Tomb Raider, 2018

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Image from the internet.

A movie based on a video game. Well, it worked for Angelina Jolie when she started as Lara Croft in the first Tomb Raider adaptation.

While I have not played any of the games, I remember the adds for the recent-ish reboot of the video game series. I was almost intrigued enough to purchase the game, but became sidetracked with other things. Still I remembered the trailers. So when I saw the trailer for the new movie, I thought – hey, this looks like the video game. And yup it was.

Apparently the latest Tomb Raider movie was based on the latest Tomb Raider video game. There is lots of running. Lots of tossing Laura around in a manner that no real human could survive with actually breaking at least a couple of bones. There is lots of grunting. But when it comes to plot, character or even dialogue – well this version is lacking.

Theoretically, this is set before the first Tomb Raider movies and is supposed to give more of an explanation as to how Laura becomes a tomb raider. As someone who saw the other films this was an large example of failure. There is a huge disconnect between the character we are introduced to by Angelina Jolie and the more recent Lara Croft played by Alicia Vikander. First, Alicia’s Lara is far more passive and mostly lacks a personality. Unfortunately, I spent most of the movie thinking – this was not the explanation we had for her father’s disappearance. This is not the name of the evil secret organization. This is not… well interesting.

Image from the internet

Even the action scenes were largely bland. There were too many running scenes that looked like they were filmed using a green screen. I should not see so easily through your special effects. The settings were less entrancing than one would hold. And there was a distinct lack of puzzles. Okay, that may be a silly complaint as there probably weren’t many actual puzzles in the 2001 film, but at least that older film had some dialogue.

While I appreciated the attempt to move away from the obviously magical to having a more scientific explanation for the central mythology. It was poorly developed, under-played and sadly executed. Also, it was rather incongruous how much effort was spent dispelling the woman as being a god with magic powers, when you completely fail to give any logical explanation for the disappearing floor. Exactly how would that have worked?

So, yup, like nearly every review I have stumbled across since first watching this movie, I will agree: Tomb Raider 2018 is a dud. I wouldn’t bother with this one.

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Clockwork Caterpillar Chapter 1 – Part 1

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Just a reminder to everyone that the official release date for The Clockwork Caterpillar will be April 5th. You can preorder The Clockwork Caterpillar digital version from your favourite digital storefront. The Amazon link can be found here. And this here is the Kobo link.  Today we’ll be taking a look at the first part of the opening chapter. Enjoy the preview and don’t forget to keep your eyes on the store for the release!

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All rights belong to Between The Covers Publishing

Here’s the lovely cover for The Clockwork Caterpillar. So cool!

Chapter 1

 

“There ain’t but two kinds of folk in this world: those who have and those who have not.”

The smell of gunpowder stung Hopkins’ nose as he rode into the wilds. The blood on his coat was barely noticeable beneath the dust layered over it like a thin sheath. Pounding hooves behind him echoed as righteous thunder on the wind, and he cast weary eyes over the motley crew. Despite the steely looks, strapped pistols and stained knives, they had flinched at the executions. They had betrayed their hardened composure and revealed themselves for the spring calves they were.

Theirs would be as little valued than as sustenance for the wolves.

This was a harsh land and it wouldn’t broker the meek. Strife was its master and only those of obdurate fortitude could hope to bring it to heel. Few could claim such power. None could hold it.

Many tried, of course. The first were the Castilleons. Their explorers, seeking the riches of the Jade Empire across the globe, stumbled upon this untamed world. They leveraged the superiority of the old countries to break the will and bones of the savages. Blade and pistol saw huge swathes bow their beaten, beaded heads. For their ruthlessness, the Castilleons were rewarded with riches unimaginable. The treasures brought back were more than mere gold. Consequently, the attentions attracted by their discoveries were not restricted to the mercenaries.

Hopkins twisted in his saddle, directing his provisional crew over the rocky crest. They came from all walks: displaced farmers, failed merchants, persecuted faithful and opportunistic blackguards. They were driven by their masters from the Old World hoping that mere bodies alone would stake their claims on this bountiful soil. But even in this vast new expanse, the old empires found little room for cohabitation. Their conflicts spilt across the ocean and demanded their discarded citizens to die in their names.

Many balked, showing the limits of power those distant crowns possessed here. Only the Thyrians brought righteous fury in response so—even as the Castilleon colonies crumbled beneath the revolts of its natives—the Thyrian throne’s expansion into the unclaimed territories was unmatched. But the wider the throne’s reach, the greater the gaps grew in their control. Many fled to the frontiers, their reasons as numerous as their origins. Hopkins himself hardly recalled the life that birthed him. So long had he survived this land that the old places had all but faded to a bad memory. The only thing that haunted him was what little with which he began.

And though they were greenhorns, the men and women at his command were testament to his successes. Laws were only good for those that could enforce them. For the rest, there was profit to be made by crushing those too feeble to enforce the will of the magistrates. Hopkins regretted the years toiling in service of others for scraps when there were greater bounties to be gained by working for oneself.

That he was to be rewarded now for such simple mayhem felt a cheat. And with the amount promised, he found it hard not to imagine how it would be spent. Perhaps he would hire his own crew and purchase one of those magnificent steam engines which cowed the savages before its ferocious iron cattle-catcher.

Or, even better, he could steal his own for a fraction the cost. All that would be needed were capable hands he could beat into a ruthless outfit.

These ones, though, would do until the bridge. And then Hopkins would teach the promising few that less hands make for fatter wallets. There was a way business was conducted beyond the coastal settlements. Things were simpler. Hopkins had but one tenet that held true; no matter what befell his path, he would never end with less than he started.

And Hopkins would not be disturbed by the bodies that lay between him and that dream.

The road tore towards a canyon so ripped into the red rock that it formed a great gash across the flesh of the earth. Scarlet was the soil which spilt forth. It was the blood of the land and it seeped down its sheer banks, drowning the scrub and sickle trees hanging over precipitous nothing. The savages said the place was cleaved during the formation of the world and forever would it bleed so long as man raised hand against his own.

They would treat it as a cautionary tale instead of a guide.

Hopkins spurred his steed forward in anticipation. But the mare gave a warning cry. Her nostrils flared with some foreign scent. He reined her to a gentle canter as eyes darted amongst the craggy stones. His hand purchased the pistol at his side while the other signalled the crew. This was not his first ambush.

But no rifles cracked as he rounded the crest. The bridge rose steadily into sight and Hopkins fixated on the prize.

There she stood.

She was as still as the great canyon’s sides: unflinching and eternal. Her long coat caught about her, snapping with the hunger of a starved dog. The great brim of her hat fluttered as though it meant to catch freedom in the crystal blue sky. Her fingers held true to the cold steel and polished wood of the longrifle’s simple stock. The hammer lay cocked. The flashpan was primed. A single long braid pulled behind her with the dying veracity of an old battle standard prepared for its final stand.

Was this all that impeded the end of his escape? Hopkins had been told the job would be easy. True to form, the cache offered little resistance. The few guards were easily overcome. And now, nary but a girl pretending at vigilante justice was all that remained between him, precious freedom and a handsome reward on the opposite side.

Hopkins raised his pistol, giving a shout as he kicked his horse into a full charge. The others followed.

Still she stood with nothing but the wilds gathered around her. She sought no shelter amongst the worn ropes and weathered wood giving over to burnished steel. Temporary towers stood unmanned, their simple cranes and suspenders groaning in the wicked breath of the canyon. The Glorious Belt Bridge was undergoing a remarkable transformation as its forgotten timbers were recast in fresh iron beneath its cocoon of scaffolding. Lines of new posts and beams ran its sides like great, sleeping pupae. Someone had expensive interest in expanding a crossing that none had used in decades.

Someone else, however, had more expensive interests in seeing that its construction was never completed.

The waggon rattled behind in its attempt to keep pace. Beneath its roped cover banged barrels filled to the brim with reserved gunpowder. There was enough black dust to keep a frontier state supplied for four months. Or enough to send the entirety of the Glorious Belt Bridge to the waiting arms of the Lord above.

She did not falter with their arrival.

Hopkins’ cry rose above the hooves. Horses shook their heads as riders pulled upon their reins. The group came to a stumbling halt as Hopkins grinned at the unshakeable darling who squared off against the half-dozen armed outlaws falling upon her.

“You’ve got guts. I give you that,” Hopkins called.

The terrific mare of bright chestnut fur and proud dark eyes stepped forward and shook her head menacingly.

She fingered the trigger of her rifle. “Dirty Hopkins.”

The broad-shouldered ruffian twitched scraggly whiskers. He poked the tip of his muddied Boss of the Plains perched upon an untamed and brown streaked straw mane. A single thread of faded yellow wound about it, but whatever noble prospects it once bespoke were tarnished by the blood speckling the fabric. His arms—draped in buckskin—crossed and the tens of dangling trimmed fringe fibres waved their little cloth fingers in the breeze.

“Don’t think we’ve met.”

“Ain’t had the pleasure ‘till now.”

He surveyed the bridge for foul intentions. But there was only the woman and a construction site in dire repair. He led his horse to the side, looking over the edge.

Far beneath cut a trickling blue stream like a child’s discarded ribbon. The great stone walls rose up on either flank. In both directions drew the exposed red and pink wound. Only the most distant peaks were tinged white as they crawled towards the sky. And nothing else crossed its expanse save for this great metal and wood monstrosity. If there were others, they would be faint motes amongst the rocky shadows. Had they clung unseen to the underside of the bridge, there was no expeditious way for them to scramble up its side.

Hopkins raised a hand to his hat, pressing the brim further up his face. He had seen misplaced courage before—even from the fairer sex when they felt pressed against the walls of their frontier farms—but nothing like this.

“And what brings a fine specimen such as yourself so far into the wastes? Ain’t a proper place for a little thing like you. Ruffians about, I hear.”

“Surely, I hope.” The rifle faced the rider.

Hopkins smiled, turning back to his gang. A few had followed in drawing their weapons. He barked at the rest. Immediately, four outlaws dismounted, pulled the canvas across the vehicle’s back and fetched the large barrels from its end.

“You got gumption. Ain’t necessarily a blessing.”

He leaned back in his saddle, wholly unperturbed by the weapon. When she didn’t respond, he gave her a questioning nod of his head.

“You got a name to that face?”

“Ain’t one that matters. But if it’s required, you may address me as Felicity.”

And that appellation made him lean forward in his seat.

