Just Like Fairy Tales – a steampunk short story

“This is crazy,” Dirk said, hacking away the brambles that trailed between the statues. Life-sized courtiers, servants, and guards stood stiff and silent, recreations of humanity with enamel skin over brass flesh. “Who builds a clockwork palace just to let it get overgrown?”

His words, accompanied by a steady ticking of gears, echoed back from the vaulted ceiling on which figures from ancient myth had been painted, their faces concealed by centuries of cobwebs. Dirk wanted to wipe those cobwebs away and see the long-lost art underneath, but not as much as he wanted to see these statues in action. A thrill ran through him at the prospect of wonders no-one else had witnessed.

“Becoming overgrown was the point,” Sir Timothy Blaze-Simms said. “To embody the very essence of the fairy tale – a sleeping kingdom buried beneath the wild. Count Volkengrad meant to return after a decade and awake his porcelain princess with a kiss.”

With a click of gears, Blaze-Simms finished winding the mechanism inside a guard captain. He drew out the key, walked to the woodworm-riddled remnants of a bed, and knelt beside the figure who lay there, pale and dust-covered amid the rotten sheets. He brushed the dust from her neck, thrust the key into a hole by the collar bone, and started to wind.

“Then why’s she still here?” Dirk asked, dragging the last of the trailing plants away.

“Volkengrad caught a chill reenacting the emperor’s new clothes, came down with a fever and died. His descendants decided it was best to just fence off his fairy tale forest and pretend it never happened.”

Blaze-Simms withdrew the key from the automaton and stepped back.

“Now what?” Dirk asked, rubbing his hands together.

Blaze-Simms shrugged. “She should be waking up.”

“Don’t you need to kiss her?”

“I don’t see how saliva could help in any mechanical way.”

But the princess lay sleeping still, the intricate plates of her face inert.

Dirk leaned in and ran a hand across a cold cheek. She really was beautiful, the most perfect princess art could create.

“You do know that magic isn’t real, don’t you?” Blaze-Simms asked. “Kissing her won’t break some spell. One of the gears has probably just rusted in place.”

If Dirk knew one thing in life, it was that there were limits to scientific understanding. Maybe there was some kissing-based mechanism here and Blaze-Simms just didn’t know it. If that was what it took to wake the place up, then Dirk was willing to give it a go.

He ran a thumb across the princess’s cold lower lip. The metal gave way, there was a click, and she jerked upright.

Dirk leapt back, almost reaching for his pistol before his rational brain took hold.

“I say!” Blaze-Simms exclaimed. “Well done, old chap!”

Around them, whir of wound springs turned into a rattle of movement. Guards, servants, courtiers, every statue that Blaze-Simms had wound sprang into action, approaching the two adventurers with shuffling, mechanical steps. The statues opened their mouths and a terrible cacophony filled the palace.

“What is that?” Dirk asked, clamping his hands to his ears.

“I think they’re cheering!”

The princess approached Dirk, arms rigidly outstretched, lips parted, her once-beautiful face transformed into an uncanny imitation of human movement.

“No thanks,” he said. “You go find yourself a porcelain prince.”

But she kept moving, grabbing at Dirk’s arms with pinching metal fingers, trying to pull him close.

He backed away but she kept coming. The others were closing in too, surrounding him with a crowd of twitching metal limbs.

“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” Blaze-Simms said, glancing around.

“You think?”

“So now what?”

Dirk slammed into the nearest statue, a guard swinging an all too real halberd. The statue fell to the ground with a clang and he leapt over its prostrate form.

“Now we run!”

They dashed through the palace, followed by a cacophony of clattering and clanging. Dirk couldn’t tell if the statues were following, or if they had just fallen in a heap in the main chamber. He didn’t care, as long as he was clear of those strange and stumbling figures.

They emerged from the palace into the forest, where their horses stood tied to a tree. While Dirk looked back, watching for signs of pursuit, Blaze-Simms pulled out a notebook.

“What a marvellous place,” he said. “I wonder if I could replicate it.”

Dirk snatched the notebook and snapped it shut.

“Some things are best left to the imagination,” he said. “Just like fairy tales.”

***

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.

How Wrong We Have To Be – a historical short story

Maria took a breath as loud as the pounding of her heart. Her grip tightened on the bayonet they had taken from the French soldier. She looked down at him, arms and legs tied to a chair in the middle of the one-room house, blood dripping from his nose onto the white front of his uniform. His blond hair and soft, round face made him look like a cherub beneath the bruises.

“We found him walking alone on the Barcelona road,” Juan said. “Near where they strung up Santiago and Maya.”

“Were you part of that?” Maria asked, pressing the point of the bayonet against the soldier’s neck. Her hand shook at the memory of those bodies, flies buzzing around their drawn out guts, faces contorted by hours of pain. The soldier winced and blood trickled down the bayonet.

“He doesn’t speak Spanish,” Juan said.

“Of course not. Napoleon and his cockroaches want to rule us, not understand us.”

Maria took a step back, removing the blade from the soldier’s throat. Justice should be decisive and deliberate, not a slip of the hand.

Her gaze never left the soldier. Had he been one of the killers? Had those pale, slender fingers ripped off her friends’ clothes? Had this bayonet, blunted and battered, torn through their flesh? If she looked really close, would she find blood staining the corners of his fingernails?

