We Will Be What We Eat

Food glorious food. Without it, we’d all just curl up and die. It’s been the driver behind great historical migrations, the inspiration for fabulous works of art, and a form of artistry in its own right for thousands of years. It’s constantly changing as the means of production and the tastes of society evolve.

Yet we don’t see much fiction centred on food. I can count on one hand the speculative stories I’ve read where food played a central part. It’s sometimes used to indicate character or social status or to add a taste of the exotic. From the mouse feasts of Redwall to the replicators of Star Trek, it’s used as a piece of window dressing, a way of setting the tone. But how often is food central, whether it’s the art of cooking, the struggle against starvation, or the complexities of supply systems? And how often, as speculative writers, do we seriously consider how food production and consumption might change?

I got to thinking about this because of a talk I went to recently as part of Pint of Science, a series of events aiming to make science accessible. It brought home to me the challenges we currently face in feeding humanity into the future. Modern western diets are carbon intensive, so preventing environmental collapse probably means significantly reducing how much animal-based food we eat. It’s a huge personal challenge (I love cheese, but apparently cheese doesn’t love the planet) as well as a social and governmental one. One way or another, it’s going to shape the future, but I’ve never seen it addressed in fiction.

Is this because questions of food don’t excite us? The Great British Bake Off says otherwise. Is it because sci-fi writers don’t like to address awkward issues? The likes of Ursula Le Guin and Jeff VanderMeer prove that’s not true. Is this something that’s hard to dramatise? Open a copy of Interzone and you’ll see that writers can make anything dramatic.

Maybe it’s just too far down our radar. Maybe its time hasn’t yet come. But surely there’s space in the world of science fiction to take a proper look at our relationship with food and food production, to change the way we view these things. Hell, maybe it’s out there and I’ve missed it – if you can think of an example, drop it in the comments.

As a society, we need to think more about our food and where it comes from. Speculative fiction could be a way to encourage that thought.

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Lies We Will Tell Ourselves

Lies - High Resolution

A spin doctor forced to deal with aliens who loathe lies.

A squad of soldiers torn apart by the fiction in their midst.

A hunting submarine with its dead captain strapped to the prow, the crew promising that one day they’ll revive him.

We all tell lies to get through the day, some of them to ourselves, some to other people. Now read the extraordinary lies of the future in these nine short science fiction stories.

Lies We Will Tell Ourselves is available now from all major ebook stores.



Final Flight – a flash historical story

The wind roared past the Lancaster bomber as it limped across the North Sea. At the controls, Flight Lieutenant John Lyall tried to focus on that one sound, to ignore the creaking of the plane, the whistle of air through bullet holes, the crackle of flames, and the groans of Arthur Corby, the bomb aimer, emerging through his headset.

“Hold on, Art,” Lyall said. “Just a little longer and we’ll be home.”

Even through the smoke and the leaking fuel, he thought he could smell blood. Whether it was Corby’s or one of the others, their voices all silent, he didn’t know. The back of the plane must be a ghastly mess if he could smell it from here.

“You’re a lousy liar, Johnny,” Corby said, his voice shaking. “If this bucket makes it home it’ll be a miracle.”

“She’s never let us down before.”

“She’s never been shot up this bad before.”

“Let me worry about that. I’ll soon have you all home.”

Who “you all” meant was a painful thought. He hadn’t heard a word from any of the others since they’d left Cologne with a belly full of ack-ack. The crew could all still be alive, unconscious or trapped at their stations and unable to communicate.

It was just possible, like it was just possible the Lancaster would make it home.

“Get out while you can, Johnny,” Corby croaked. “One of us should live.”

“I’m not abandoning you.”

“We’re bleeding fuel and half the left wing’s on fire.”

“Could you parachute out?”

“Not without leaving my guts behind.”

“Then neither can I.”

Corby groaned and then went silent.

Lyall could feel his pulse pounding. He wiped one sweaty palm on his flying suit and then the other, determined to keep the best grip he could on the yoke, to make sure they got back in one piece.

“You still back there, Art, old chap?” Lyall called out.