“I’ve heard of you.” Lips curled back to reveal a row of rotted teeth. “One of them hunters and runners scratching a living on them ships between empires.”

He looked up and down the bridge.

“But I ain’t see no ship.”

“There’s two ways we play this. You come willing or you come roughly. Either way’s ending the same.”

“And where we be heading, my dear?”

“You gone and made some folk irate. Falls on me to bring you back to them.”

“Aiming for a bounty?” Hopkins smiled. “Well ain’t that a thing. And you going to do it all on your lonesome?”

He regarded the cowled men as they dragged their payload towards the bridge’s supports. Felicity finally acknowledged them, her eyes hardly bothering with the pistols by their sides.

“Only got business with you. They’re free so long they ain’t done nothing unlawful.”

Hopkins laughed. He swung one leg over his saddle, dropping from his horse and taking a few testing steps forward. His snakeskin boots thumped against the wood as he drew closer and closer without a single discharge from the rifle’s barrel. He heard members readying firearms and setting along the side angles. Hopkins rested a callused hand on the rifle’s top, pressing the weapon’s muzzle earthward.

“I ain’t tell if you’re bold or just full of aethers. I reckon you can turn your cute little hat around and walk away from this and I ain’t have to bloody your pretty little face.”

He could smell her now. This was no perfumed lady or pioneering immigrant. She smelled of sweat and grease. There were smudges of gunpowder staining her cheeks. Though her olive skin was radiant, it was scratched and marked with edges of scars creeping from her collar. And her eyes were hard as she raised them to meet his. There was not a trace of youthful brashness within their dark pits. They were cold and they were empty.

Hopkins hadn’t removed his hand from her rifle and he gave a quick tug, trying to yank it from her. But her grip held and she pulled back, the barrel slipping through his fingers. Before she could raise it, however, Hopkins struck. The back of his hand connected with her cheek fiercely. She fell from her stance for the first time.

She raised the rifle, but warning fire kept her from pulling the trigger. The outlaw grinned.

“It’s a wonder folk like you still manage a living. There can only be so much coin running unregistered shipments off the schedules. You want my advice? You got to look elsewhere for a scratch.”

He jabbed the tip of his pistol into her chest, causing her to wince as he grasped her shoulder.

“Now, I ain’t going to ask again. You better drop that little smokemaker of yours.”

 

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Clockwork Caterpillar Inspirations

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I have exciting news to share with you world. We have an official release date for The Clockwork Caterpillar! Felicity and crew’s daring adventure will be hitting a digital shelf near you on April 5th. But wait, there’s more! For those most excited, you can preorder The Clockwork Caterpillar digital version from your favourite digital storefront. Since I’m a bit of a Luddite, I’m only really familiar with two: here is the Amazon link (Canadian version but it should be on the American store as well) and here is the Kobo link.  We are also on Apple and Barnes and Noble too. As for physical copies, those will be available for order on April 5th so if you like getting something a little more leafy in your hands, the time is almost nigh!

To celebrate, I’m going to give a little more insight into my creative process.

All rights belong to Between The Covers Publishing

Here’s the lovely cover for The Clockwork Caterpillar. So cool!

Writing a novel is a lengthy endeavour, and with so many parts and pieces to keep in mind, it’s both easy to lose motivation and lose sight of what makes the story special. I find having a specialized playlist keeps me focused. Usually this is music I listened to while creating the idea behind my novel. Sometimes an idea starts from one song and from there I’ll try to find music that accompanies or mirrors it. More often than not, I’ll look for music that really captures the feeling of a certain place, character or theme. As these get cobbled together, a cohesive identity begins to form between the songs.

This identity is much easier to remember, especially when I have the music to help me. Each song carries the reason for its inclusion: whether that be a particular lyric or chord to which I’ve tied a creative association. This playlist I’ll listen to while I write my story so later when I return for revisions and editing, I can load it up and get right back into the proper frame of mind. And even when I write up to a wall, I can sit back and chill to the songs that brought me there. This often gives me new ideas so no writing block lasts for very long even if it’s been months since I’ve last looked at my story.

So, in this post, I’m sharing some of the songs that inspired me for The Clockwork Caterpillar. This isn’t my entire song collection, of course. I’m just sharing a couple and the reasons for their inclusion. Feel free to check them out. I suspect, since music is such a personal taste thing in the first place, it might be hard to envision the same things I do when I hear them. But maybe you can get a glimpse of those golden fields, snow-kissed mountains and lonely engines.

Johnny Cash – Hurt

I knew that The Clockwork Caterpillar was going to draw on the mythos and mystique of cowboy culture. So finding some country music seemed eminently important. There’s a snag, however, which is I don’t generally like country music. It’s a little out of my regular listening sphere and its qualities aren’t ones that appeal to me. There are, of course, exceptions in every genre. And I recalled hearing Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire while doing warehouse work and enjoying it for what it was. Oddly enough, it is Cash’s cover of Nine Inch Nail’s Hurt that really did something for me. There’s a fantastic melancholic twist to a song otherwise focused on crippling drug addiction. Cash’s trembling, aged voice turns something pretty narrow into a rather wide reaching song about the collapse of one’s own world at the end of their life. This pervasive sense of ruination pervades The Clockwork Caterpillar. Hurt is great for setting an important atmosphere to the story.

The Silent Comedy – The Well

The Silent Comedy have some great “southern” sounding songs but it’s The Well that really got that deep south vibe that I really wanted. But it’s not just a setting note that The Well strikes. Its focus on spirituality and one’s personal relationship with the institutions of faith play important sub-themes in The Clockwork Caterpillar. The colonials certainly lean heavily on faith in order to survive against the uncountable hardships of the frontier. But more to the point, The Well speaks of the moral bankruptcy within these institutions. Membership alone does not equate to purity. Banks, mayors and politicians can all be immoral and still pray at the church for all the good prayer alone will do for you. Righteousness sans action is valueless and this sort of conversation is certainly a meaningful one for people who are often themselves reduced to criminality. The rejection of authority and still making it on one’s own kind of sums up the entirety of Felicity’s crew.

Spring and Autumn – Legend

This is one of the first songs to hit The Clockwork Caterpillar playlist. And for good reason since Legend is basically the beating heart of the story to me. It’s combination of banjo, metal and Chinese kind of encapsulates the world. It’s a bizarre medley of disparate elements all pulled together to accomplish what they couldn’t individually. While the other songs might be a bit pessimistic in their tone or outlook, Legend is that note of hope which the characters strive to achieve. Mostly, however, it’s the banjo and Chinese.

Benny Goodman – Sing, Sing, Sing

There’s no hiding the fact that, despite writing about loss, corruption, abandonment, exile and hopelessness, The Clockwork Caterpillar is still meant to be a high adventure. Thrills, chills and death defying action provide the reader a grand spectacle as they travel with Felicity through her many trials and tribulations. I mean, this is a story about train pirates; it’s ultimately meant to be a whole lot of good fun. Sing, Sing, Sing is the quintessential swing song from the 1930s. Benny Goodman is practically a king of the genre. The enthusiasm and energy of that era is the exact energy I wanted as Felicity battles angry natives, duplicitous Jaders, villainous pirates, immoral tycoons and oppressive governments.

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Clockwork Caterpillar – Hope

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The Clockwork Caterpillar should be available for order on April 5th. To round out the crew’s introductions, today we shall look at the youngest member of Felicity’s ragtag members. Hope is a little Jader girl who dotes upon her curious exotic pet. While Felicity typically only takes on those with extraordinary skill, none dare question the presence of the little girl. Her relationship with her captain is a unique one but just because she’s a child doesn’t mean she lacks important assets.

Primarily, Hope is the gateway for Felicity into the western colonies. Settled by the Jade Throne centuries prior to Thyre’s arrival, the west coast of Athemisia is dotted with the fortified walls of these resilient people. They have survived and thrived for generations despite the neglect of their homeland. They have forged a unique history with the native residents and their long presence has been shaped as much as it has shaped those people. It’s a constant exchange of knowledge, culture and blood that has created a complicated environment which has completely diverted the course of history.

In fact, many would argue that the Thyrian throne wouldn’t have been so involved in the colonial expansions had it not been the constant threat that the Jade Empire would swoop in and take the land and resources right from under their nose. Part of the mad rush to expand rail lines was largely influenced by the thrones need to get people and, more importantly, soldiers to the farthest reaches. Course, the Thyrian aristocracy couldn’t possibly begin to understand the complicated motivations of these strange people. The Jaders had little interest in expanding beyond their mountain barrier, having fostered a very defensive attitude towards the continent since their earliest times. This has created holdings far more secure that the Thyrians could hope to break. Between their fortified homes, natural defenses and robust alliances with indigenous tribes, the Jaders are untouchable in a direct confrontation. They have seen much and outlasted far more than the rail magnates and redcoats could throw at them.

No, if the Jade Empire were to crumble it would be through the vices of its homeland. There, the throne has changed many hands as the Celestial Bureaucracy has ordained numerous conquerors and emperors. With Thyre’s powerful fleet, they’ve managed to create ocean trade networks to that distant country with its valuable wares. They’ve even managed to arrive as the empire is in its own internal throes as a powerful drug erodes the traditional power struggle. Rebellions have been spurred and supported by Thyrian merchants, hoping to leverage greater advantages in the ancient territory.

But the colonies are far removed from those issues. Some even think that, should the homeland fall, the colonies would hardly notice. In fact, they may even be enticed into rising on their own, announcing their independence and following in the steps of the southern people. And should that happen, then having a crew member who understands and speaks the language of these rich, complex neighbours would certainly be valuable indeed.

Copyright Kev McFadyen

Hope

Clucked and cackled were the markets of New Fusang. Women in pretty coats spoke with men in dirty shirts. Clink, clink, clink went their fingers. Clink, clink, clink went the wen. Dangling the strings of coins, their square holes held tight to the lines as they were stretched and counted. Glasses raised and eyes pressed, clink, clink, clink went the fingers that counted out the disks. Squawked went the pigeons. Wan went the dogs. Bing bang the cages rattled.

Chatter and chat. Sing and spat. Round and round they prat. From stall to stall stepped the pretty ladies. And clinked went their strings. Whirled and wove like a little leaf on a stream. Fingers pointed and hands were filled. Mouths chomp and chewed on sticked fish and lizards. Boxes, bunches, branches and bundles bought.

