommend that you read it from beginning to end, because Kerrie takes you on a heck of a journey—filled with steam and chocolate and automatons, and heart and passion and warmth.

Alchemy & Steam is unlike anything we’ve published at Fiction River. And yet, the stories are stellar, just like you’ll find in previous volumes.

Hmmm. Maybe that does make this the same, but different. Just not in the way we’re all used to.

—Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Lincoln City, Oregon

January 23, 2015

Introduction

A Very Successful Experiment

Kerrie L. Hughes

Last year I put together an incredible volume of urban fantasy with Hex in the City. It was a great experience and I didn’t expect to top the stories from that one but this year’s Alchemy & Steam may just be a smidge better, a smidge. That’s an official measure in alchemy equal to the size of one sixteenth of a teaspoon. And if you believe that, I have a steam-powered mechanical bridge I’d like to sell you.

Seriously though, alchemy is a very real discipline that has been used to do everything from making soap and glass to creating workable alloys like bronze and pewter. Combine alchemy with a religious philosophy and you get the driving force of the pursuit of the philosopher’s stone. Add steam-driven machinery to alchemy and you get a great backdrop for a story.

This was the starting point for the authors to create their stories. I tried not to limit them but I did ask that they stay within the steampunk subgenres of Victorian, gaslight, American West, and alternate history. I wasn’t disappointed with what they gave me; I was only disappointed that I didn’t have room to buy them all.

I would like to finish by thanking the founders of WMG Publishing, Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith, for without them there would be no Fiction River. They go together like alchemy and steam. I also want to thank the publisher, Allyson Longueira, because she is the engineer at WMG and makes everything run like a fancy locomotive with the help of a talented staff, including Jane Kennedy and Judy Cashner. I would also like to thank Chris York, Lee Allred, Matt Buchman, and all the writers of the Oregon Writer’s Network who help WMG function.

Now back to your laboratories, everyone. May all your experiments be safe and successful.

—Kerrie L. Hughes

January 15, 2015

Green Bay, Wisconsin

Introduction to The Rites of Zosimos

The Rites of Zosimos brews an intriguing potion of dark magick, detective work and dire consequences. If the world did have magick I could seriously see some version of the Universita Hermetica existing in every major city.

Angela Penrose has been an SF fan since the original Star Trek, and got into fantasy not too long after. She was a history major, and Alchemy & Steam was a great opportunity to pull SF, fantasy and history all together. She writes romance under another name, but F/SF has always been her fictional home.

Angela states, I found some info on a Greek alchemist named Zosimos of Panopolis and the alchemical principles he wrote about, and it gave me an idea for a classic blend of villainy and idiocy, which do often seem to go together. The university came out of the idea that if alchemy were a true science, of course it would be studied and organized, with hierarchies and politics and bickering schools of thought.

The Rites of Zosimos

Angela Penrose

The body lay sprawled upon the stable midden amid reeking dung and acrid straw. Someone had dumped a barrow load on top of it before realizing what was there; the overturned barrow lay to one side in the hardpacked dirt beside the grey-weathered fence that divided the rear stable yard from the lane.

Sir Peter Estridge squatted down to take a closer look at the corpse’s skin, most of which was visible. The entire body from feet to face shone in the late morning sun under a coating of escaped humors—mainly phlegm and blood it would seem from the blend of clear, viscous substance smeared with red. It was a nauseating sight, coupled with a lingering meaty scent, and he controlled his stomach with some effort. A reeking mess to one side proved some earlier witness, likely a stablehand, had failed to do the same.

Burned, he said. Poor bugger.

Boiled. The correction came from Lady Catherine Morwood, Dean of the Ionian School within the Universita Hermetica, who had invited herself along when news of a dead man behind the university stable had come into the administrative offices.

Sir Peter clenched his jaw on a protest that, of course, that was what he’d meant, and only replied, As you say.

He stood and looked around to where the stable master lingered in the rear doorway of the building, two younger men peering past his shoulders in wide-eyed horror.

Do we know who he is? Peter asked. One of yours?

No, sir, not ours, said the stable master. The others shook their heads.

You’re sure? The way the corpse lay, the face was visible to one side, but the distortion would make identification difficult.

I sent Tommy round to everyone and he eyeballed all what work here, said the stable master, who apparently had some common sense. That one be none of ours.

I would say a student, said Lady Catherine. Or a young master. Somewhat advanced, more prideful than justified, and impatient. And unfortunately, likely to be from my side of the yard.

Peter watched as she stepped forward, careful of her skirts about the mess. She was swathed in black, veiled and gloved. Peter had never seen her dressed differently, save for the veil, even at dinners. It was an eccentricity shared by a few old women in society. Lady Catherine had little to do with society outside of the academic world, but she’d been the Ionian Dean since before he came to school as an eager teenager; he guessed she was a contemporary of his grandmother, and that she was too vain to show wrinkled, spotted skin.

She used her ivory headed cane to tip the body’s head slightly upward and studied the face.