“Nnnng.” The noise was one of pure pain, followed a moment later by weak, trembling words. “We’ll never make the airfield.”

“I’ll take us down on a farm as soon as we cross the coast.”

“We won’t make the coast.”

“Then I’ll land us in the drink and we can wait for the rescue boys. The plotters back at base will see where we go down.”

“You think the old girl won’t… won’t tear to pieces when you touch the waves?”

“Then I’ll fish you out of those bloody pieces! I’m not losing you all.”

Again, there was just the sound of the wind, the broken plane, and the slowly spreading flames.

Through the cracked window, Lyall saw cliffs in the distance. But the Lancaster was losing altitude despite everything he did, the sea rising in a fretful tide to meet them.

He thought he heard a gasp.

“Art?” he called out. “You’re still with me, aren’t you?”

No response. Even the smell of blood was blotted out by the smoke swirling into the cabin.

“Dammit, Art,” Lyall said, tears running down his cheeks. “Couldn’t just one of you make it through?”

Reluctantly, he let go of the yoke and rose from his seat. He secured the straps on his parachute and made his way quickly back down the plane. The deck tilted beneath him.

He pushed himself on past the body of Arthur Corby, his face pale and his belly bloody, his eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling.

Lyall opened the hatch to the howling wind, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the void. For a moment, gravity grabbed him mercilessly and pulled him down. Then his parachute opened, the straps yanked at his shoulders, and he found himself floating on the breeze.

Trailing smoke and flames, the Lancaster plunged into the sea.

***

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From A Foreign Shore - High Resolution

What if someone had conquered the Vikings, someone claiming to be their gods?

What if King Arthur’s knights met a very different metal-clad warrior?

What if you were ordered to execute a statue, and hanging just didn’t seem to work?

These short stories explore different aspects of history, some of them grounded in reality, some alternative takes on the past as we know it. Stories of daring and defiance; of love and of loss; of noble lords and exasperated peasants.

From a Foreign Shore is available now in all ebook formats.

Closing In On The Details

When you’re evoking a different world, whether it’s a fiction or the past, details matter. Details make it surprising. Details make it real.

I’ve been reading a book called Freedom’s Battle, Volume 2. It’s a collection of first-hand accounts of the air war in World War Two, mostly from the British point of view. As you can guess from the title, it’s not the most balanced perspective on the war, perhaps not surprising for a book that came out in the 1960s, when the memory of that conflict was still raw for many people. But for all its faults, this is a fascinating book.

There are so many details I could never have imagined for myself. The reality of what it’s like to be in a plane as it’s shredded by gunfire. The horrors of being adrift on the Atlantic without supplies following a crash. The crude songs to keep spirits up. The articles written by airmen, spoofing life in service. What it’s like trying to spot enemy aircraft at night.

Secondary sources, those history books analysing what happened and why, are great for a broad perspective and to understand cause and effect. But to understand what events feel like, to get a sense of the reality of lived experience, nothing beats firsthand accounts. All those strange, unimaginable little details make the world come alive.

Fly Another Day – a flash steampunk story

The sound of steam carriages and passing pedestrians floated up to Tao Wan through the darkness of a Bianjing night. The streets below were lit by gas lamps, far more sophisticated than the tarred log street lights back in the Kingdom of Xia, but up on the outside of the War Ministry, all was darkness.

Clinging to the stonework with her toes and the fingers of one hand, Tao slid a slender knife along a window frame, lifted the catch, and opened the shutters. Clad in loose grey clothes, she slid across the sill and into a corridor.

As she had expected, lamps were lit to guide the guards, but none were here now. Their next patrol should be in twenty minutes.

She strode silently down the corridor, opened one of a pair of imposing doors, and entered the Archive of Inventions. The room itself was a majestic machine, full of gears, pulleys, and belts, all set up to protect and secure documents.

A control console in burnished brass stood before Tao Wan. She didn’t have the key needed to operate it, so instead she forced open a panel and started rummaging around inside, removing bolts and repositioning gears, making it work for her. She pressed a carefully selected series of engraved buttons on the console then pulled a lever.