The smell of roasted corn, fried jellyfish, cooked cat and brewed tea littered the air. They mixed with sweat, perfumes, cows and poop. Everywhere you looked something was being passed, eaten, purchased, tossed, prodded, fed or spied. No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

She sat upon the roped boxes, kicking small, tight shoes. They were simple cloth with a colourful floral pattern of some strange pink and white flower with long petals. They were her favourite for the simple black embroidery around the anklet slip studded with beads. At the tips were the worn remnants of some long lost tassels. She liked kicking her feet and making the little stubs bounce up and down in the air. The little frayed ends flapped like a bird’s tiny wing.

Across from her trilled the stringed wood. She watched slender fingers splayed across the rows of wires. Picked and plucked. The notes echoed and twanged. Picked and plucked. Talon fingers like the claws of an eagle. They danced and jumped and the board warbled. While the talons danced, the other fingers jumped about their ends. Ten and more strings stretched over the polished wood. Along the side ran pretty little symbols that she couldn’t read.

She tried to get her tassels to jump to the beat.

Suddenly, the stumpy remains began to flap of their own accord. They jumped and pulled without a kick of her foot. As she turned, regarding them curiously, she felt her jacket pull as a great wind nearly toppled her from her perch. She turned a small head with its little cap skywards. Overhead came the thump, thump, thump of great propellers as an enormous bladed vessel gently drifted past the stalls.

The gust of wind sent merchants scurrying for tarps and cloths to tie and bound their stalls. Cotton and silk caught in the draft, fluttering and lifting like little banners. She clapped her hands at the colourful twirling and twisting as women and men jumped and danced after the clothes.

And still those fingers plucked and danced. Twisted and bent were the scarves to the notes. Hopped and jumped went the women and men like guests at a pretty little party. Their voices cried and the strings sang, chirped, warbled and waned.

No place was like the markets of New Fusang.

The great airship passed overhead, groaning with its journey. As it passed the wind followed. She jumped from the roped boxes, chasing after the plucky notes and twisting scarves down the crowded streets. Sails caught in the passing gust, pulling their little carts by their single large, creaky  wheels as owners shouted and gave chase. A fancy little parade followed after the big boat as they all ran down the lane. She laughed and clapped and jumped and stomped all the while scarves played about her.

It was a parade of bright red and orange with bursts of green and blue. Lapis lazuli and jade, vermilion and saffron. All were on display as they marched. Doors burst open as others came to investigate. From a pile of colourful cushions arose cut sleeved robes, the two men joining in with others as they wove and wound their way down the lane.

Skipping. Jumping. Hopping. Twirling.

Plucked were the guzhengs. Twanged the sanxian. Whistled the xun. Banged the bolang gu.

A happy little parade chased the whirling airship.

But it made not for the docks. Groaning and twisting, the metal turned as the wind caught at ladies’ dresses and men’s robes. Voices gave rise to the music as the procession made its way. Chattered and chittered and shouted and sang. She laughed and skipped after them and their feet pounded the dirt.

Great dragon heads bit down on the large propellers. The undercarriage had magnificent carved lions with great flowing manes watching over windows. So close flew the great ship that she could see the faces of passengers looking out the silk drapes at the canvased markets.

A long row of bells gonged as they passed. Their great tubes were studded with intricate woven castings wounding around them like a beautiful ribbon. The supports were iron cast men, their bare arms balancing the heavy bars upon their heads and hands. The iron had begun to wash orange and green as if their skin and skirts were shedding the tarnished flakes to reveal the colours hidden beneath.

She stopped long enough to give a bright smile at the man watching over the row of bells. But his eyes followed the ship. So she quickly reached out, pushing on the largest and listening to it peel a bright, clear note.

She cheered and hurried after the fantastic ship. Busy was this day in the markets of New Fusang.

“What is it?”

“Where is it going?”

“Where are the soldiers?”

“Where did it come from?”

“Is that it? It’s bigger than I heard.”

“Isn’t it early?”

“Isn’t it late?”

“It looks magnificent!”

They chattered and chittered as they hurried, clutching to their hats as long braided tails bounced after shiny heads. Hurried they went through the streets of New Fusang. Doors burst. Windows raised. Women emerged from kitchens and men from taverns. Even the pagoda’s doors were opened as orange robed old men emerged, raising wise hands to shield their eyes as the ship thrummed over their tiered tower. The very tiles of the roofs clapped in anticipation as the vessel veered towards the plains on the outskirts of the town.

The gates were stuck with people pushing and jockeying to get a look. As their parade got closer, they got slower. And she had to duck and weave amongst the silk dresses and leather pants, the thin shoes and the heavy boots. In and out, under and between. Around and around.

Everything could be seen in the markets of New Fusang.

Everything but a ship that could fly.

Gears creaked and croaked. The dragons roared as the propellers shook. The sky banged and smoked as the ship turned and broke. People watched, questioned and gasped. All stood transfixed as the great ship banked on its airy waves.

Whistles cried and soldiers stomped. Guns and swords stirred. But the people did not make way, grabbing arms, sleeves, jackets and coats. They pointed, they gaped and they spoke.

“Is it from the Emperor?”

“Is it from the ministers?”

“Is it from the merchants?”

“Is it from the generals?”

“How does it fly?”

“How does it turn?”

“Where is it going?”

“I want a ride!”

She shouted and pointed, watching as the ship began to sink. Sway and shake, ring and clank. The dragons moaned. Bore aloft on their slender backs came this great metal egg. It was a sight and a show and she had to see it for herself.

She pressed against the gate and its thin metal studs worn and marked from the old blades and arrows of the wildmen in the hills and mountains. She tried to press her fingers into the dented and torn wood, pulling herself up as much as she could to look over the hats, heads, braids and parasols. The ship brought itself around, the great fins turning beneath the chains of working gears like a great puffed metal fish.

And then something popped.

And the crowd gasped.

And the ground shook.

And the air hissed.

Before she knew it, something warm and strong pulled her from the perch and to the ground. A frightful sound consumed the air. Shouts and screams churned from the crowd as people pushed and ran. Like little birds scattering before a coming cat they took back to the streets.

Whistles blared and voices shouted. The soldiers stamped their feet.

She looked up to the ship and only saw the frightful burning of a new sun. Lines dropped as fire rose. It ran all along the green and red sides. It licked the balloon and grasped the sky. In seconds the entire ship was ablaze as it shattered.

And it came crashing down around them.

She pushed herself to her feet but was bumped and jostled. Feet kicked and she shouted in pain as they passed. But no one noticed in their haste and their fear. They ran and they screamed and they shouted and she cried.

She found herself up against the wall, pulling her legs close. Her pants were torn and her legs were bruised and bleeding. One of her lovely little shoes was missing and she looked at her dirty purpled foot. She pulled it in close, wrapping herself up in a little ball.

Then the wall shook.

It toppled as a great series of steel beams and chains smashed overhead. For generations the walls stood strong around the markets of New Fusang. Down, down they tumbled on the day when the sky fell.

Fire dropped like thick rain. Metal screamed as it pierced through roofs. A nearby house immediately caught ablaze. People screamed as soldiers rushed to the spreading flame. Inside she could hear the cries of those that burned alive.

Smoke filled the air, choking her mouth and stinging her eyes. She crawled away from the fire and the people. She crawled along the wall. Few people ran alongside now. Many lay on the ground. They did not move. She could no longer hear the laughter. She could no longer hear the guzhengs, sanxian, xun or bolang gu. The bells did not peal. The chimes did not chime. Wood crackled. Stones split. Houses snapped. Fire and heat jumped from neighbour to neighbour. She watched as the sailed carts smoked up like little firecrackers during the new year festival.

The wall shook again and she crawled crying away as the great metal nose of the ship smashed through timber and rock. The earth sprayed over her as she hid her face behind her arms. She stumbled, scrambled, spun and slipped. She sprawled against the dirt and scurried into an alley.

The screams rang and rang. All she could hear were the screams. She hurt and she cried but no one came to her. The air grew heavy and dark as black smoke choked out the blue sky. She coughed and tried to spit the burnt taste from her mouth. Frightened and alone, she curled up waiting for it all to end.

There she would have stayed and lay but something stirred from the wreckage around her. From the broken and burning wood poked two small coals that pierced the smoke. Tumbling and turning flopped a small little creature. It’s large tail was singed. It plodded towards her, skittering around the flames and metal. It pressed its cold nose against her bloody hand.

And as she peeled her knees away, she could see something red beneath the soot. Two white ears pricked as she cried and its vermilion fur was not from the fires that burned around it. It pawed with its little foot then trotted a few feet away. Turning its white streaked face, it blinked before giving a sharp, airy cry.

She blinked back.

It walked a few more ponderous paces, turned and cried again. Slowly, she followed. Step by step on hands and knees. She made her way after its bobbing round tail. They skirted fires. They slide on their bellies beneath twisted metal and smouldering wood. Past darkened bodies and empty faces. Over tumbled stones and along cracked metal bones of the great ship. She followed and it scampered.

Through the ruins of New Fusang they wound until they broke from its burning shell into the soft grass and green trees. They climbed through the fields and scampered up the hills. As she fled, she turned and looked back at the city burning and choking in a dark black haze.

No place would ever be like the markets of New Fusang.

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Clockwork Caterpillar – Pre-Order Now Available

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The Clockwork Caterpillar officially releases Thursday April 5, 2018. That is only two weeks away!

However, you don’t have to wait. The eBook is now available for pre-order at Amazon and Kobo. It should be up on Apple iBooks and Barnes & Nobel shortly. You can also purchase it direction from Smashwords, our new electronic distributor.

Don’t have an eReader or prefer the comfort of something solid in your hands? Don’t worry, a print version will also be available from Amazon starting April 5, 2018.

 

From the back cover:

Athemisa is a continent divided. To the east lies the industrialists of the Thyrian Empire. To the west lies the Jader colonists of the Celestial Throne. Scarred wilderness separates them with a slew of railways vying for the services of the new world’s inhabitants. In Athemisa, the rails mean everything. They are the lifeblood of the remote settlements reliant on shipments of food and supplies. They are the land claims staked by foreign thrones measured by troop movements and weapon deliveries. For Felicity Metticia, they are a way of life.

All rights belong to Between The Covers Publishing

Here’s the lovely cover for The Clockwork Caterpillar. So cool!