It didn’t matter. He had come to Spain as a conqueror, had chosen to align himself with murderers. He was one of them.

“Take him back to the Barcelona road,” Maria said with a sneer. “Leave the body there for them to find.”

Juan untied the soldier and hauled him to his feet. That soft face looked around uncertainly, eyes darting between Juan and Maria. Bruises shone blue against ghostly skin.

“We’re going to make you suffer,” Juan said, leaning in close to the soldier, baring his teeth in a terrible smile. “Everything you did to Santiago and more.”

Maria frowned. She had sworn to do whatever was needed to set her country free, but what the French had done to Santiago and Maya was hideous.

“Kill him cleanly. Show we’re better than them.”

“No. We have to show that we’re worse, that every atrocity they commit will come back upon them a hundred times over. If we don’t then they’ll never stop.”

Juan spoke of terrible necessities, but his face filled with malicious glee as he dragged the soldier towards the door.

The bayonet was hard and heavy in Maria’s hand. A tool made to kill men, brought into her country for no reason but to keep it under control. The Frenchman deserved this, but what did her people deserve?

She leapt forward, grabbed the soldier from behind, and thrust the bayonet into his back. It was like sewing, a matter of precise placement, the cloth resisting the needle just for a moment before it slid through. Fear and hatred were replaced by the swift, energising moment of action.

The soldier didn’t even let out a gasp. He crumpled, fell, spilt blood across her feet and through the gaps between the floorboards.

“What the Hell?” Juan snapped.

“Take him to the Barcelona road,” Maria said, stepping back. She would have to find something to cover her dress, to hide the bloodstain as she walked home. “Do whatever you want to the body there. Make it as hideous as you like.”

“He was meant to suffer. He was meant to make a point!”

The soldier’s lips were parted in an “oh” of surprise, his blue eyes still open and staring across the bloodstained floor. Every crease and freckle of his skin was a letter in a book that no-one would ever learn to read.

“We only need the French to think that we act like monsters. We don’t need it to be true.”

“You didn’t have the right to make that decision.”

Maria picked up a blanket off the bed and wrapped it tight around herself.

“None of this is about right – it’s about how wrong we have to be.”

***

Maria comes to this story fresh from my latest Commando Comic, which is out this week. V for Vitoria is the sequel to my previous Napoleonic story, The Forlorn Hope, both set during the Peninsular War. English riflemen Hopper and Jones continue their journey through a wartorn country, aided by a washerwoman who is more than she seems. The comic is available through Comixology and wherever paper copies of Commando can be found.

***

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.

The Mirror Hall – a fantasy short story

Picture by Simedblack via Pixabay

The mirror hall was my whole world, an endless shining vista in every direction, broken only by the image of myself staring back at me whichever way I looked. It wasn’t that I knew nothing about the world beyond the hall, but that I knew nothing of the concepts such a world could exist in – of before or after, of above or below. Only the hall, reflecting myself over and over again, familiar, comforting figures hanging against the blank space of perfect neutrality.

A flicker of colour danced in the air, a rainbow moment of wondrous colours. I gasped, tried to catch this brilliance in my hand, and instead found my palm pressed against the wall. The mirror there was trembling. Curious, I pressed my faced against it, felt the movement more clearly through the skin of my cheek, giggled at the tickling sensation.

Then I heard tapping, faint at first but growing sharper, its rhythm tied to the trembling of the glass. It had never occurred to me that there could be a sound outside myself, and I stepped back, unnerved, staring with a furrowed brow as the colours danced again in the mirror. They had seemed so enticing before, but now they felt ominous, a change to everything I knew.

The tapping turned to cracking as a dark line shot across the mirror, then others, splaying like the fingers of a grasping hand. I stumbled back, feet sliding across the smoothness of the floor.

A section of mirror fell out. It exploded as it hit the floor, sharp-edged pieces sliding in every direction. My scream echoed around the hall.

Someone stared at me through the gap. A face, but not like any face I knew. A face that wasn’t mine.

Lips parted and the unsettling image spoke.

“I knew there had to be someone else!”

Their voice was lower than mine, the sound of the words deep and discordant.

“Can I come in?”

They started pushing pieces from the cracked mirror, letting them shatter into flying fragments. One hit my hand, drawing a flash of pain and a shallow line of blood.

“Stop it!” I yelled, waving my arms. “You’re destroying the world!”

They stopped and stared at me with wide eyes.

“I just want-”

“No! Get back!”

I ran at them, arms outstretched. They stepped away, still staring at me as I reached the hole they had smashed into my bright and perfect world.

I looked through, and for the first time saw something beyond. A smaller hall, its mirrors grubby and dim, the gloom made more stark by the bright beam shining through the hole.

I stared aghast. The stranger had let this squalor into my world.

The light pouring through around me framed their face, adding shadows to their look of loss.

I glanced back into my world, this vast space of brightness and comfort, then at the stranger. Now that I saw what they were living with, how could I leave them there? My world might not be what I had thought it was, but that wouldn’t change just because I hid from this other hall. How much better could my world be with someone else to share it with, someone with thoughts, ideas, imaginings different from my own?

