20001: A Steampunk Odyssey
Edited by
Peter A. Smalley and Jason Vanhee
20001: A Steampunk Odyssey
Copyright Peter A. Smalley and Jason Vanhee 2011
Individual stories are copyright 2011 by their respective authors.
Introduction copyright 2011 by Ren Cummins.
Published by Kindling Press at Smashwords
Table of Contents
Dedications and Acknowledgments – Peter A. Smalley and Jason Vanhee
Editor’s Foreword – Peter A. Smalley
Introduction – Ren Cummins
Crush Depth – Michael Farley
Strike Breakers – R.S. Hunter
Mad – Gloria Weber
The Atlantic Affair – Simon Newby
Hawkwood’s Folly – Tim Reynolds
The Door and the Whale – David Church Rodriguez
Tapping the Admiral – Anne Jones-Millar
Roderick Simons and the Engine Impossible – Selena McDevitt
Voyage of the Ponape Wind – Jason Vanhee
Full Fathom Five – Peter A. Smalley
Author Biographies
Dedications and Acknowledgements
To Shamus Tinplate and the Seattle Steamrats, for introducing me to the wonderful world of Steampunk - a tip o’ the hat to all you inestimable gentlemen, and a genteel bow to all you lovely ladies. Cheers!
To Ren Cummins, who first suggested I put together an anthology. It turned to be an Anthologie, but I still have to give credit where it is richly due.
To Bev Gelfand, who poured her time, focus, and superlative grammatical prowess into this work. Behind every well-written story is an invisible line editor who made it shine. In this anthologie we have ten stories and just one editor; that alone should convey her stunning editorial capabilities.
To the authors included in this volume, for sharing the riches of their imaginations with me, and for joining us on this strange and wondrous voyage together. Sine qua non.
To Jason Vanhee, from whose wise and sensitive spirit I have time and again gained deeper insight into the craft and practice of writing - not only why we do it, but why we help others do it too.
And to my family, for their patience, inspiration, support and love.
Peter A. Smalley
September, 2011
To all our authors, whose words made this into more than just an idea, I offer my humble thanks. You were a pleasure to work with, and I hope for many further collaborations.
To Bev, for work above and beyond the call of duty. I had thought Peter and I were partnering on this one; it turned out we were a trio, and that was a good thing.
To Peter, for having excellent people skills, needed to work long term with a curmudgeon like myself, and useful in everyday authorial and editorial pursuits as well.
And as always, to Adam, this time for putting up with the nonsense of me putting so much work into a thing that is only partly my own. I love you, Adam.
Jason Vanhee
September, 2011
Editor’s Foreword:
What I Did On My Summer Vacation, by Peter A. Smalley
I love what I do.
Perhaps that is not the most profound of reasons to edit an anthologie of new short fiction, but on reflection I can find none I would consider more profound than that, nor any more deeply satisfying. In the course of working on this anthologie I have learned a great deal not only about the craft of writing and of editing – the latter of which is an underappreciated art if ever there was one – but even more, I have learned about those who create such art.
I learned that we come from everywhere. In this volume are stories from authors in the Pacific Northwest and California, yes – but also from the Midwest, and from Florida. Our writers come from Canada, both western and eastern; two wrote to us from England, and another from France. If one includes submissions we received but were unable to include, the geographical net extends even more broadly. Whatever else may be said of speculative fiction in general and Steampunk in specific, its practitioners hail from around the world. Perhaps that speaks to the universal appeal of the art, or to the power of modern communication. When I reflect that two authors and would-be publishers from Seattle could put out a call and receive quality submissions from around the world, I am filled with a kind of holy awe.
I learned that we are more alike than I would have believed, and in more ways. We are mostly young, mostly native English speakers, and mostly in the early stages of our writing careers. We have a few publishing credits to our names, and the majority of those are outside the big publishing houses. We feature writers who have been traditionally published, those who are solely self-published, those who are both – and those who are neither. In fact, we have several contributors for whom this is the first official publication credit. Ever. And that, too, fills me with wonder and pride.
I have learned about the power of opportunities, both those given and those taken. It was in answer to our call for submissions that these upcoming authors wrote their excellent works. It was under our guidance as editors that their stories were honed and made to shine to their greatest potential. Without taking undue credit, I still sometimes shake my head to consider what we have wrought; and if our achievement is worthy, how much more impressive is the work of our contributors? When I think back on my own first stories, I cringe at how crude and unready they were. That these up-and-coming writers should have produced such quality work so early in their careers convinces me that we have seen only the barest glimpse of their future success.