Felicity is a rail mercenary, making a living on the wild frontiers by running contracts between the two empires. Life is difficult but she has a crew of her own as capable as it is diverse. Schroeder, her right hand, is a wealthy rail magnate’s son disowned for his unprincipled lifestyle. Pacal is her fearsome crackshot, hailing from the recently unshackled south. A haunted war surgeon, rescued Jader girl, righteous navigator and reclusive engineer keep her train on the rails. They have managed many difficult jobs. But when the bounty posted by the magnate Bernhard Nikolai becomes more trouble than it’s worth, Felicity must follow-up a dangerous proposition from old connections in order to keep her crew paid and her engine running.

Unfortunately, many dangers await her on the tracks. Pirates strike from armoured engines. Revolutionaries wield their idealism like a weapon without concern for friend or foe. And always the Thyrian magnates seek to control who can and cannot ride their rails. Torn between a big pay-off, past obligations and her principles, Felicity must navigate the troubles to find a mechanical wonder whose humble exterior belies its ability to reshape the face of the world.

 

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Clockwork Caterpillar – Simon-Jacob

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The great network of rail lines which characterize the world of The Clockwork Caterpillar, are as dangerous as they are liberating. The competitiveness of the rail magnates knew no bounds and in their haste to create the most comprehensive rail system, they ended up creating a tangled web near indecipherable to common folk. Thus steps in the navigators, a ragtag collection of individuals who must chart byzantine timetables and rail maps to try and steer their vessels smoothly from station to station without colliding with their fellows. It’s a surprisingly stressful job made all the more difficult by individuals who run the lines off the wire. Crews like Felicity often arrive unannounced and must weave their transport through scheduled runs of more legitimate captains. There are plenty of examples out in the wastes of those ships that judged their passage poorly.

Thankfully, many magnates built lines literally beside their competitors and hopeful communities connected the competing rails to entice more visitors to their far flung settlements. The Thyrian throne even encouraged such illegal activity since no greater claim of territory is made than that of the bodies of loyal citizens. Course, when you’re so far from the imperial influence of your homeland, it’s really hard to maintain the loyalty of these people. There is a reason that piracy has thrived on the fringes. These frontier towns don’t look too closely at a ship’s history so long as they’re civil within their walls.  They will dutifully keep the lines working against sabotage, however, whether that be at native or competitive hand.

Thus navigators in The Clockwork Caterpillar are entrusted with the safety of the ship and the crew. A single misstep can spell disaster. S.J. takes on his responsibilities with that grave knowledge in mind. He’s a stalwart individual who knows just how precarious their runs are. While the others are able to sit in their cabins without a care, Simon-Jacob sees to his maps and schedules. He telegraphs forward posts to ensure a smooth ride. His best work goes unnoticed by the people he ferries. But the people drawn to this world of numbers and lines aren’t those that desire fame or glory. It takes all kinds to fill out the wastes of The Clockwork Caterpillar and these people who cannot find a place in proper society always find something in the outskirts.

But whether what they find is what they originally sought is an entirely different question.

Copyright Kait McFadyenS.J.

Ill met by candlelight.

The crackle of static and electricity kept the dark air alight. He raised his hairy forearm to his head, swiping at the sweat and shifting his slim frame on the rickety stool. This next part required precision and care. He had to focus. He had to concentrate.

The screwdriver flicked gently over the iron case. He could feel a surge of electricity jump from the metal plate to the raised screw. He took a slow breath, pushing the air in a constant stream through his lips. He lowered the tip into the crossed indent. With fingers wrapped in the thickest rubber, he began to turn.

The gloves squeaked as he unscrewed. Ever so slowly he worked, until his prize drew loose and he snatched it as carefully as he could with rubber tipped tweezers.

One down: four more to go.

He looked at the wrinkled paper beside him, carefully dropping the screw head first into a small sketched circle. The entire schematic of the device stretched beneath the jumping shadows of the furious candle. All across its surface was spread a dizzying array of disassembled metal pieces. If there was one sin Simon-Jacob Reardon held to a fault, it was his tireless attention to detail. It all had to be right. The consequences, otherwise, would be dire.

The static’s snarl was most unwholesome. But in that chaos rumbled something deeper. In slight pauses and moments of silence, Simon-Jacob could almost hear something grander. He knew, deep in the depths of his breast, something profound existed.

And so he toiled.

He worked and he pried. Metal and pieces began to pile beside him in an intoxicating complex structure. The thrum of the buried battery was the thrum of majesty. Somewhere within this metal container rested that acidic heart. It was a remarkable container where true magick occurred through the simple process of introducing two seemingly unimportant substances to each other. Within the glass jar sloshed the sulphuric liquid, caressing two lead plates with only a simple rubber strip separating them. But by connecting the two plates with a lead dioxide wire, man was capable of producing that which had once been the sole purview of the heavens.

And that electrifying product was used as both fuel and defence for this device.

But the battery wasn’t his prime target. He was after the network of wires, transistors and resistors. It was the first attempt to understand a fundamental truth about our world. It could literally reveal the inner workings of the heavens if its theories were accurate. It would provide the definitive proof of the existence of forces beyond the perception of our limited faculties.

And it was Simon-Jacob’s duty to try and understand it.

He just had to get past the designer’s clever trap.

With the last screw removed, Simon-Jacob rested his instrument and leaned back in his chair. He breathed slowly, keeping his heart and his pulse timed and rhythmic. He removed his glasses, rubbing at weary eyes. The device hissed and crackled again.

A soft knock came at the door.

“Burning the midnight oil?”

“There’s no rest for the wicked,” Simon-Jacob replied.

“How’s our little ticket coming?”

A man in a pressed suit and crisp cuffs stepped to the table. He reached for the object before Simon-Jacob gave a shout.

“Still damnably charged?”

“I’ve followed the schematic as close as possible,” Simon-Jacob said, waving his hand over the half-covered paper. “I still do not understand what I’m dealing with.”

“Well you better get on it, my boy. Ain’t no way that those stodgy mechanists are going to miss its absence much longer. We need to get this apart and marked before their conference starts.”

“I don’t know. I don’t like this, Timothy.”

“You ain’t being paid to like it,” the man responded, fetching a cigar from his pocket before patting about for a match. Failing that, he held the tip over the candle until it glowed red and curled back in soft flames.

He lifted the smoking cigar to his mouth and inhaled deeply.

“Only good thing them savages ever gave us.”

Timothy Payne was a taker. He saw only profits and the best way to line his pockets. It was why he had invested so much in the railways. He knew exactly what rapid transit could mean for this developing land and he cared not for the cost that it required. So long as that cost wasn’t his coin.

“Put faith in my word and not in earthly pleasures. Only then will you discover the bounty of my kingdom.”

Timothy eyed the wiry man.

“I was told you were one of ’em dogmatic types. Thought you were supposed to be against all this unholy iron madness.”

“I seek only to do the Lord’s will, as any true believer,” Simon-Jacob said. “And how better to serve his will than to understand it.”

Timothy exhaled a stifling cloud of smoke.

“I pay the Lord his due just like any other proper man.”

“It’s not a matter of paying tithes. The Lord has little value for our gold and blood. It’s about serving his word.”

“If that’s the case, then I don’t need to pay your wages!” Timothy laughed.

“He who is covetous of gain troubles his house; but he that as gifts shall live.”

“Precisely, boy. You bring trouble. Don’t think I don’t know your kind. Just ‘cause you covet elsewise of me don’t make you any better.”

Simon-Jacob shook his head.

“I need not riches save those of the Lord.”

“Is that so? Then walk out that door. I’ll find some other gearhead to take care of that.”

Timothy waited patiently, the cigar crackling between his fingers. Simon-Jacob turned back to the schematic, half-finished from his studies with margins choked by his thoughts on the device’s function. How many hours had he sat hunched over this table? How long had he carefully analyzed and detailed each screw and plate that he unfastened? He kept cramped in this small closet on Payne’s ship as the train sped to some destination irrelevant to Simon-Jacob’s purpose.

And he had toiled all this time with nothing but a jug of water and intermittent meals left for him at the doorstep. He knew he was close. He could tell from the device’s output that it ran on the new lead-acid battery. What else could explain the intermittent surges which were so powerful but so inefficient in powering a device? But its infrequency made its deterrent so much more effective since any dissembler would not know when the next strike of lightning would come.

“Precisely,” Timothy accused. “Some men desire wealth. And others desire knowledge. We ain’t so different in our devotions. I just don’t put on airs because I think I have some moral high ground. Judge not least you be judged.” Timothy laughed. “Yes, boy, I’ve read my Scriptures too. Some of us didn’t need no persecution complex to come to this dreary land. I profit from this land because the Lord wills it. Just like you learn his machinations to understand him. We are driven by the same righteousness even if our goals are different. Don’t think those fancy cathedrals will build themselves without people like me filling their coffers. You can’t raise roofs or feed the hungry on fancy scribblings.”

The man made his way to the door, pausing long enough to expel a curling cloud of smoke. “Make sure you get that little device figured by the time we make Guildwood. It won’t do for them academics to know we’ve been rummaging through their things.”

Timothy slammed the door behind him.

Simon-Jacob’s hands clenched. The arrogance of man knew no limit. These eastern merchants came just like the prosecuted and the undesirables, seeking refuge in the New World from the tyranny of the old. They hoped to escape the ever tightening grip of a monarchy keen to consolidate power and strip upstart nobles of their land and titles. Though they travelled just like all the others, they brought with them the entitlement and scorn that had forced them to flee.

And generations later, they were the first to run back to the beckoning arms of the monarchy looking to strengthen loyalty in colonies grumbling for liberty. How quickly abandoned were those dreams of prominence and self-governance. When men lay down their lives for freedom, it was the old prosecuted that turned to prosecuting.

Simon-Jacob slipped his gloves back on.

Talk of revolution and liberty weren’t his things. That was the domain of other men obsessed with the immediacy of their transient lives. His focus was on the machine and with the Lord. He pushed such worldly thoughts from his mind. He had a grander perspective, one that took in things far wider than borders and uniform colours. Like so many others, now was a fascinating and overwhelming time of discovery. The social upheaval was nothing compared to the greater understanding that man was developing of the Kingdom and the Wilds.

And that understanding could lead to even greater things.

Currently, the only way to send messages was either through courier or telegraph. But both required a messenger in one form or another. Either a rider or a line to carry the signal. However, there were some men who thought that this could change. There could be a way to send a message through the air itself. And it would be borne on the waves of a new force.

If, indeed, this force existed in the first place.

And here Simon-Jacob sat, carefully taking apart the first mechanism that was rumoured to have detected this electromagnetism. If the theory was accurate, this force could bear messages instantaneously across great expanses.