I grabbed the edge of the hole, broken glass digging into my skin, and pulled. A section of the mirror broke away. The other person joined me and together we tore away slivers of mirror until there was a gap big enough for them to step through. I held out my bloody hand and helped them through the hole.

Together, we stood in the middle of the hall of mirrors, looking at ourselves endlessly reflected in the bright light. Two of us, so different from each other. A whole new world.

A tapping sounded at the end of the hall, faint but unmistakable.

“Someone else,” my new friend said excitedly. “Let’s go let them in.”

I looked around, considering the vast mirrored walls and the number of halls that might lie beyond them, some perhaps even smaller and gloomier than the one I had seen. And then what? Could there be something beyond even mirrors? Something after the life I was used to? What would it mean to reach past everything I had ever seen and face the unknown?

“No, let’s not let them in,” I said. “Let’s tear this whole place down.”

***

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 Pilot – a historical short story

Image by Mark Taylor from Pixabay

Alan stood alone at the edge of a sheep field, watching planes battling in the sky above. Some of them were from the nearby airbase, others intruders who had flown all the way from Germany. They darted and chased through the sky like a flock of deadly birds.

With a roar of dying engines, a plane streaked across the sky on a trail of smoke. Alan watched open-mouthed as it hit the field, ploughed through the dirt, and came to a stop only fifty feet from him.

It was a fighter, Alan could see that, but too battered and mud-streaked from the impact for him to make out any insignia. Other boys in his class could tell a Spitfire from a Messerschmitt by their shape, but none of those boys had shared their knowledge with Alan. To them, he was just an outsider with a funny accent.

Flames crept across the plane towards the cockpit. Teachers had told Alan to find an adult if he saw a plane shot down, not to go near the wreckage himself. But he could see someone moving in the cockpit, struggling against the closed canopy, and they would be dead before he could get help. He was scared of getting in trouble for disobedience, scared that the pilot might be a Nazi, scared most of all that he might get burned, but he couldn’t leave someone to die.

Alan ran across the field and climbed up the side of the plane. His skin throbbed at the heat from the fire as he grabbed the edge of the canopy. The pilot pushed from the inside and Alan quivered as he pulled with all his might.

There was a clunk, the canopy flew back, and Alan tumbled to the ground. His head hit the hard earth and the world filled with spinning stars.

Gloved hands grabbed Alan out of the dirt. He bounced about in the pilot’s arms as the man ran from the plane. Then there was a boom, a blast of air, and he landed hard again.

As the dizziness faded, Alan looked over at the pilot, who was sitting up and clutching his shoulder. If he wore any insignia then they were hidden by soot and blood. The boys at school might have recognised the flight suit, but it meant nothing to Alan. Was this man British or German? Should he be helping him or running for his life?

The pilot turned to face Alan, revealing an empty holster at his waist. A pistol lay on the ground nearby.

“Where are we?” the man asked in a strange accent.

A chill ran down Alan’s spine. Germans had killed his father at Dunkirk, now one of them was going to kill him.

He could run, but retreating hadn’t stopped the Germans shooting dad. If he ran, the German could just pick up that pistol and shoot him.

But if he got the pistol first…

Alan lunged and grabbed the weapon. Its grip was cold and hard in his hand. He scrambled back, pistol raised, away from the befuddled looking pilot.

“You’re my prisoner,” he said, his voice wobbling as much as his hands. He was all alone, faced with a merciless killer. Mum kept telling him that they had to be brave, to manage on their own, but it was hard to be brave when you were staring down a wild-eyed Nazi.

“Please,” the pilot said, flinging up his hands. “Not point gun at me. Trigger is too easy, yes? Will shoot, bang bang!”

Alan rose, trembling, to his feet, and gestured for his prisoner to do the same.

“I should just shoot you,” he said, tears running from his eyes. “Like you Germans shot my dad.”

“I am Polish, yes?” the man said. “Fly RAF Hurricane.”

He pointed to the flaming wreckage, but even if Alan had known how to spot a Hurricane, he couldn’t have told if that was one. These could just be lies a German would tell to save himself.

His grip tightened on the pistol. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. This was his chance to get revenge for dad.

“Please,” the man said, his voice wavering. “I am here to help. Fight Nazis who kill my brother.”

Alan hesitated, his finger resting by the trigger. Someone had told him there were foreign pilots flying British planes. Was it really true?

He didn’t want to let his dad down, but he didn’t want to kill a good person.

“You’re my prisoner,” he said, pointing towards the road. “Now march that way.”

As they walked towards the airbase, the pilot talked to Alan in broken English. He said that his name was Jakub. He talked about his home, about how he’d come to Britain, about flying planes. Sometimes Alan got so caught up in it that he found himself asking for more details. Then he remembered that this could all be a trick and he snapped at Jakub to walk faster.

They approached the airbase, Alan wielding the gun, Jakub with his hands in the air. A sentry rushed out to meet them, only to burst out laughing.

“Bloody hell, Jakub,” he said. “You got shot down by a kid?”

So it had been true.

“Sorry,” Alan said, handing over the pistol. “I just thought…”

“You save me from plane,” Jakub said, ruffling Alan’s hair. “For that, I do not mind the gun.”