Gears rattled. Belts whirred. A piece of brass like a picture frame emerged from a slot in the wall and came towards her, hanging on a chain. It stopped in front of the control console and hung swaying a foot from Tao Wan.

She smiled in satisfaction at the blueprints for the new Chinese attack airship.

Tao Wan took hold of the frame and tried to open it.

It wouldn’t part.

With a frown, she turned it on the end of its chain. There was some sort of geared locking mechanism on the side, one that clearly needed a matching machine to make it work. She would have to hack that too.

There was a click. She opened a pouch on her belt, revealing a fat metal tube and a pocket watch. The click had come from the watch, a signal to tell her when time was nearly up.

The guards would be on their way, regular as clockwork. Regular as Chinese discipline.

She cursed under her breath. The time for subtlety was over.

Tao Wan tensed her arms then yanked hard on the frame. Chains rattled and gears groaned somewhere in the machine. She pulled again and this time a metal link broke. The frame came free and clanged to the ground.

From the corridor came a surprised shout and hurrying footsteps.

Still clutching the frame, Tao Wan ran out through the archive’s great doors. Guards stood at one end of the corridor, spears raised, staring at her.

“Stop, thief!” one of them shouted.

Tao ran back towards the window where she had come in. As she ran, she slammed the frame against the wall. It buckled and a corner gave way. She wrenched it open, pulled out the papers, and flung the frame back behind her.

The guards bellowed and picked up their pace. Tao Wan’s heart raced. The fate of spies was worse than mere execution, but that was nothing compared with the fate of her country if they couldn’t match Chinese technology. Almost at the window, she stuffed the papers into her tunic and pulled the tube from her pouch.

She flung the shutters open and leapt up onto the windowsill. Outside was darkness and a terrible drop. An airship was passing by, twenty feet up and a dozen out from the tower, like a low grey cloud passing through the night.

“Ha!” a guard shouted. “We have you now.”

The guards slowed, and when she looked back their expressions varied from smug to cautious, uncertain what sort of adversary they faced.

“It’s a hundred feet down,” their leader said. “But if you want to jump, we can peel you off the street instead of arresting you.”

Tao Wan pointed the tube at the airship and pressed its trigged. A barbed spearhead shot out, powered by a miniature rocket, trailing smoke and a slender rope. It buried itself in the gondola of the flying machine.

The rope tugged at Tao Wan as the airship sailed away from the tower. She grabbed hold with both hands and let it lift her from the window, swinging out over the city and away. Behind her, the guards pointed and yelled, but failed to draw the attention of the airship’s crew.

A mad burst of laughter swept through Tao Wan as she climbed up the rope. She had done it. She had got the plans and got out alive. Now all it would take was a little airship piracy and she would be on her way home.

***

For a longer and more subtle adventure from Tao Wan, check out my story “Zhai Chengda’s Wife” in Volume 14 Issue 2 of Electric Spec, out now.

And if you’d like more flash fiction then you can sign up to my mailing list, where you’ll get a free ebook of steampunk short stories and a flash story straight to your inbox every Friday.

***

Dirk Dynamo is used to adventure. He’s chased villainous masterminds across the mountains of Europe, stalked gangsters through the streets of Chicago, and faced the terrible battlefields of the Civil War. But now he’s on a mission that will really shake his world.

For centuries, the Great Library of Alexandria was thought lost. Now a set of clues has been discovered that could lead to its hiding place. With the learned adventurers of the Epiphany Club, Dirk sets out to gather the clues, track down the Library, and reveal its secrets to the world.

Roaming from the jungles of West Africa to the sewers beneath London, The Epiphany Club is a modern pulp adventure, a story of action, adventure, and romance set against the dark underbelly of the Victorian age.

Available in all good ebook stores and as a print edition via Amazon.

Out Now – Zhai Chengda’s Wife

It’s story time again!