For Timothy Payne, the applications for this discovery were immediately evident. Communication amongst the railways would be improved tenfold. Navigators could become obsolete overnight. No longer would the rail companies be required to hire and train men and women to study the convoluted timetables and schedules of trains. Authorities could be contacted almost immediately of any banditry on the lines and the scoundrels that cruised the webway of forgotten routes could be hunted and brought to justice.

So much money could be saved both in pay and in lost merchandise.

But Simon-Jacob didn’t care about that. True, he was familiar to Payne because that was precisely his role on the man’s fleet of engines. For Simon-Jacob, his job meant nothing compared to the revelations that could be discovered through this technology.

For him, the will of the Creator was his to discover. Each new tool, each new invention brought man ever closer to the divine providence that invented them. The Lord was the grand architect of their world and their lives. And what better way to understand that Lord than to study his creations? Through rigorous observation and analysis of the workings of this world would the method and process of its master be revealed.

Just like Simon-Jacob knew he could discern the functioning of this machine by taking it apart and understanding its components, he knew he could understand the Lord once he was given all the working parts of his masterpiece. And if that meant vandalism of another mechanist’s noble property, then so be it. Theirs was a field so consumed with their own paranoia and secrecy that they would arm their own devices to keep it out of the hands of rival inventors. They would damn them all from the secrets of the Lord in their short-sighted greed and fear.

Simon-Jacob was devoted to a nobler pursuit. His was the way of enlightenment, bringing knowledge and grace to others through discovery. And he was certain, once the divine was fully understood, nothing would stop the devoted from heralding in the Lord’s kingdom on earth. They would throw open the gates and welcome all to his blessed grace. For here, there were no monstrous untamed to fear. Only ignorance and naivete barred the peoples of this world from salvation, peace and happiness.

So Simon-Jacob picked up his screwdriver and returned to work. As the room grew hotter, he brushed the sweat once more from his brow.

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Clockwork Caterpillar – Pacal

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Today’s The Clockwork Caterpillar character sketch looks at the stoic warrior Pacal. I wanted to make sure that the story really had this frontier vibe and part of that necessitated including peoples and cultures who already lived on the land which the colonials invaded. Pacal is a bit different in that he’s a stranger almost as much as the rest of the cast to the railroad plains. He grew up in the jungles of the south where his people were made intimately familiar with persecution. Before the arrival of the Rhea Silvan explorers across the seas, Pacal’s people were subjugated by the vicious Nahua peoples who had conquered their cities and enslaved their populace. That the Nahua were consequently conquered and enslaved by those across the seas was but a brief vindication. As it turns out, the newcomers cared little to distinguish between the different peoples already in the land. So while their old oppressors were oppressed, Pacal and his people continued to be exploited.

However, though the invaders were more advanced they simply couldn’t hope to control such a wide and populous territory. Rebellion came quickly and severely. The Nahua overthrew their overlords and reclaimed their lands. But they certainly couldn’t go back to their old way of life. Everything they knew about the world had been upended and though they had liberated themselves from the yoke, they hadn’t pushed back the foreigner’s spirit.

Athemisia is a peculiar beast wherein small actions have wide-reaching consequences. There’s a push and pull of forces that keep scouring its face and remaking the political and social makeup of the land. And its inhabitants represent that struggle. Thus, part of my goal with The Clockwork Caterpillar was to communicate the diversity and cultural clashes between so many unique and spirited peoples. The conquered weren’t just one identity just like the conquerors weren’t either.

Unfortunately for Pacal, when the Nahua reclaimed their land, it didn’t lead to the liberation of his people. So he struck out to the north where the conquerors were still stationed, looking for solutions that could save his people. Thus he strives to watch and learn what he can, hoping one day to find a place where his family can live in peace.

Pacal

“What’s that you doin’ mister?”

The ball bounced off the trunk of the tree, landing with a thud into the bucket. Slowly, the big man turned. He was a massive specimen: thick muscles wrapped about a wide, golden frame barely contained within the worn clothes. But what his dress lacked in description was made up by the odd adornments. Around his wrists wound thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length. The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink from his knuckles to beneath his sleeve.

A collection of bright green rocks jangled about his neck as he turned. Each was etched into a separate head deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes slanting across the smooth stone. His shirt was simple white cloth but a strange mantle rested atop it. Fashioned from brightly dyed fabrics, intoxicating woven patterns and colourful feathers along the fringes created a hypnotic design.

“Baax ka waalik, little-one.”

He turned, bowing his head deeply to the little boy. The child just scratched his scalp.

“You’re funny.”

Undaunted, the boy stepped over the rifle lying upon the dry earth. He scrambled to the bucket, reaching inside and fetching the ball. It was round and hard, almost twice as big as two fists smashed together. He turned it in his hands, looking it over from all angles. But to his young eyes it was nothing but a black sphere.

“Careful, little-one. That is no mere toy.”

The boy blinked, observing the ball even more intently.

“What is it?”

The big man moved to his side. He strode not as a mountain made to move but with the gentle grace of a passing breeze. He knelt beside the lad, clamping a great hand on the child’s shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around the ball and lifted it. He held it before the boy, moving it steadily through the sky.

“The great Speakers say it is sun. Its passing marks passing of day to dusk then twilight to morn.”

The boy giggled.

“That’s silly. The sun ain’t black.”

“Is it not?”

The boy looked at him with a queer expression.

“No! The sun is yellow!”

“Is it? How do you know?”

“You can see it,” the boy said, pointing overhead. He turned his little face skyward, stretching his finger.

“You speak that but you look away.”

“Course. Momma says you ain’t allowed staring at the sun.”

“Is wise. But if you never look, how can you know?”

The boy scratched his head.

“Well… I have seen it. But you only see it shortly. It’s too bright!”

“But look at something in passing and do you see all that is?”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t know.”

The giant gave a brief smile. He then lifted his hand over the necklace dangling from his neck.

“Tell, what I wear?”

The boy scrunched his eyes, trying to remember the objects which dangled from that loose string. He could remember it was something green. Something vaguely familiar in shape but so strange that it was nothing like he’d seen before.

“Heads!” he proclaimed proudly.

The giant chuckled. He peeled back his fingers, revealing the row of carved green stone. But it wasn’t three clattering heads looped together. Instead two gaping maws encompassed the strings, the carved stones appearing more like a serpent with no tail.

The boy’s mouth gaped in surprise.

“Look briefly and only see surface.” The man stood, holding the ball aloft. “Wise Speaker said, ‘Look at sun as moving. From yellow to orange to red. But forever keep watch and all seen is night.’”

“So the sun is black?”

“In time. But heed mother, little-one, for it also light. Enjoy gifts but respect power. You have much time to enjoy when older.”

“So what are you doing with the sun?” the boy asked as the man turned away.

The large man looked down at the ball.

“I am remembering.”

“Remembering?”

He turned, tossing the object from hand to hand.

“My people remember with these.”

“What do you remember?”

“People. Those left. Father and brother.”

“Where are they?”

The giant smiled but shook his head. It was the smile of a teacher, patiently weathering his pupil’s slow march towards understanding. It was a smile that drew feelings like a bucket pulled from the dark, bearing precious water but dripping with the painful past.

“Xibalba.”

“Where’s that?”

“Very, very far.”

“Are you going to see them?”

The giant laughed.

“Perhaps.”

“What will you do when you get there?”

“I will know sun.”

The boy puzzled these words with a twist of his mouth. It was clear he didn’t understand, though his childish mind did grapple with the words. The giant knelt once more, holding the ball up for the boy.

“Care help remember?”

“Okay!”

His face lit as he took the ball. He turned to the man.

“What do we do?”

He stood, surveying the land about them. He walked over, picking up the bucket and motioning for the boy to follow. They walked towards the stone wall of the sheriff’s jail. The man ran his hand over the stone, knocking lightly.

“This shall do.”

He placed the bucket at the middle of the wall then motioned for the boy to stand at the far end.

“Now what?”

“First, hit ball on wall.”

The man motioned towards the stone and the boy squished his face in concentration. Lifting the large ball over his shoulder, he swung with all the strength his little arms could muster. The ball struck, rebounded and bounced three times against the ground before rolling to a stop. The man walked forward, picking it up.

“Alobi, little-one. Perhaps you born ball player.”

The boy blushed.

“Did I do well?”

“Good first. Now, watch.”

The man bounced the ball before him, scattering dirt in a soft cloud. Twice he bounced the ball against the earth before twisting and striking the ball with his forearm. With the meaty smack, it launched through the air, striking the wall soundly before bouncing towards the child. It flew straight and true, hitting the ground twice before rolling to a stop at his feet.

“Now me. Try again.”

The boy nodded as he bent and scooped up the ball. He wrenched it back and threw it. It recoiled off the jail, bouncing once before rolling to the man’s left. He nodded.

“Better. Important to watch angle. See where you want. Follow back to know strike place.”

The man approached the wall, patting one of the stones.

“Watch.”

He bounced the ball twice, held it aloft and smacked it with his forearm. The ball rebounded and returned once more to the boy’s feet. The child sighed, gathering the ball. He judged the distance and scooted forward for his throw. The ball hit, though with less force, and bounced four times to the man’s feet. The man nodded.

“Alobi.”

“What’s the bucket for?”

“Is goal,” the man replied. “Final journey from one body to next. Like sun passing through darkness and rising new again.”

He bounced the ball at his feet before striking. With precision, the black ball bounced off the stones and dropped directly in the wooden container. It gave off a haunting echo as it rolled along the bottom.

“How can it come out the other side? It’s a bucket.”

“Normally not bucket,” the man nodded, walking over and picking up the ball. He then lifted the pail and held it sideways against the stone. “Normally on wall and sun can go through.”

He moved the ball back and forth to demonstrate. Then he pointed at the dirt across from them.

“Normally another wall with another goal. Back and forth, sun rise and fall. Journey of gods. Journey of man.”

The boy blinked.

“I don’t get it.”

“One day, little-one.”

A shout caught their attention and a woman poked her head from the street. She turned, gasping at the sight of the large man standing before the boy.

“Come here, Blasius!” she called. Her voice was filled with worry. The boy looked at the man, disappointment colouring his features.

“I have to go.”

“Xiitech utsil, little-one.”

The boy ran towards his mother. As he came near, she pulled him close. She had not but suspicion as she cast askance looks his way. Her bonnet lowered and she spoke just loud enough that he could hear.