“I should go.” Alan had thought that he was being a hero, but instead he was pointing a gun at one. Shoulders slumped, he turned away, heading back down the road alone.

“Wait,” Jakub said. “You stay, we call parents to fetch you.”

“My mum works until late,” Alan said. “And my dad…” He stopped, fighting to hold back tears. “My dad died.”

Jakub whispered something to the sentry, who looked over at Alan, then nodded.

“We’ll need you to give us a report,” the sentry said. “Tell us what you saw when the plane came down.”

“Really?” Alan stood a little straighter. He was going to help the RAF.

“After that, I take you to meet my squadron,” Jakub said. “We need local to run errands – you think you can do this?”

“Oh yes,” Alan said, nodding eagerly. “Yes please.”

“This way, then,” the sentry said, pointing towards the gates of the base.

Alan followed him inside.

***

This summer marks the 80th anniversary of the Battle of Britain, one of the most celebrated and mythologised moments in British history. This story is set during that struggle.

I’ve also got a new Commando Comic out this week to mark the occasion – Flying Fever, the tale of a pilot living through one of the most desperate moments in the history of the RAF. You can find it on Comixology or wherever Commando Comics are sold.

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.

***

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.

Omens in Blood and Bone – a fantasy short story

Hesper stood in black robes behind a battered travelling table, a map of the battlefield rolled out in front of her. She cast the bones over the map again and again, and every time the omens came up the same.

Of course they did. There was no cheating the future.

The screams and clashing of blades was growing closer.

The tent flap was flung open and General Soraya stormed in, her face smeared with soot, blood dripping dark as tar from her sword. Her armour gleaming red and gold in the candlelight.

“I should cut you down where I stand,” Soraya roared, pointing at Hesper with her blade. “What use is a military astrologer who can’t tell me how to win?”

Hesper took a step back, hands raised. “I did what you told me to. I cast the bones, read the omens, guided you based on what I saw.”

“You told me that our cavalry’s best chance was on the right flank.”

“And that was true. They would have been killed in half the time if you’d put them on the left.”

“You told me to advance, and we walked straight into a hail of arrows!” Soraya slammed her gauntleted fist against the table, making marble counters jump.

“If you had held back, they would have had longer to shoot at you.”

“I pay you to look into the future.” Soraya advanced. Hesper backed away, keeping the table between her and the furious commander. “To tell me how I can win my battles. To ensure victory.”

“And that worked, as long as the other side didn’t have an astrologer of their own.”

“What?”

Hesper held up the bones.

“With two of us, the outcome became inevitable. Each predicted what the other would advise, how the future would play out, until we reached the optimum battle. They had an unbeatable approach, and all I could do was save us from utter disaster.”

“If I’d known you were leading me to disaster, I would have had your head days ago.” Soraya brought her blade down, smashing the table to pieces.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you. I foresaw how you would respond.”

“Yet here you are.” Soraya stepped over the splintered planks, her face twisted with fury. “And here you will pay the price of failure.”

Hesper shrugged. “If I’d been on the battlefield, you would have killed me there and then. If I’d run, you would have pursued and caught me later. But if I waited here, and if we paused to have this conversation…”

The tent flap burst open and half a dozen soldiers strode in, their armour painted blue and silver.

“General Soraya.” Their leader pointed his sword at the general, and triumph gleamed in green eyes. “We have you. Surrender or die.”

“Death before dishonour!” Soraya swung her sword. There was a clang of steel on steel, then the soldiers moved in to surround her.

Hesper stepped back. In the entrance to the tent, a man stood wearing black robes like her own. He nodded to her, one professional greeting another, while between them the soldiers fought to the death. Hesper nodded back.

She cast her bones across the shattered remains of the table. The omens looked good, all things considered. A good astrologer couldn’t always save their employer, but they could save themself.

***

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 Other Plague of Locusts – a science fiction short story

Professor Kimani stood in the doorway of Green Eden Labs, watching the locusts swarm across the fields. She smiled to herself – all was well with the world.

A jeep came tearing down the track out of the mountains, bumping and jolting, dust flying behind it. It screeched to a halt and one of the passengers climbed out.

Kimani recognised him from snippets she had seen of the rebels’ social media. A tall man with a predatory grin and a Kalashnikov hanging from his shoulder, Joseph Mburu looked like a wolf prowling into a field of sheep. He was, depending upon who she listened to, the country’s last great hero or a terrorist whose hands would forever drip with blood.

“Professor Kimani,” he said. “I hear you have performed a miracle.”

“You’re too kind,” Kimani said, certain that kindness was no a feature of Mburu, whatever the merits of his cause.

“You have genetically engineered locusts that feed crops instead of devouring them, yes?”

“Correct.”

“Then I have come to buy your locusts.” Mburu signalled to his driver, who opened up a gym bag, revealing rolls of worn US dollar notes. “With them, I will be able to feed our poor freedom fighters and the abandoned communities they serve. You will be saving the soul of our country.”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

A flash of anger shone in Mburu’s eyes.

“Be careful who you say that to, professor,” he growled.

There was a shout from his driver. A BMW was rolling sedately between the fields of wheat, light glinting off its mirrored windows. It slowed as it approached the lab, decelerating quietly to a halt. Two white men in sunglasses stepped out, holsters visible beneath their jackets. They watched Kimani and his driver as a third figure emerged from the rear of the car.