My steampunk short “Zhai Chengda’s Wife” is out now in the latest edition of Electric Spec. A spy story set in an alternate history Song Dynasty China, “Zhai Chengda’s Wife” follows Tao Wan, a covert agent for the Kingdom of Xia. As the Song Empire threatens Xia, its politicians are forced to the negotiating table, expecting to be crushed by their more powerful neighbour. But when Tao Wan meets with the wife of the Chinese ambassador, an opportunity arises to level the playing field. Will she take it? And what will this meeting cost Zhai Chengda’s wife?

This story was inspired by a desire to write steampunk in an unusual setting. My friend Jon suggested Song China as a time and place full of industrial growth. It was a chance to go beyond the western settings that dominate steampunk and show something new.

Along the way, I stumbled across a theme I hadn’t been expecting – imbalances of power. The story is all about these uneven dynamics, from the bullying diplomacy of the Song Chinese to the ambassador’s abusive marriage. Even the relationship Tao Wan builds with Lady Zhai, a relationship that offers hope for an escape, is built on the power imbalance between a confident, educated woman and her disheartened peer. Is it possible to bring justice when only one side knows how to be heard?

“Zhai Chengda’s Wife” is out now in Electric Spec.

Chrome and Sandstone – a flash science fiction story

Sergeant Otieno stared down the scope of the targeting laser. Despite the miles between them, she could easily make out the heavily armed androids on the hillside opposite, their chrome skin gleaming with menace. They stalked between heaps of weather-worn sandstone, some ruin from the days of the planet’s first settlers, treating it all like it was just one more heap of rocks. The sight of those machines made a vein in her forehead throb, but she focused on the task in hand. She set the targeter on its tripod, checked the view again, and pressed the button on its side.

Ruins

Private Graves pressed the long-range radio to his ear, then nodded.

“Bombardment in ten,” he whispered.

They sat in the silence they had shared on so many covert missions, waiting for destruction to rain down.

Rocks rattled on the hillside behind them. Otieno spun around, pistol in hand, ready to take down whatever tin can son-of-a-bitch had found them. Instead, she found herself facing a human.

The woman was dressed in loose, dusty clothing. A trowel hung from a hook on her belt.

“The fuck are you?” Otieno hissed.

“Professor Hana Taslimi,” the woman said, extending a hand. “I’m here with the historical preservation project.”

“The what?”

“We’re trying to protect historical remains from the war. And you’re here to bomb the androids across the valley, aren’t you?”

“That’s classified. Now get down on the ground.”

Taslimi sank to her knees and put her hands behind her head. She was strangely calm for a woman with a gun pointed at her.

“Please, don’t do this,” she said. “Those ruins are unique. Destroy them and we might never truly understand the early expansion era.”

“Let those tin cans win and they’ll turn humanity to mulch. What good are ruins then?”

“Can’t you wait for the androids to move and then target them? We don’t need to lose the ruins.”

“This is the most we’ve ever caught in one camp. Can’t miss that shot.”

“They might leave together.”

“‘Might’ isn’t enough.”

“Please, sergeant. Look at what you’re destroying.”

It was hard to resist the passion in the professor’s voice. Besides, what harm would it do to look?

Otieno pulled out a scope and stared across the valley to the ruins. Now that her attention wasn’t focused on the androids, she took in more of what surrounded them. The stones were intricately carved, some with abstract patterns, others with fragments of an image. It showed people in some sort of uniform, though it was hard to make out the details with the stones tumbled apart by time. The artists had worked with the colours of the stones, so that their natural variations added to the patterns of the carvings. The effect was mesmerising.

Reluctantly, she lowered the scope and looked back at the professor.

“It’s all very pretty,” Otieno said. “And I’m sure it’s important history. But history doesn’t win wars.”

“I see.”

Taslimi’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She stared at the dirt for a long moment. Then something stirred in her and she looked up with renewed purpose, this time focused on Graves.

“Why is this war worth winning, private?” she asked.

Graves looked at Otieno, who nodded.

“Cause the tin cans gonna destroy us,” Graves said.

“So we’re fighting for our lives?”

“Hell yeah.”

“And what makes life worth living?”

“Shit, I don’t know. Good stuff. Food, drink, gettin’ laid. Real good music and them big damn pictures with all the awesome little details, you know?”

“So pleasure, and maybe art.”