“Are you alright? Did he do anything to you?”

“We played. He showed me his game.”

Not trusting the words of her own child, the woman took her son’s small hand and shot one last disparaging look towards the stranger. “Best you clear out of here, savage. We ain’t want your kind. Don’t make me get the sheriff.”

She pulled her child away, even as he cried as they went. “But momma, he’s real nice!”

“Hush child, these primitives ain’t got no place in our towns. Best they stay on their plains.”

The man walked over to his gear and collected his things. He picked up one particularly colourful cloth and wrapped it about his waist until he formed a pouch. He then slipped the ball inside, ensuring it was secure before slinging his rifle over his shoulder. Finally, he readjusted the jade beads upon his necklace until the three heads looked once more about him. Their unblinking eyes kept eternal vigilance for their wearer.

He checked his canteen. What little remained sloshed about the bottom. He would have to stop at the town’s well before departing.

Not that he had intentions of staying. This land was not his and he had no desire to invade these people’s lives. They who were unable to tell the difference between the natives of the plains and those that had travelled far from the south. Their ignorance and fear spoke more than their inattentiveness. But it did not bother him.

He was well acquainted with hatred.

And if these people felt they could rid themselves of him then they would learn that the familiar weapon over his shoulder was not for show. If this were his home, he would have more heads upon his necklace for all these ‘sheriffs’ who were supposed to be these villages’ fearsome defenders. But he wasn’t home and he wished to avoid bloodshed when he could.

Unlike the northerners who waged a futile war against the invading ghostmen, he and his people had learned generations ago about their fearsome might. They brought horses and they brought firearms and beneath iron hooves and iron barrels they paved a new territory for themselves with the bodies of the old.

But so many of the natives of these northern plains clutched futile to their old ways, as if somehow their drums and their stones could hold back the invasion.

Pacal knew different. They were unstoppable. For even if every ghostman and woman was slain—and their skulls collected for the great racks—they left behind their armor, their weapons and their ways. Nothing would be the same. Either one learned to use their tools or they gave themselves up to the darkened halls of Xibalba. May as well just lay before the jagged knives and pay the blood debt of the vicious Nahua Ajkin then to try and resist the change that came on the tempest’s winds.

Not that there was home to which he could return. So he wandered and he came to the lands of these strangers to see for himself that which had brought about the end of the world. What he found were a people so frightening in their strangeness and curious familiarity. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t these petty, distrustful, ignorant men.

He walked towards the well, canteen in hand. He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder. Let them come if they so choose. He was so tired of remembering.

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Clockwork Caterpillar – Laure Bastien

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Last week I introduced you to the rapscallion Schroeder. We continue with the crew of The Clockwork Caterpillar by looking at one of the more quiet members but a vital one nevertheless. The Clockwork Caterpillar occupies the same world as Thyre so it still contains the steampunk mechanists who add an element of technological anachronism to a time period that otherwise feels achingly familiar. Unlike Thyre, however, there is less focus on the competition between magic, technology and faith. This doesn’t mean that technology doesn’t have a dramatic impact on the people’s lives, however. One thing I love about the science fiction genre is its ability to investigate how we as individuals are shaped by the tools and conveniences we develop. It can change the very way we think about ourselves on a fundamental level and the thing that excites me about steampunk is that you can incorporate that conversation about technology in a genre that usually devotes itself to harsh moralistic stances of good and evil. In such a way, Laure explores the freedom that advanced technology can allow for oppressed individuals. As those with power often capitalize on outdated structures, they grow more and more reliant on younger minds able to comprehend these new powerful machines. And the mechanists pride themselves on drawing from any citizen capable of understanding the new scientific lens from which they view the world regardless of social or economic station. Though not all members in The Clockwork Caterpillar may seem like your typical brigands, this merely demonstrates that the lawless life entices many people due to circumstance just as much as it tempts others scruples.

Copyright Kait McFadyen and Between the Covers for the upcoming Clockwork Caterpillar novel.Laure Bastien

Fire the boilers. Stoke the embers. Release the steam gauge. Watch for flarebacks. Shovel the coal.

It was a dance held in the narrow pits of iron and steel lit only with the swinging flame of a hooded lantern. Fire. Stoke. Release. Watch. Shovel.

Again and again in the wavering air and insufferable heat. The clatter of metal and whistle of boiling water was the orchestral accompaniment. The room shook with the performance deep in the belly of the machine. Clatter. Clank. Shovel. Spit.

It was a space few dared to visit, so dark and hot with everything smeared in coal dust, oil and grime. The boiling hot pipes overhead, the grilled furnaces blasting heat and the constant smell of carbon completed the transportation to the untamed Mawqith. Things came in here to be burned and consumed. Anything that survived had to be harder than rock.

It was tough, gruelling work. It was thankless and often forgotten work. It was a place people went to disappear.

And it was perfect for Laure.

Not that her crew knew her by that name. She was simply Jean, a young destitute eager for work and curiously possessed of enough mechanical know-how and spit fire to brave these bellies where older men were loathed to enter. It served a two-fold function. It helped shield her from discovery, protecting her from the discrimination of her ancestry and gender. It also paid handsomely for even brigands needed to keep their vessels running.

And Jean was certainly good at that.

They were called pirates. They were called thieves. They were called murderers and rapists. Some of it was even true. It didn’t matter. Magistrates and sheriffs would use what they could to hang them. Anything they couldn’t prove they would fabricate. It was the sort of work no one in their right mind would wilfully partake. But then none of them were in a position to negotiate anything better.

Some of her colleagues were mad men. She had no delusions about that. She would overhear their braggart claims about in-numerous atrocities performed against the savages, slaves and kuli. For some delighted in the debauchery that came hand-in-hand with this profession. But the boastful weren’t the ones worth concern. The loud were typically the cowards, trying desperately to live a life they heard from their mother’s apron strings. Ride the rails long enough and you learned that most the stories were little more than pure fancy.

They were the greatest nuisances, however. Fragile egos are in a constant struggle to prove themselves otherwise. Entering the engines was a sign of grit. Cutting down the engineers proved their own strength. Invariably, they barged into these blasted sanctuaries seeking approval or validation of their fortitude. Or perhaps they simply needed some audience to reaffirm their bravery. But if any were to intrude, it was those ill-equipped to handle the heat.

They never stayed long. They could usually be chased away with requests for assistance. It was easy enough to play on their arrogance—to appear frail and incapable of one’s own duty. It was no secret that the engineers received an oft times unfair distribution of pay. And every braggart jumped at the opportunity to flex their prowess and show just how good they could be.

They always failed.

Sometimes they managed to escape before receiving a frightening burn. Laure preferred that they did otherwise their foolishness would become a badge of pride as they attempted to spin misfortune into grand acts of heroism.

No, it was the quiet ones that worried her. The ones that watched her closely when she emerged for sustenance and sleep. There was always at least one in every crew. A dark, brooding individual that seemed suspicious of any and everyone. Sometimes they were the outcast, kept only for their particularly frightening viciousness. More worrisome were the left hands of the chiefs: who held his ear and counsel. They were the ones Laure watched most closely.

They usually only visited once. Most were content to stand by the door and watch, their eyes drinking in everything as the puzzle of their mind formulated unknowable thoughts. Sometimes they wouldn’t even announce their presence; Laure would just be working and turn around to find them there, leering.

They were the ones that put her on edge. They were the reason for her hypervigilance. For, until that moment they did their inspection, she couldn’t feel safe in her haven. But once she passed whatever test they held, it was a simple matter of learning their routine. They always had a routine. One they wouldn’t break. So you could find peace in holding opposite time.

And then when left to her own devices, she cared little or what busied the crew. The engines were her world. They were a woman’s world. Here was the heart of the machine that kept them going. While outsiders looked and saw a rattling, fiery contraption of metal and heat she saw something tender. These cries of steam and rumbles of trapped gas were the valves and pipes calling for attention. They were fussy. And if they didn’t receive proper care, they had a tendency for blowing out at the most inconvenient times.

It was the poor engineer that swore and slammed. Too often her fellows solved issues and troubles with the hard end of a hammer. Her very first job was obtained after rushing to the aid of an unfortunate pressure gauge that her predecessor had decided need a sledge hammer rather than a loosening of its restraining bolt. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d entered the engines to find the telltale signs of past negligence. Odd dents, bent pipes and cracked containers were the hallmarks of a talentless tradesman.

But it was understandable even if Laure disagreed with their methods. Engineers were notorious for tempers that matched the furnaces they worked alongside. In the heat and the dirt, it was easy for frustration to take the reins and drive the tools unrelenting against their charges. Twice, Laure herself had lost her own poise and both times she’d regretted it. But while it was understandable, it was also inexcusable. And each strike of frustration did irreparable damage to the very thing they were in charge of safeguarding.

And all the things that made the job miserable could be used to one’s advantage. The dirt and heat kept others away. It peeled off the disguises that people adorned, revealing them for who they really were. In the fire and the smoke, Laure could unbutton her shirt, roll up her sleeves and take off her cap. She could stop being Jean, the vagabond Prisian and be the caring Laure once more. She could keep that doll with the torn arm and missing eye nearby, it’s eternal winking smile reminding her of all that she worked for.

But when she left, she had to put on the short jacket and cap again. She dressed herself in the grease and the coal dust, masking her face behind thick black smudges. No one looked closely at her scratched fingers when she hungrily tore into her bread. No one examined too closely eyes rimmed with the imprints of goggles. The engines cloaked her as best they could and when she returned, the steam and sweat would begin to melt it all away.

Course, the other perk was that she never needed to accompany the crew on their outings. She was far too valuable to put in the line of fire. Engineers were hard to come by, even for honest vessels, and finding a skilled one was more valuable than any chest of gold bars or whatever it was that busied brigands. She was always left alone with the train; she was it’s sole keeper while the others rushed off to further their ill-repute.

Those moments were when she liked to roam its corridors. She inspected her charge like a general would inspect his army. It was important to identify trouble spots that could endanger them later. Weaknesses were noted and marked. Repairs that could be done were performed. But sometimes she would just sit in its cold gizzards, listening to the rumbling of the pipes and the rush of water overhead. It was the peaceful quiet of a living construct: the breathing of a metal giant.

Laure hadn’t always been this way. She hadn’t always been Jean. There was a time when machines were little more than fascinating trinkets and baubles. Curious adornments for the rooftops that told her parents mysterious messages like the approach of a storm. She couldn’t see what they saw; she had eyes only for their bewitching tinkles and the captivating way they spun.