Kimani recognised her from an international conference on genetic editing. A stately blond woman wearing discreet makeup and a perfectly tailored suit, Julia McKee had the utter confidence only a CEO could carry. She was, depending upon who Kimani listened to, the world’s greatest innovator in genetic technology or a parasite preying off the work of gifted minds.

“Professor Kimani,” she said, offering her hand. “A pleasure to meet you again.”

“And you,” Kimani said, wondering if McKee actually remembered her.

While Mburu eyed the businesswoman with a hungry grin, his driver and her bodyguards exchanged tense glances, their hands inches from their weapons.

“I hear that you’ve made an amazing breakthrough,” McKee said. “That your benign locusts will drive hostile swarms away.”

“Correct.”

“Then I have come to buy the rights to your locusts.” McKee drew a cheque from her pocket, revealing more zeroes than in the lab’s whole annual budget. “With them, I will transform pest control, empowering farmers and agricultural businesses around the world.”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

McKee barely blinked.

“This is just a consulting fee, professor,” she said. “Our full payment will set you up for life.”

“Hey, those are my locusts!” Mburu butted in. “They’re going to feed the downtrodden.”

“They will feed the world.”

“That’s what you capitalists always claim, just before you empty our pockets.”

A car horn blared out a tinny impression of the national anthem. They all turned to watched as a limousine roared up the road from the city, flags flying from the bonnet. It ground to a halt next to the BMW and three uniformed soldiers leapt out. While one held the door open, the others pointed their guns at Mburu and his driver, who waved their own weapons back. The air was full of angry shouts as McKee’s bodyguards dragged her into the shelter of their car.

“Please, stop this!” Kimani said, trembling as she stepped between the three bands of armed men. “If any of you want me to listen, you will stop this at once.”

Reluctantly, they all lowered their weapons, and a man stepped out of the limousine.

Kimani recognised him from a hundred news broadcasts. Short and round, dressed in an overstretched uniform with a string of medals across his chest, Charles Wambui carried himself like a man used to being obeyed. He was, depending upon who Kimani listened to, either the gifted politician who had reunited a troubled country or a corrupt bureaucrat leaching her nation of life.

“Sally,” he said, ambling over with his arms held wide. Kimani stepped back to avoid what looked worryingly like it might have turned into a hug.

“I prefer Professor Kimani,” she said. “Mister President.”

“Whatever you wish. I hear that you and your team have achieved amazing things, that your new locusts while breed with the old swarms, rendering them sterile and killing off these plagues.”

“Correct.”

“Then your country thanks you for your good work. We will be providing grants to help you continue, while we take your first creations and use them to protect the harvests.”

“I’m sorry, but no.”

Wambui frowned.

“I don’t think you understand, professor. I am the president. I am legally entitled to-”

“Your laws are grounded in lies,” Mburu yelled. “These insects should go to the people, so that-”

“You cannot keep this technology for a single nation,” McKee interjected. “The world deserves the chance to reap the dividends of an incredible moment in-”

“Enough!” Kimani yelled.

They all looked at her, stunned into silence.

She took a deep breath, surveyed the three most powerful people she had ever met, and tried to keep her voice from wavering.

“I will not be selling the locusts to any of you, because I can’t. Humanity cannot control nature, and I cannot control a swarm of insects. Look.”

She pointed across the fields. The swarms that had been there before were gone, flown away to protect and nurture some other crop.

“They are doing what they were made to do,” she said. “The people will benefit from it, not one of your causes.”

She turned on her heel and strode back into the lab, slamming the door behind her.

“Locusts,” she muttered angrily, shaking her head.

***

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.

Fly Me to the Moon – a steampunk short story

It was in the spring of 1649 that I travelled from London up to Oxford, to fulfill a dream long considered impossible. King Charles had but lately been beheaded, propelling England into a bold and unprecedented age in which the people ruled themselves. Developments in clockwork, cogs, and lenses came to us from across the continent, each month delivering news of some previously unimaginable device. For the first time in my life, it seemed that anything was possible.

Doctor John Wilkins met me at the entrance to Wadham College, where he had but lately been made warden. A gentleman of charm and obvious intelligence, he greeted me as if we were lifelong friends, not merely acquaintances linked by ink and parchment. I was by then intimately acquainted with his remarkable scholarship in theology, natural philosophy, and most importantly the burgeoning field of astronomy, so it was in a state of giddy delight that I followed him to a courtyard in back of the college.

There, my eyes fell upon a most remarkable contraption, a boat of sorts, but with wings attached, large crank handles on the sides, and all manner of mechanical workings encased in its central section. I stared spellbound at Wilkins’ flying chariot.

I was, of course, acquainted with the precedents on which Wilkins had built his machine. The flight of the monk Elmer, Archytas’ wooden dove, Regiomontanus of Nuremberg’s iron fly, examples of human and mechanical flight stretching from ancient Greece almost to the modern day. And yet, as I considered the possibility of leaving the earth, questions suddenly filled my mind.

“Are you sure it has enough power?” I asked, laying a hand on the stern. The chariot’s springs had been wound and it was thrumming with barely contained power.