“Shit, yes. And tin cans, they don’t care ‘bout that. They smash it all up, ‘cause they got no souls.”

“Which is why you have to stop them?”

“Hell yes.”

Taslimi turned her attention to Otieno and raised an eyebrow.

“I see what you did there,” Otieno said.

Graves drew his pistol and stared in alarm at Taslimi.

“She makin’ some move, sarge?” he asked.

“Think, private,” Otieno said. “Who smashes beautiful things?”

“Tin cans, sarge.”

“And what were we about to do to those beautiful ruins?”

“Shiiiit.” Graves’ eyes went wide. “She’s sayin’ we’re no better than tin cans!” He glared at Taslimi and raised his weapon. “You take that back.”

Taslimi’s eyes had also gone wide. This was the problem with smart people – sometimes they forgot how dumb and scared and defensive the rest of humanity could be.

Otieno sighed and holstered her pistol. She tapped the switch on the side of the targeter.

“Call the carrier,” she said to Graves. “Make sure they cancel that inbound strike. Tell them we’re waiting for the enemy to move out, to give us a better targeting opportunity.”

“But what if the tin cans don’t all go at once?” he said.

“Then maybe we don’t get them all. But if we fire now, we know what else it will cost us.”

***

This was inspired by a friend of mine whose work is focused on preserving history in real conflict zones. As far as I’m aware, she’s never faced down anyone with a gun to save some ruins, but it’s still bloody impressive work.

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read more like it then you might want to sign up to my mailing list, where you’ll get a free ebook and a flash story straight to your inbox every Friday.

***

Lies We Will Tell Ourselves

Lies - High Resolution

A spin doctor forced to deal with aliens who loathe lies.

A squad of soldiers torn apart by the fiction in their midst.

A hunting submarine with its dead captain strapped to the prow, the crew promising that one day they’ll revive him.

We all tell lies to get through the day, some of them to ourselves, some to other people. Now read the extraordinary lies of the future in these nine short science fiction stories.

Lies We Will Tell Ourselves is available now from all major ebook stores.

Time, Money, & Stressing Out

Sometimes, being a freelancer can be stressful.

A couple of weeks ago, one of my biggest ongoing projects ended with about a week and a half’s notice. About the same time, the website that I consider my reliable backup source of income, the one I would have used to fill that gap in the short term, stopped buying articles. Suddenly, my financial position became a lot more precarious.

In theory, I’m in a good position to weather this sort of storm. I don’t have a mortgage or rent to pay. My only dependent is my cat. I banked a bunch of savings last year, partly to see me through moments like this.

And yet, when those two things hit, I felt a sharp twist of panic in my guts. My level of gainful employment was about to plummet. I needed to find more work asap.

So I started looking for that work and I quickly got an offer. The pay was half of what I normally ask, but that wrenching feeling in my guts told me I should accept it. That feeling kept insisting “You need the money!”

Then I took a step back and thought about how my job works.

As a freelancer, the way I value myself isn’t just about how much money I get. It’s about how much money I get relative to the time I put in. If I let myself take this offer, I would be undervaluing myself. I’d lose a lot of time, time I could spend looking for better paid work. It might pay off in the short term, but in the long term, I’d be undermining my own efforts.

So I took a deep breath and said no. Then I got back to bidding on projects, and soon enough, I had offers coming in from other potential clients. Clients who recognised what I was worth and who were willing to pay for that.

It’s easy to give in to stress and take the first way you find out of a situation. But sometimes it’s worth hanging on and waiting until you’ve got an option you actually want.

Grave Wood – a flash fantasy story

Tohan crept into the grave wood, a basket of woven reeds strapped to his back, a thief in the most sacred of places. He hated coming here. Memories poured out of the shadows – images of Oela’s body, pale and wrapped in silk; of the mourners carrying her to her grave; of the goods laid with her and the dirt tumbling after, hiding her from him forever. He had shed tears enough to fill a lagoon. Yet here he was again, set on the most wretched of tasks.