And when the boys were sent to school, it was her duty to stay at home. She assisted with the farm and the housekeeping. Her education wasn’t in letters and numbers. It was in needles and thread, seeds and roosts. A woman’s duty was to house and husband. That’s all she was taught. It was all she expected.

But what’s a woman to do when she no longer has husband or home?

As Laure, she would have never been taught mechanics. That was for men. Only women of loose morals or Thyrian indulgences would ever consider such things. Even when the revolution shook the home country—bringing liberty and fraternity came across the seas—it was in no uncertain terms that these were the fields for men. All men were created equal before the eyes of the Lord. Women were still expected to serve and toil. Those that spoke otherwise were ostracized.

Course, like the rest of the Old World aristocracy, Thyre was quick to bring an end to the Little Emperor’s show and reinstate their old bloodlines on the throne. They brought back the courts and the shackles. And the Prisians rejoiced. But for the colonies, those ideas had taken a more hideous form. They had buried deep their roots and there was no titles or throne to award in order to curtail the change they wrought. Instead, only fire and guns could hope to stamp out those dangerous ideas.

So much was lost in that time. Laure hadn’t understood any of it. She just remembered her mother packing a sack for her and shoving her out the door. Her only instructions were to run. Run from the redcoats. Run for the fort. But it was dark and the woods were thick. The only light she had was the growing flames behind her. She didn’t look back but fled into that night and into that darkness.

But what the soldiers never realized was that bodies and buildings burned, not ideals. In her bitterness, she learned her letters if only to understand the word that came from overseas. While the throne had been restored, satisfaction had not. And it was with great pleasure that a new wave of resentment swept across the Old and into the New. Ideas returned with their own flames and their own guns. The monarchy of Pris fell for the last time.

And the southern colonies were turned over to the restless natives. One force fell to be replaced by another. Yet somehow damnable Thyre held on. Held on because of innovation. They would have been overwhelmed had it not been for the great iron war machine. The throne exerted its dominance not only on its own people but those abandoned by the Prisian throne until even the magnates money couldn’t send the redcoats north enough to route the rest. New lines were drawn and borders were made where railways ended.

Where once Laure had lost a mother and father to ideals, she now gave up a lover as well. It would have been easy to hate the very machine that enacted their downfall. Others did. But Laure had a fondness for the curious contraptions from that earlier time. And she knew if she didn’t study them then she was just as doomed as the savages being driven further and further into the plains beneath the grinding gears of the Empire.

Fortunately, it seemed, she had a knack for it. And when she saw that fateful engineer about to demolish that pressure gauge she stepped in, preserving what she could. And her employer saw potential in her. He had the engineer teach her all that he knew before dropping him off at the next fuel station and leaving her to figure out the rest.

So she did. Every time the crew left she prowled the halls, watching, studying and learning what she could. She mended when she had to. And in the brief respites she sat deep in the bowels and simply listened.

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Clockwork Caterpillar – Walton Samuel Schroeder II

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Do I have something exciting to share with you today. So, a few weeks back in one of my How to Write rambles I gave a tip for developing a writer’s concept of their characters. This involved an exercise wherein the writer creates short scenes that would highlight or star that character. Well, starting today and leading up to the launch of my brand new novel The Clockwork Caterpillar, I will be sharing these character shorts with you! This should give a teasing introduction to the cast of characters that make up the brigade train crew of one Felicity Metticia – dreaded pirate of the Artemisian plains. This story takes place half a world away from the twisted, smokey streets of Thyre and follows a brand new cast of characters in the wild frontier of the New World. So it is with great honour that I introduce you first to Felicity’s right hand man, Walton Samuel Schroeder II. As the disgraced son of a wealthy rail magnate, Schroeder has led a much different life than his colleagues. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and only moved to the edges of good society due more to stubbornness and conceitedness rather than necessity. It’s a charge many are quick to leverage against the fallen fop. But like everyone in Felicity’s employ, there’s more beneath the well tailored vest of the rascal than meets the eye.

Enjoy!

Walton Samuel Schroeder II

“If you ain’t holding aces and eights, it might be high time you backed down son.”

A twitch of whiskers and puff of smoke was his response. The two men passed daggers across the table. A sizable bounty lay between them but neither feigned to pay it attention. Their focus was more on the read of the opponent. They searched for some unforgiving tell.

Neither could be more dissimilar. Bradley Meyer was likened to a tough bite of roughened leather. The plains and sun had worked hard his body, creating thick skin cracked and split from the toiling years. A shaggy mane spilled beneath this crooked derbie—a mess of black and silver caked with the dust of the trails. A great matching moustache bristled beneath a bulbous nose that flared anytime the man’s ire rose.

Which, if his epitaph were accurate, was quite often. The Untamed Meyer had as fearsome a reputation at the table as he did on the plains. He took no prisoners and he gave no quarter. Few dared to take his challenge and those that did had to pass sound judgement to the wind in favour of the bulging wallet at his side.

Almost all paid in the end. If careless words were truth, either with their pockets or their souls.

But every caravan needed its blind mule and the pompous smile on the young dallier across the carved mahogany seemed like tonight’s.

And Walton Samuel Schroeder II certainly looked the fool.

He lounged amongst a throne of silken cushions, his left arm hanging loosely around the shoulders of some exotic creature. With painted eyes and woven black hair, she leaned crimson lips to whisper in his ear but Schroeder merely smiled before waving with his right.

On cue, a second exquisite creature slipped to his side, a cup held in her petite fingers. Schroeder raised the wine in salute to his adversary as his pet leaned into him, her fingers playing amongst the carved ivory buttons of his stylish silken vest. It was adorned in the elegant curving patterns of the western peoples, depicting stylish clouds and waves on a soft sea of deep azure.

Or were they Eastern styles? If there was one thing that blended on this great smoke spewing paddle boat, it was the cardinal points. Red paper lanterns swung from their nailed lines with strange symbols adorning their crisp sides rather than any alphabet. It was a world where tight clasped cheongsam dresses blended with ribbed bodices and puffed sleeves. On this polished wood deck, the lion and the dragon entwined in a chaotic and dizzying dance that melded them both into one grotesque creation.

Schroeder breathed it all in. The dry husk of smoking tobacco and sickeningly sweet opium filled the evening sky into an intoxicating perfume. The chatter was a mish-mash of two old languages struggling against one another but the laughter was all the same. At the height of nauseating drunkenness,  it always washed away to the same tides.

And with the tailored legs of his pants crossed, Schroeder bounced an impatient polished shoe in the air. This was his world and while Untamed Meyer may rule the wild open plains, these painted rails and puffing smokestacks were the younger man’s. And its king was getting restless.

“Begging your pardon,” Schroeder intoned in an accent only found by those wishing for the airs across the sea, “but this voyage is not getting shorter. You will be putting down that hand either way but if you are parading their pretty little faces, I want to see you shine this deck.”

He patted the tabletop with a pristine white glove.

Untamed Meyer’s nostrils flared.

He bent the tips of his cards. It was his fatal mistake. Schroeder could see that flicker of doubt, the nervous flinch in his prodding thumb. The man held nothing. Perhaps he had hoped to strong arm the young man into submission like the empty chairs around the table. He seemed more adept in staring daggers than dealing cards. But his attempt to address the pistol handle by leaning forward and adjusting his jacket was only an effective method to those that felt they had more to lose than their coin. And in a game less about playing cards and more about playing the people, it was a disastrous assumption.

“I do not intend to wait until this wine turns better.”

Untamed Meyer grunted. Then he did something quite extraordinary.

He played his hand.

With dismay, Schroeder watched the traitorous face of Machabeus overturned with a matching pair of nines. It wasn’t a decent hand but that bearded prince held a far more dangerous sword. For Schroeder had dealt to himself a pair of princes that certainly beat Meyer. Regrettably, it too included the darkly painted one-eyed idiot. The unfortunate thing about frontier justice is that it held little love for cheats.

And yet, that was a lot of money to be had on the table.

Schroeder set down his cup.

“How modest but the world is not made by small hands.” Schroeder revealed twin aces from his hand. He stood, offering his foe an apologetic shrug. “Perhaps next time.”

The young man began to collect his ill-gotten gains.

But Bradley Meyer burst from his chair, a wicked knife appearing in his hand and slamming into the wood mere inches from Schroeder’s glove. The ladies on the couch gasped at this sudden ruthlessness and the din around the two men began to quiet.

“I want to see the rest.”

“You’ve been beat, my fellow. Perhaps it’s best to accept your-”

Meyer snatched the young man’s pinned cravat, lifting him roughly from the ground and upon the table.

“Show me.”

His lips snarled, revealing a set of yellow and rotted keys protruding from diseased gums. The decayed stench of whiskey and lawlessness wafted from his mouth. Eyes narrowed beneath thick, bushy dark brows.

Schroeder gagged.

“Very well.”

The hand released his throat and he stumbled to the ground, rubbing his neck softly. He coughed to clear his airway, motioning to his hat with his eyes while his head was turned and he could see one of his girls. She merely cocked her head.

Schroeder turned to Meyer, smiling. He bowed dramatically, holding his right hand at the small of his back and pointing frantically at his resting chapeau. With his left, he displayed the first of his three remaining cards. He slowly turned a seven of swords.

“And the next.”

Schroeder wiggled his right fingers before turning a grinning red Hector.

“One more.”

At last he felt the brim of his cap pressed into his waiting hand. Schroeder slowly picked the card from its place upon the wood. He held it before him, staring deep into the dead warriors’ eye and musing if, perchance, that were not some mischievous twinkle captured upon the card. Trickery was no more a foreign mistress to the field of battle as it was to the playground of confidence.

“The coup de grace!”

Schroeder snapped the card at Meyer’s face. In one broad stroke he swept his arm over the pot, raking as much of the clattering coins into his awaiting cap before mounting the table. His polished shoes squeaked over its surface as he stepped towards his enemy who rubbed at stinging skin before he looked down to see the duplicate grinning back. When next he turned to his rival, Schroeder’s polished shoe was connecting with his temple.

“Ladies, as always, it’s been a pleasure!”

He tossed a handful of denarii at the cushions before leaping from the table and dashing across the deck. Moments later, the familiar crack of a pistol gave chase after him.

“I’ll split you from nose to navel you weasel!”