“My dear Bragg,” Wilkins said. “Modern gearing can upgrade mechanical energy by factors of thousands, more than enough to escape the initial attraction of the Earth.”

“You say initial attraction.” I tugged at my collar, releasing the unaccountable heat which was, of a sudden, making me sweat. “Might there be a danger of that attraction drawing me back after the clockwork has run out?”

“Not at all! Based on Gilbert’s De Magnete, I have calculated that the force of attraction will be nullified at twenty miles up. From that point, you will be safely airborne.”

Twenty miles up, and that only the beginning of my journey. I would be a bold explorer bringing civilisation to the inhabitants of the moon as Columbus had once brought it to the Americas. This was everything I had dreamed of in the comfort of my London home, everything I had sworn excitedly to fulfill. But now I was here, I started to see practicalities I had not considered.

“It’s awfully barren up there,” I said, staring at the empty sky. “Won’t I be deathly cold?”

“Away from the earth, in the realm of the sun?” Wilkins laughed. “You are a wit, Bragg.”

I forced a smile. “How long will it take?”

“Six months, based on travel times to the new world and the relative distances of America and the moon.”

“Alas, this will never carry enough food for six months.” I shook my head as I looked at the pitiful supplies in the front of the chariot. “Never mind for my return. Alas, we will have to rethink the whole business.”

“Never fear,” Wilkins said. “Once beyond the earth’s pull, you will no longer be exerting your spirits and so will not need the energy. You will have no necessity for sustenance.”

“So why is there food and drink on board?”

“For the same reason there are books – to keep you entertained.”

And there it was. I knew as well as Wilkins did the biblical, observational, and logical evidence that the outer air was breathable. I had no need for extra food or warmth, was well supplied with entertainment and all the power required for my journey.

I would be going to the moon, as I had dreamed.

Alone.

In a glorified rowing boat.

“You’re not having doubts, are you?” Wilkins asked.

“Of course not,” I said. Braggs never had doubts. Not my cousin Samuel who had been crippled fighting for the king, nor my brother Tobias who had died in the service of Parliament. If they could stand for what they believed in then so could I, and I believed in the endless possibilities that natural science foretold.

My legs felt heavy as I clambered into the flying chariot and took hold of the lever that would release its power.

“Godspeed,” Wilkins said, smiling even as a tear ran from his eye.

I pulled the lever. Gears whirred, wings flapped, and the chariot rose. The wind rushed past as I soared like a bird and I laughed at myself for ever having harboured fears of failure.

I shan’t bother you with the long details of my journey, for there were almost none. Wilkins proved correct in every assertion, making my travel smooth and comfortable. I set down on the moon one hundred and seventy-four days after leaving Wadham College – slightly under the calculated six months – and was greeted with friendly curiosity by the natives.

However, there is one complication we had not foreseen. While there was every chance that the locals would have no English or Latin, their understanding of the world is so different from ours that communication has proved impossible, and the rich exchange of ideas Wilkins hoped for has not come about. I shall attach this account of my adventure to a mechanical creation of my own devising, which I believe to be capable of reaching the earth. Wherever you are, if you find this message and can, by Wilkins’ principles, find a way to reach the moon, please send an expert in languages. I am, for now, at an utter loss.

***

Sometimes, history is weird. Dr John Wilkins was a real English priest and academic who eventually became Bishop of Chester, and he really thought and wrote, at some length,  about how to fly to the moon. His theory for doing this was grounded in the best understanding of the world available in the mid-17th century, an understanding rooted in a mix of theology, logic, and what we would now label as scientific observation. He was, in retrospect, completely wrong, but his arguments made sense to him and others at the time, and every point I’ve included here is an accurate (if limited) representation of Wilkins’ thinking. And honestly, I find the logic of it, while madly optimistic, both compelling and kind of brilliant in its twists.

If you want to learn more about Wilkins, I recommend Allan Chapman’s book  Stargazers, which depicts the careers of a range of European astronomers from the 15th to the 18th centuries, many of whom were equally fascinating, from the obstinate and argumentative Galileo to Tycho Brahe and his gold nose.

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.

Rough Justice – A Science Fiction Short Story

I stared at the broken tanker in the middle of the waste ground. Green sludge swayed and pulsed around it, creeping towards the river. I could smell its putrid fumes through the filter of my cheap prison issue hazmat suit.

My last day. All I had to do was obey the guards and I would be out tomorrow, a year knocked off my sentence for the sake of biohazard work, work that had given me skills and a purpose for three years. Sometimes you really could win.

“I won’t do it,” Cyril said. He always protested at the jobs, but always did them in the end.

“Come on,” I said. “Cut to the end and let’s get working.”

“I’m serious. I won’t touch that stuff.”

The lead guard, Haverstaff, glared at Cyril. “You get down there and do what you’re told, or it’s solitary for all of you.”

A groan went up from the whole crew. The warden believed in the motivational power of collective punishment, but to us it was one more injustice.

“No.” Cyril folded his arms, but though he played at defiance, what I really saw was fear.

“Let me,” I said, and Haverstaff stepped back. He was always happy to let someone else do the work.

I prodded Cyril in the chest.

“I need this,” I said. “My kid are waiting to see me tomorrow, and that only happens if I do my last day.”