Painted wooden grave statue

A figure loomed out of the trees, the first of the grave guardians. The statue’s wooden face had been worn smooth by the centuries, the features of the woman it protected obliterated by time. Only the eyes still had colour, a green that glowed in the darkness, a reminder that there was life after the body passed.

Tohan sidestepped around the guardian’s field of vision. With a creak of old wood, its head turned and he held his breath, then realised that he was standing on the grave it guarded. Another step and the movement stopped.

Tohan exhaled and walked on.

Deeper into the grave wood, his way became crowded with guardians. The oldest of the statues had been carved from living wood and the bodies they represented laid amid the roots. More recent guardians were carved in the town and brought here, to take a place wherever one could be found, to take up their eternal vigil.

He tried to tread a line between the graves, but they were packed tight together and his feet were those of a potter, not a dancer. Several times he stumbled, trod on sacred dirt, and saw the statues turn to face him. Every time, his heart raced and he quickened his step, afraid that if he stayed long enough at one grave then its guardian would turn on him.

At last he reached the place he sought. The grave was new, the paint on the guard clean and bold. Yellow skin, green eyes, black hair. Traces of gold embedded as jewellery around the neck.

There was a treasure buried here, its value beyond counting.

He knelt and drew a trowel from the basket on his back. With trembling hands, he dug into the loose dirt.

There was a creak.

The statue bowed its head to look down at Tohan.

He dug faster, using his hand as well as the trowel, casting aside great clods of earth. His chest felt tight, his muscles tense as bowstrings.

“Come on, come on…” he muttered as the dirt flew.

Another creak. The guard’s arms swung around.

If he wanted to stay free then he should back away now, abandon his prize and the statue guarding it. But he couldn’t. Not now. Not ever.

He scrabbled frantically in the dirt. A nail tore loose but he barely noticed the pain.

The guardian leaned closer. Cold yellow hands gripped Tohan’s shoulders.

“Robber,” a rumbling voice intoned. “Despoiler.”

“Please,” Tohan mumbled, thrusting his hands deeper, feeling desperately for the thing he sought. “Please, I need this.”

He felt damp silk and the cold, unyielding flesh of the fresh corpse. His fingers brushed a leather cord.

“Criminal,” the guard intoned as it tightened its grip and pulled.

The magic of the grave wood was far stronger than Tohan. He was dragged up. He tightened his fingers around the cord, which resisted for a moment and then came.

“Robber!” the guard said, louder this time. Soon, people from the town would hear. They would find him, judge him, know his weakness.

Tears ran through the mud dappling Tohan’s cheeks.

He held up the cord and saw the pendant hanging there, a clay model of a boat, its blue enamel chipped. The first gift he had made for Oela, one she had worn every day since, right into the grave.

“Please,” Tohan whimpered. “I need something of hers. Some token to remember her by. Something to tell me that I’m not alone.”

He looked up into that face, carved with Oela’s long nose, her narrow brow, her broad smile. In place of her eyes, those shining green points, strange and yet familiar. His tears ran until they fell onto the wooden arms that gripped him so tight.

“Alone,” the statue said, its voice soft.

It lowered Tohan to the ground and let go. Painted hands shovelled dirt back into the grave, but made no attempt to take the pendant.

“Thank you,” Tohan whispered.

He stumbled back a step, one hand rubbing at his eyes, the other clutching his precious treasure. Then he turned and walked away through the grave wood.

The guards watched him every step of the way.

***

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read more like it then you might want to sign up to my mailing list, where you’ll get a free ebook and a flash story straight to your inbox every Friday.

***

By Sword, Stave or Stylus

By Sword, Stave or Stylus - High Resolution

A gladiator painting with manticore blood.

A demon detective policing Hell.

A ninja who can turn into shadow.

Prepare to be swept away to worlds beyond our own in these thirteen short fantasy stories.

Action, art and mystery all feature in this collection, available in all ebook formats.

From reader reviews:

‘These fantasy genre stories take wordsmithing and storytelling to great heights.’ – Writerbees Book Reviews

‘There isn’t a single story in here I don’t love. All short and sweet (or dark), all fantasy with history woven through, all a slightly skewed perspective that will make you rethink assumptions. Totally worth a read.’