I don’t recognize him, she said, but I likely know him. Stupid boy. She stepped back and turned to the stable master. Have him brought up to the frigidarium. We’ll keep him there until we find out who he is, and send him back to his people.

The man clearly wanted to object, but he just nodded and said, Of course, m’lady, and sent the two men off to fetch some canvas to carry the body on.

Thank you for your assistance, she said to Peter. You may tell Dean Everard that I’ll look into the matter, and inform him if anything further requires his attention.

Peter doubted very much that Anthony Everard would step gracefully aside, and not only because of the traditional rivalry between Lady Catherine’s Ionian School and Dean Everard’s Newtonian School. Modern practicality might squabble with the more traditional spirituality, but such a ghastly murder needed to be investigated, not merely contemplated.

It wasn’t his place to contradict Lady Catherine, however, so he only said, I will convey your message, and bowed.

Something about the tilt of her head gave Peter the impression she was smiling at him, but it was only a fleeting sense. She nodded and walked out of the stable yard, her step firm and spry.

Peter glanced back at the naked, boiled man lying on a dung heap before following her.

***

When Peter returned to Dean Everard’s office suite, a slightly musty set of rooms paneled in dark oak, lit by a combination of diamond-paned windows and luminous ether lamps, he sent out an order to have a roll taken of all the students and masters of the school. He didn’t mention to anyone getting the idea from the stable master; the dean had a strong sense of hierarchy and Peter decided not to give him a reason to find fault with the notion. But however sure Lady Catherine might be that the dead man was one of hers, Peter preferred surety to supposition.

Notes began to show up by mid-afternoon, when the Dean came thumping back through the office. He was a burly, florid man, with a bushy mustache and thinning hair under his hat. Large hands bore the scars of heat and metal. He’d spent the early part of the day in a series of meetings, the latest with the university bursar. Peter didn’t expect him to be in a jolly mood, and wasn’t disappointed.

Estridge! What happened with the dead man? Some drunken stable hand, I imagine, fell out of a window and broke his neck?

No, sir, said Peter. I’m afraid not. We’ve yet to identify the man, but I have inquiries being made. The body is difficult to identify, however. He seems to have been boiled to death.

"Boiled? Damnation! Are you drunk?"

No, sir, said Peter with all patience. The dean was a practical man and rarely reacted well when things turned odd. Lady Catherine accompanied me. She seems sure it was one of the Ionians.

They’re boiling each other now? The dean stopped in mid-rant and stared at the floor for a few moments. Then he huffed and said, Some young idiot took the Zosiman dream texts as literal. Usually they have the brains to ask about it first.

Err, Zosiman? asked Peter.

The dean scowled at him. Fourth century Greek alchemist, one of the fathers of hermetics. In my day, we never granted a degree to a student who didn’t have a decent knowledge of the history of our art. Useful practice is one thing, but you can hardly be called an educated hermeticist if you’ve not read Zosimos. At any rate, it’s all allegory. He dreamed of being distilled and refined, the art applied to man. It’s a spiritual metaphor, and anyone with an ounce of brains realizes it. Apparently our dead man lacked an ounce of brains. He waved a hand at Peter and said, Let me know if it turns out to be one of ours. And find out who he was working with—that one needs expelling.

Yes, sir! Peter called to the dean’s retreating back. Of course, there had to be an accomplice. There was no vessel large enough to boil a man anywhere near the stable yard, and the dead man hadn’t walked out to the dung heap and flung himself upon it. The dean might be a blunt and abrupt man, but he had considerably more than an ounce of brains in his head.

An undergraduate hurried in with a note—two more masters had accounted for all of their students and staff.

If this was really all about refining the body as one refined gold or steel, Peter doubted the dead man could be one of theirs. The Newtonian school focused on the practical, laboratory application of the art. Their students, those who didn’t stay to teach, had made their marks in the modern world, and some had gotten rich as well—the university had some fat endowments from students who’d gone on to success.

A Newtonian had worked out the distillation of liquid fire that allowed locomotives to move people and goods all over England, Europe and America. Another Newtonian had further refined the fire into a gas and, collaborating with an engineering mechanic, had developed a safe airship. Flights crossed the Atlantic four times per week, without a single explosion since 1818—almost thirty years, now.

Newtonians were practical people. Hopping into a boiling vat was a piece of idiocy, and Peter’d wager his new reverberatory furnace that the dead fellow was one of those wool-headed Ionians. Even Lady Catherine thought so.

***

Which meant, of course, that it was a Newtonian.

Word came half way through dinner, from Master Blanchard who supervised Dee House. William Tarrant hadn’t been seen since the previous day, and a phlegmatic mate of his had agreed to take a look at the body. It seemed to be young Master Tarrant, so far as his friend could tell. Inquiries went on, but Tarrant was a man of regular habits, and missing three meals with no word left was enough to set his friends to talking and searching.

Tarrant’s body was sent home to his parents, his demise noted down as an accident (the idiocy involved kept out of official records for the sake of the family) and the university president made an announcement at dinner to the effect that the Zosiman Rites were not to be attempted by anyone who hadn’t prepared for longer than any of the undergraduates had been alive, and unsupervised by a senior Ionian master. Applicants were to present themselves to Lady Catherine.