“I know what that stuff is.” Cyril stared in horrified fascination at the green goo. “If it gets through the suit, it won’t just make you sick. It’s an engineered parasite that will take over your body.”

“You idiot,” I growled. There was only one way Cyril knew this – his company had made it, before they were shut down for reckless endangerment. “You get down there and face the sick shit you made, or I’ll drag you down and throw you in.”

If he was considering resisting, Cyril stopped when he saw the look in my eyes. He followed me down to the spillage, where the others already waited.

What we faced wasn’t just a liquid. It was a living thing, pulsing and writhing, stringy tentacles rising from its surface. We fought them off with shovels and brooms while trying to suck it up with hoses and a vacuum tank. Acrid chemicals were spread over the thin traces left behind. After two years on the crew, I knew better than to let those powders splash my suit, but twice I had to stop new guys from reaching into the jars.

Halfway through the day Dunn, one of those new kids, stopped working and stood staring at the side of the broken container.

“I know this stuff,” he said in his slow drawl. “This is the stuff what took over my aunt and her kids. Good as killed them.”

Cyril froze at those words, sweating behind his plastic visor. He didn’t realise that Dunn and the rest had missed what he said. They didn’t know he was responsible.

Haverstaff glared at Dunn. He didn’t like it when inmates stopped working. The threat of collective punishment loomed again.

“Sorry, man,” I said, laying a hand on Dunn’s shoulder. “Let’s make sure this shit doesn’t kill anyone else, eh?”

Dunn was a good guy, despite his conviction for assault, and those words were enough to set him back to work.

But Dunn’s words plagued me. It wasn’t fair that people had died from this shit, when all Cyril got was a couple of years on the inside. I could have let Dunn know, let him balance the books with his fists, but it would have ruined the day’s work.

“Out of the way,” I said to Cyril, who stood tense amid the remains of the ooze. Since Dunn spoke, he’d been even more on edge, too distracted by Dunn to focus.

I swung the jar in my hand and chemical powder hissed as it hit the green ooze. A little of the powder landed on the back of Cyril’s leg, scorching tiny holes through his suit. I thrust the jar into his hand and grabbed the hose that he hadn’t moved in two minutes.

“Fuck’s sake, Cyril, I need to get this finished.” I swung the hose around and drips of green goo flew. It hit the back of his leg, just where the holes were.

“Hey, careful with that!” he said, stumbling back.

Suddenly, he froze and his eyes went glassy.

I leaned in close enough to whisper through the thin masks of the hazmat suits.

“Keep quiet, do the work, and we all get out of here, OK?”

The parasite that had taken over Cyril nodded.

I might have felt guilty, except there was screening on the way into the prison. They would work out what was wrong and isolate the thing that was in him. Dunn would have his revenge, I’d have my day’s work finished, the other prisoners would be safe. Justice for all.

“Last day nearly done,” Haverstaff said to me. “What you gonna do on the outside?”

I pointed at the biohazard. “I’ve got good at this work, figure I’ll get a job doing it for real. Decent protective suits, proper equipment, real pay…”

“That’s not gonna happen,” Haverstaff said, his laughter not cruel but patronising. “Wit ha criminal record, you’ll never get the licence to handle chemicals.”

He frowned at Cyril, who was staring vacantly around.

“What’s the matter with him?” he asked.

I froze. One more hour, that was all I needed. One more hour and my work was done. But if we didn’t finish the day…

Haverstaff prodded the thing that had been Cyril. “I told you, do the work or you’re all off to solitary.” He frowned at the stain on the back of Cyril’s leg. “What happened there?”

The creature stared blankly back at him.

“I said, what happened?”

The creature seemed to see the jar in its hands. It tipped it up and chemical powder fell around their feet.

“Jeez!” Haverstaff leapt back as the ooze around them bubbled. “Be careful with that shit.”

I wondered for a moment if I should just let things fall apart. Here I was useful. I was making the world safer for ordinary people, ones screwed over by the likes of Cyril. Out there in the world, I’d just be one more guy signing on for government help or working in a convenience store.

But I’d be one more guy with my kids.

“It’s OK,” I said, grabbing Cyril’s jar. “I’ve got this.”

“Hurry up and finish,” Haverstaff said. “I want to get out of here.”

He wasn’t the only one.

***

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.

Immortal – a fantasy short story

I dragged myself through the last tangle of thorns, leaving scarlet trails across my hands and face, and emerged into a clearing. In the centre was a pool of deep water reflecting the clear blue of the sky. A woman sat beside it in flowing robes, and as she turned to look at me I instinctively straightened my tailcoat.

Portrait of a Girl’s Head by
Sir George Clausen

“My lady.” I doffed my hat. “I have journeyed around the world to find you.”

“I know.”

Her sigh was the fluttering of butterfly wings.

“I am Sir Gideon Whiting,” I continued, “scholar, adventurer, knight of the realm. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

“I’ve heard of everyone, Sir Gideon. It happens when you have eternity to fill.”

“So it’s true!” I sank to my knees beside her.

“I know everything, yes. Every detail of your story, from the abandoned child in the industrial slum to the trek through deserts and jungles that brought you here. I know your true mother’s name, your deepest regret, the thrill and the shame of your first kiss.”

I was astounded, yet also disconcerted. She matched my vision of an immortal, full of beauty and grace, but where was the power and pride of an omniscient immortal?