The Creator’s Clock – a flash steampunk story

Clock over city with airship

In the beginning was the Great Clock, hanging over the city like a slowly ticking sun. For as long as stories had been told, we had lived in its shadow, our lives dancing to the rhythm of its hands. I could not remember a time when its whirs and clicks had not sounded in my ears, as much a part of me as my own pulse. The Great Clock was our world, its secrets our greatest spur to science.

The ticking grew louder as we rose above the rooftops, the hot air of our balloon carrying us toward that ancient and intimidating dial.

“What if we’re wrong?” Hassana asked as she crossed and uncrossed her arms. “What if all our calculations are incorrect? The evidence inside could ruin our careers!”

“Worse, what if we’re right?” I asked. “Can you imagine anything more tedious than discovering that we have understood our entire world? No more mysteries to pursue then.”

Winds buffeted us. The currents up here were strange and varied, thanks to the movements of the gears and of the clock’s hands. A gust threatened to snatch us away. I tugged on a rope, a motor sputtered into life and spurts of steam directed our course, pushing us toward what astronomers called the Seven O’Clock Hatch.

As we approached the Hatch, I watched the second hand swivel around the dial like a great scythe. It swept between us and our target, the wind of its passage almost blowing us away.

“Quick!” Hassana shouted.

She flung the grappling hook she had been practicing with for months. It caught on the edge of the hatch and she pulled us close, while the second hand kept moving, up the clock face and then back around. Smears of old blood showed where past scholars had failed this test.

I smashed the hatch open with a sledgehammer, leapt through, and turned to catch Hassana as she followed. A moment later, the second hand crashed into our craft, ripping the balloon open like a knife through the guts. The balloon dropped away, torn cloth and battered basket becoming little more than dots, a broken toy falling toward a miniature city.

“Isioma had better come for us,” Hassana said.

I pulled a compact lantern from one of my belt pouches, drew out the wick and lit it. The smell of burning oil joined those of dust and old metal. Its light illuminated a narrow tunnel that ran steeply up to the heart of the Great Clock, exactly as we had predicted. It was full of the sound of gears, the clatter and thud of a gloriously vast machine. I laughed out loud in excitement.

No more mysteries after this, perhaps, but could there still be wonder?

We walked up the corridor to another hatch. This one was as tall as we were and closed with a sturdy lock.

Hassana took the torch. I sank to my knees and pulled out the roll of oiled cloth holding my lock picks. To think that other scholars had called me mad to learn this art. How else would the Great Creator guard his clock if not with elaborate mechanisms?

I inserted the picks and manoeuvred them carefully, feeling for the points of tension, the places to push and those to release. At last there was a click, a twist, and the bolt slid back.

I rose to my feet and took the door handle.

“Ready?” I asked.

My heart was pounding in my chest, louder even than the clack of gears around us.

“Ready,” Hassana said with a huge grin.

I flung the door open and looked inside. My eyes went wide and I gasped at the magnificence of what the Creator had made.

No, not the Creator. The Creators. That much was abundantly clear.

“It’s so much more than I ever imagined,” Hassana said.

“Not just it,” I responded. “We are so much more.”

***

If you enjoyed this story and would like to read more like it then you can sign up to my mailing list, where you’ll get a free ebook of steampunk short stories and a flash story straight to your inbox every Friday.

***

Dirk Dynamo is used to adventure. He’s chased villainous masterminds across the mountains of Europe, stalked gangsters through the streets of Chicago, and faced the terrible battlefields of the Civil War. But now he’s on a mission that will really shake his world.

For centuries, the Great Library of Alexandria was thought lost. Now a set of clues has been discovered that could lead to its hiding place. With the learned adventurers of the Epiphany Club, Dirk sets out to gather the clues, track down the Library, and reveal its secrets to the world.

Roaming from the jungles of West Africa to the sewers beneath London, The Epiphany Club is a modern pulp adventure, a story of action, adventure, and romance set against the dark underbelly of the Victorian age.

Available in all good ebook stores and as a print edition via Amazon.