The party gave a gasp as the gentleman burst through them. Coins and bills fluttered from the cap clutched with a corpse’s grip, leaving a valuable trail as he duck and wove amongst the dresses and dress coats lining the paddle steamer’s deck. This was not a jaunty two-step nor was it an unfamiliar dance to Schroeder’s feet.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he offered as he burst through the side door and nearly collided with the serving girl holding a delicate platter in her hands. “Rough day at the tables.”

She stared back from a dark, uncomprehending face as he bound down the stained wood corridor. Shortly after, the crash of the platter informed Schroeder his pursuer was hot on his tail.

A lady of delicate fortitude gave a shriek as he skidded around the corner, nearly colliding with her great bustle. The gentleman at her neck quickly disentangled himself, puffing up his chest in indignation. Schroeder gave a raise of his hand in poor substitution for a tip of his hat. But the offered condolences were cut short as a crash of broken glass and ripple of thunder announced Meyer’s volley.

Schroeder took to his heels once more.

Doors opened as unsuspecting patrons investigated the noise. With surprising agility, the gentleman twisted and bounded about the protrusions, bursting upon the deck of the great, red steamer. He leaned over the bannister, gauging his best route of departure. He spotted an escape boat dangling from its ropes just off the port bow.

The cries behind him was all the motivation he needed. Raised voices echoed out the corridor and Schroeder put shoe to rail and dropped from the second story deck, landing roughly on the floor below. Guests shouted and men stood from their tables. A few enterprising individuals took the distraction to pocket a few of their own earnings, Schroeder noticed. He stood, brushing his suit and sighing at the scuffs on his knees. He had just purchased these trousers.

He cast a quick look skyward.

Meyer burst from the cabins, slapping his palms against the rail. His six shooter clattered against the wood as he leaned over, scanning the crowd for his quarry. Schroeder gave the man a cheeky wave.

The ruffian raised his pistol, unloading a round at the scampering man.

But now things had gone too far.

Several patrons turned to their own coats, retrieving their pistols to bear against the unprovoked shooter. Meyer was hardly the first man to consider a show of force an acceptable tactic at the table. With circumstances unclear, these free men were not going to let some outlaw disrupt their perfectly pleasurable night of cards.

Meyer ducked behind the bannister, screaming bloody indignations. Tables were overturned to the shrieks of hysterical women. A firefight erupted as a horn blared in a futile attempt to wrestle back some civility. The crew of the steamer emerged, looking on in horror at the disruption of their business but unsure whose side they should support. Schroeder made to the deck, crawling on gloves and knees towards his blessed escape.

Bullets sang, splintering debris in worrying close proximity. Schroeder paused before one still upright table, his hand snaking to its surface and patting its way until he caught the slim crystal stem of the forgotten glass. He brought the wine to safety, sampling its heady scent before raising it to his dry throat.

He awaited a pause in the stray fire near him but caught the distressed look of one gentlewoman with a glove pressed against her heaving bosom. Schroeder offered a congenial smile, passing the crystal to her surprised hand before raising fingers to his forehead and presenting a flourish to his departure.

The lady was quick to quiet her nerves.

A stamping of boots and shouts signalled reinforcements and Schroeder peered over the lip of a table. A man in crisp Thyrian military garb shouted over the din, hefting a mighty rifle to his hands. He cried for peace, letting out one great shot into the air for attention. A brief respite was bought.

“This disturbance is over by decree of her majesty!”

Alas, the great tributaries of the Misi Ziibi were far afield of the eastern coast and the iron influence of the loyalists. There was too much bad blood that had washed down its waters. Blood of men who held more vitriol for the crown and Queen than to the strange foreigners with their long moustaches and trailing hair knots. Here were waters far from the steel fingers of the railworks, running down the spine of that unbridled land where only the wild and the uncivilized chose to dwell.

The soldier would have been better served sticking to his room and his whores. That bad blood burned an older fire that was far brighter than any cheated cards.

It was seconds before some embittered patriot cried out at the man, leveraging his gun and anger at the well-to-do redsuit. At least the soldier had reflexes to match his senses and he sought cover as a hail tore the ship about him.

And it was all perfect for Schroeder. He made a dash for the life raft, tossing his hat in with a jingle before going to work at the pulleys to lower the craft. Unfortunately, the rope was wound tighter than a lady’s bodice at spring fair. His gloves slipped against their damp cords.

A bullet fired past his head as he threw himself to the deck. A quick glance back confirmed pure pandemonium reigned over the preceding. Turning back to the reticent life raft, Schroeder rolled onto his back, kicking at the support keeping the boat anchored to the steamer’s side. Each pound of his shoe caused the boat to slam against the deck.

Eventually the wood cracked beneath his insistence. He stood, testing the rope and finding it give beneath his fingers.

As he turned to the other side, he smiled as some pretty creature rushed to the rail. She wore a sleek dark black dress with a great deep purple bustle that shimmered in the glow of the paper lamps. A frilled bonnet framed a rather beautiful, if exasperated, face. After pulling on the rope for a few moments, she turned to her matching satin handbag and produced an extraordinary long knife.

“May I?” Schroeder offered with a bow.

The woman turned, as if noticing the gentleman for the first time.

“You may, good sir.”

She placed the handle gently in his outstretched palm. Holding his left hand aloft, he assisted the lady onto the rail and into the raft.

“Take this end. I’ll loosen the other,” Schroeder smiled, unwrapping his cord from the fractured support. He moved to the second restraint, plying blade to reticent rope. The cords snapped beneath its sharp edge and he clutched it tightly as it began to fray.

“You are quite the gentleman,” the lady smiled, standing from the wooden bench as bullets flew by. She held out her hand and Schroeder returned the knife with a smile.

“Perhaps we shall meet again someday.”

“Why delay?” Schroeder asked, stepping to the rail. She placed her hand on his chest.

“’Tis only proper. I’m afraid I must bid you ado.”

She waved the knife at him, but only customarily as she took the rope from his hands.

“It has been most pleasurable, good sir.”

And with that, she let the ropes release, plunging the raft into the churning dark waters below. Schroeder pressed up against the rail as she fished out a paddle and pushed herself away from the steamer. He watched as she worked, the dress shifting like sweet nectar in a decanter about her shoulders as she dumped his gains into her purse before holding the hat up in a farewell salute.

Schroeder afforded a brief moment to watch her go.

“My boy, you’ve got to stop falling for every pretty face with a delightful smile.”

But then she tossed his hat casually into the waters and whatever remorse he felt immediately evaporated.

“That was custom fitted!”

A smash of metal into wood brought him back to reality. Schroeder glanced at the mayhem that had overtaken the gambling ship and looked back at the dark waters churning beneath the grand wheels of the steamer. Without anything truly to lose now, he mounted the rail, took a deep breath, and plunged into the waves.

Modern Magic – Enchanted, Inc. and Vampires Drink Tomato Juice

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Book cover for Enchanted, Inc. Image from the internet.

Title: Enchanted, Inc.

Series: Enchanted, Inc.: Hex and the City

Author: Shanna Swendson

Tags: Urban-Fantasy, Comedy, Fairy-Tales, Magic

 

Title: Vampires Drink Tomato Juice: A Chicago Urban Fantasy

Series: The Magical Beings’ Rehabilitation Center

Author: K.M. Shea

Tags: Urban-Fantasy, Comedy, Magic

 

Between binge watching the Olympic games and working, I have managed to read a couple of books. Recently, I have been sucked into two worlds that share a number of delightful similarities.

Both series take place in urban settings, though neither book is the dark urban fantasy that has been very popular recently. Shanna Swendson’s magical New York city is filled with frog-princes, winged fairies,  gargoyle security guards and Magic, Spells and Illusions, Inc. It is a world where magic is mostly hidden as the lives of wizards and other magical beings runs side-by-side with the corporate business world. K.M. Shea has integrated the more classic urban-fantasy species of vampires and werewolves into her Chicago setting. But again, they remain hidden from the eyes of the average human.

Book Cover for Vampires Drink Tomato Juice. Image from the internet.

I know nothing about either city, having not visited or lived in either New York or Chicago. So, I cannot comment on the authenticity of the settings. They seemed interesting enough. New York felt more like a bustling city while Chicago setting seemed to have less of an impact on the story. However, I thought that the species of Swendson’s New York leaned more towards classic fairy tales – with a twist. There were fairies with wings and elves with pointed ears, but both species are placed in a corporate business setting. Shea seems to prefer the more popular collection of vampires, werewolves and elves. Though she also gave her mythical species a unique spin to make them a little more interesting. Mostly by making them less like their most popular examples. The vampires are not all ruggedly handsome and sparkle in the sun. She also expands the usual collection of creatures to include some goblins, that are seen more like mafia than small dirty individuals.

Book Cover for Once Upon Stilettos, book 2 in the Enchanted, Inc. series. Image from the internet.

Both books are comedies. These are light-hearted books about friends, friendship and even a little romance. The bad guys are more devious in Swendson’s book, as he does want to take over the world – through business. Actually, the kidnapping at the end of Shea’s novel also revolves around a business transaction. Cooperations are dangerous business it seems.

Swendson’s main character is a grown career woman, with schooling, smarts, and a sweet Texas drawl. Katie Chandler was perfectly adorable in her down-to-earth attitude, and complete normalcy. Her change in job leads her to the MSI – Magic, Spells and Illusions, Inc. As an executive assistant, Katie works for the CEO of this interesting downtown business.

Sixteen year old Morgan Fae hails from the suburbs of Chicago. Still attending, high school, Morgan finds herself employed by the Magical Beings Rehabilitation Centre. Here she mostly teaches the magical creatures of this hidden world about being human – at least a human teenager. Can any student really be considered normal? Certainly Morgan makes a good effort at being as practical as possible for a high schooler.

Book covers for the Enchanted Inc. series. Image from the internet.

The quirky style of both plots, the solidly built characters and the entertaining secondary characters works to draw in the reader for both series. While, my leanings might be for the older, business women in Swendson’s Enchanted, Inc., there is no denying the appeal of Shea’s Magical Rehab Centre. Certainly, both books are filled with enough magic and modern mayhem to entertain any reader. The stories are built up competently, the pacing is solid and character development makes sense. These authors know how to pepper their writing with just the right number of clues that the big twist at the end fits internally with the story. I have enjoyed other books by both Shanna Swendson and K.M. Shea and these stories did not disappoint.

Full marks for both Enchanted, Inc. and Vampires Drink Tomato Juice. I will certainly be reading more in both series.