“So you see it all?” I asked, feeling a little embarrassed as the implication sank in.

“History is a circle, Sir Gideon. I am fated to survive each turn of that circle and be there for the start of the next. I know about you because you have told me it all before.”

“Amazing,” I whispered.  “The things you must have seen.”

“Yes, I have seen and heard and tasted every detail of this world, done it so many times that I know it all. I am utterly, unbearably bored.”

“Perhaps there’s something I can do to entertain you?” I asked. “A joke, a story, a song…”

“We’ve tried that before. Trust me, you get boring pretty quickly.”

“Oh.” I slumped. “So what do you want from me? Can I help you to end this cycle?”

The thought was a terrible one, but sometimes terrible acts were needed, and my revolver sat ready at my hip.

“You think I haven’t tried? After a while, even blowing your own brains out gets boring.”

“Then what’s the point?” I asked, staring at my fat, useless hands. “What’s the point if I can’t change anything?”

“Go back and enjoy your life, Sir Gideon. Be grateful that it’s the only one you have.”

***

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.’

Blood on the Beach – A Historical Short Story

There was blood on the beach. Somehow, in spite of everything, Louis hadn’t expected that. He’d seen the soldiers here, thousands of them lining up to board the boats. He’d seen the heaps of equipment they left behind. He’d heard the bombs falling and the rattle of gunfire as planes flew across that teeming crowd of men. And yet somehow he hadn’t anticipated those dark stains, turning patches of sand into sinister, crusted lumps.

The salt smell of the sea was a familiar one around Dunkirk, but now it had a different edge.

Photo by Sean MacEntee via
Flickr Creative Commons

There were no more boats. That he had expected, or rather feared. No way out. He walked across the sand, between piles of discarded equipment, some of it burned to stop the Germans using it. What was he hoping to find? An abandoned row boat? An uninflated dinghy? Enough wood to make a raft that could survive the crossing to England? Each idea was more absurd than the last. The gulls mocked him with their screeching laughter as they pecked at the remnants humans had left behind.

He looked back towards the shop fronts facing the harbour. More soldiers had appeared, ones in different uniforms. He had seen them in the newspaper and he knew what they represented. Reluctantly, he raised his hands and walked back up the beach.

One of the soldiers pointed a rifle at him and shouted in heavily accented French. “Stop! Stop or shooting!”

“I’m not going to make trouble,” Louis called out in German. So many sailors and travellers passed through town, he had picked up a smattering of a dozen languages and enough for conversation in three. “I own that café.”

He pointed to his building. He’d closed up shop days ago and shuttered the windows. By that point he’d sold or given almost all he could to the waiting soldiers. There had been no point continuing, especially not with bombs falling and planes strafing the promenade.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” the soldier said. Others were gathering around him, some watching Louis, others staring warily at the nearby buildings. “You could be a soldier in disguise, looking for a way out.”

“May I lower my hand? It will help me prove this to you.”

“One twitch of trouble and you’re a dead man.”

Slowly, Louis lowered his trembling right hand, slid it into his pocket, and pulled out his keys.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward his front door.

The German watched him with narrowed eyes, but stepped back to make the way clear.

Louis walked up to his café, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door. The whole way, those guns kept pointing at him, and it was all he could do not to freeze in fear. One slip of a finger and he was dead.

He let the Germans walk in first, three of them, pointing their guns at the counter, the tables, the hat stand, as if any of them might hide a British soldier. Louis was glad that he’d hidden the cash box already. He would give it up in an instant if they threatened him, and leave himself destitute in the process, but the dead had no use for money.

“Would you like coffee?” he asked, easing his way between. “I got my supply from a Brazilian sailor fresh off the Atlantic run. There’s only a little left, but it’s very good.”

One of the soldiers grinned and pulled out a chair, its legs scraping against the tiled floor. Sweat ran down Louis’s back, sticking his shirt to his spine. If these men looked around properly then he would be in a world of trouble, but he couldn’t just kick them out. He had to be cooperative, had to keep them happy, had to show that he was compliant.

“No time for coffee,” the oldest soldier said. “Not until the town’s secure.”

His comrades pulled faces, but they followed him out the door.

One of them turned in the entrance and smiled at Louis.

“You’ll be open later, yes?”

“Whenever you want,” Louis said, with the same forced smile he gave to poor tippers and people who broke his cups. “After all, I have new customers in town.”

The soldier laughed and left.

Louis waited until they were out of earshot, then closed and locked the door. He let out a deep sigh, then trudged up the stairs, walked into his bedroom, and opened the wardrobe door. A heap of blankets unfurled, revealing a man in uniform, bloodshot eyes wide with fear.

“No way out now,” Louis said. “We’ll need to find you a better hiding place.”

“So I’m stuck?” the man asked in English.

“Give me time,” Louis replied, remembering the Germans in his café, their own looks of exhaustion and excitement, distracted by something as simple as a cup of coffee. “We’ll find a way.”

***

As well as this story, I have two comics out this week about the Dunkirk evacuation –  Durand’s Dunkirk and Dodger’s Dunkirk. You can buy them electronically through Comixology, or get paper copies wherever Commando is stocked.

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.

***

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.