Peter thought the word spreading of Tarrant having been boiled to death would be enough of a deterrent, but forms had to be followed.

***

The business of the university proceeded apace for the next four weeks. No word came from Lady Catherine’s office about an accomplice or accomplices of Master Tarrant. Peter hoped anyone involved had learned a hard lesson, and turned his attention to organizing the schedule of lectures for the upcoming term. He was nearly done when word came of another boiled body found on the dung heap.

This is quite enough, said Lady Catherine. She’d come to Dean Everard’s offices, down the corridor and a world away from her own, and stood leaning on her cane in his doorway, her back to Peter’s desk in the reception room. They’d discovered that the dead man was another Newtonian, and that fact seemed to upset Lady Catherine above the mere fact of a boiled corpse.

What does a Newtonian even want with the Zosiman purification process? she asked. Assuming any of you even believe in it—which I can only assume Master Tarrant and now Lord Nathan did—what possible use would you find in it? Help me understand, Everard, because I am at a loss.

Peter heard his Dean huff out a sigh. I’ve no idea, he said. "Anyone who’s interested in your philosophical, mystic botheration becomes an Ionian. There is no use to it that I can see."

Well, someone is convincing your boys that there’s a benefit to them in trying it, she said. At first I thought it had to be one of mine, impatient to get on with it. The Rites of Zosimos take long years of study and preparation, and at that most don’t care to chance it.

Everard made a skeptical sound that would not be acceptable in a lady’s drawing room. And the last person to actually try was, what, four or five centuries ago?

Not that long, no, although long enough. It’s the culmination of a lifetime of spiritual study and illumination. Certainly the young pups who’ve been trying it could not have been ready, even if they’d been on my side of the yard.

No, I’m sure not, said Everard. Back in the nineteenth century, we’ve obviously got a group of idiots who need a good kicking.

I agree, she said. May I borrow your secretary? He has a strong stomach and young legs, and I think we’ll have need of both.

Certainly, said Everard, confiscate him for as long as you need. He raised his voice and called, Estridge? Are you out there?

Here, sir, said Peter, trying to catch up with events. Were the two of them actually cooperating?

Excellent. Help Lady Catherine sort this mess. I’ll have Billbury shuffle your papers in the mean while.

Peter winced, but said, Of course, sir.

We’ll be off, then, said Lady Catherine, and she strode out, Peter following in her wake.

As soon as they were clear of the door, she said, I want to speak with that boy who identified Tarrant’s body, Avery Oxhill. He should be in Master Blanchard’s laboratory at this time of day, I believe.

I believe you’re correct, ma’am.

They crossed the quad with barely three minutes to notice the fine day. Spring buds put a fresh green on trees and shrubs, and a brisk breeze blew through the archways and down the walks running between the tall, gabled granite buildings.

Master Blanchard’s laboratory occupied a favored corner location, overlooking both a hedge knot and a playing field. The large room rose a full two stories high, with windows letting in the spring sun to glitter on copper piping, steel vats and a myriad of shapes of glassware.

Half a dozen students, five young men and a young woman, worked among the crowded benches. Peter looked about, then called, Oxhill? You in here?

Oy! called a voice from the far side of the room next to a towering boiler. Peter led Lady Catherine through the maze of apparatus, following the sound of a pumping steam bellows. Oxhill, a thin young man with hunched shoulders and a permanent scowl, had one hand on a rotary stopper while watching a hogshead-sized vessel made of thick glass. Several tubes penetrated through the top, one of which was connected to the bellows. Peter recognized the sublimation rig; the bellows was pumping air out of the vessel to produce a vacuum, necessary to the process.

He waited for Oxhill to come to a decent stopping point; Lady Catherine waited with equal patience. When Oxhill finally turned his attention to them, he straightened, startled, and gave her a bow.

Lady Catherine, apologies.

It’s no matter, Oxhill. You were occupied. Even Ionians are familiar with laboratory procedures.

Of course, ma’am. Ah, can I help you with something?

You identified Master Tarrant’s body, she said.

Ah, yes, I did. Nasty business, that. He looked away and swallowed hard.

You were a friend of his, then. Who else did he go about with?

Well, just about everyone knew him, said Oxhill. That is, he was friendly enough, been around a while, did some laboratory work, gave some lectures to the pups.

Let’s not waste time, boy. You know what he tried, and now Lord Nathan as well. Someone must have put them up to it, put the idea in their head. Most Newtonians your age have never heard of Zosimos. Who’s been talking about it?

Ah... Oxhill glanced at Peter, but Peter just stared at him. That is, I never heard the name until the president’s speech, ma’am. I’ve not heard anyone talking about it before that.

Perhaps they didn’t mention Zosimos by name. Any whispers about purifying the body? Any ideas about improving one’s understanding of the work by perfecting the worker through the art?

No, ma’am! Oxhill shook his head so hard his pomaded hair flopped loose. Nothing of the sort, I promise.

Hmm. She studied him for a few moments, but he didn’t