Certainly it has been a learning curve, and at times a steep and slippery one. That should be no surprise to anyone undertaking a new enterprise. Anthologies in particular are tricky because the contributors all come from different backgrounds, different experience levels and having their own unique expectations for both process and result. That is a challenge for an editor to deal with, and one rapidly learns that one size invariably does not fit all – and in fact appears to fit no one, requiring a new suit to be tailor-made from scratch for each contributor. But these lessons are happy ones, filled with their own individual wonder and potential. As I got to know each contributor through his or her work and responses to my occasionally frantic requests for teasers, author bios and the like, I found in each of them something I recognized.
In that mirror I saw my own struggles as an author, my own efforts at self-expression, my own successes and fears and hopes. In that way, it has been a tremendously humbling experience, and one I will always treasure.
What did I do with my summer vacation? I did something I loved. And it is my hope, as you read this volume, that you will find something in it that you love just as much as I do.
Thanks for
reading.
Peter A. Smalley
September 2011
Introduction
On Discovering Steampunk, by Ren Cummins
We all remember our first times, or so the old chestnut goes, and I cannot help but think this collection may be your own first—and yes, before you slap a protective hand across your tender sensibilities, I’m talking here about the incomparable joys of the particular literary genre that peppers the tome you now hold in your tingling palms—or which is lighting up the screen of your preferred electronic device. I’m talking about that mythical beast some like to call Steampunk.
There are countless specific definitions by many authors far more eloquent than I as to the whys and wherefores and howsits of the proper recipe for a proper Steampunk book, just as there are ways to make a proper cup of coffee. However, I must confess to a bit of favor leaning towards the slightly less proper: like unto the rusty, dusty, slightly oxidized blush of a well-wrought piece of copper and brass. And, so too, do I look upon the glorious fun and slightly sepia-toned aspect of Steampunkery with all the glee with which I greet a holiday event with close friends or a new episode of Doctor Who. Although certain elements may shift and morph in the central structures inherent to all Steampunk entities, key to them is an affection in the heart of the author or creator for that distant time of industry and social structure associated with the late 19th and early 20th centuries. From there, though...the path is launched in any of an infinite number of directions. Chances are, you’re likely to run across a pair of goggles or an airship, but there’s bound to be a well-dressed gentleman or gentlewoman running the show, and that’s never a bad thing, either.
My first time with Steampunk of any kind was the Disney spin on 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea—Kirk Douglas in his prime, all manner of science fiction, rubber giant squids (take that, Watchmen!) and general tomfoolery in the depths of the ocean in a very properly accessorized submersible. And while some certain liberties were taken (do we even expect movies to perform a completely literal translation of books anymore? And why am I suddenly speaking in rhetorical questions?), the look and feel instilled in me a delight in anachronism which continues to this day. I think similar events and exposures may have happened to many of my mutual fans of the genre, all laying the groundwork for this new explosion of content.
Ask any long-time fan of the Steampunk literary accent and somewhere in the first paragraph or so of their explanation of its origins will take you right back to HG Wells or Jules Verne, and 20,000 Leagues will often be on the short list of influential published milestones in the evolutionary history of Steampunkdom. I mean, just take a moment and think about it—though concepts like submarines and the like are now commonly-ingrained within our technological landscape, it’s essential to recognize that t’were not always so. Times were, a large metal ship that could travel to the depths of the ocean and rise back up again with all its passengers intact was the stuff of fancy and imagination—and in fact many theorize that it was precisely because of the fancies and imaginations of authors like Wells and Verne that some scientist somewhere scratched their head and asked, “well, why don’t we have a ship like that?”
And that brings me to you, reading this right here. If you didn’t already have a face-to-face with Steampunk itself, there’s hardly time for it now, so we shall let this be the firm handshake and wink of the eye. The opportunity could hardly be given by a better team of authors, either. That being said, please allow me to introduce you to a few of those who shall introduce you further.
We start with the appropriately-themed Crush Depth by Michael Farley. An honorable mashup of 2001 and 20,000 Leagues, it explores the notions of duty and solitude, exchanging the vast emptiness of space for the dark and unforgiving realm of the watery deep. This is a terrifying exploration into the similar profundities of madness that are every bit as inscrutable as the briny deep. Sort of a 2001, but one century earlier.
Timothy Reynolds follows up with Hawkwood’s Folly, where we take a new peek through the monster of Frankenstein’s jaundiced eyes and ask ourselves the age-old question of where beginneth a man, and from whence cometh the essence of the soul. Will technology save us? Or will it drag our willing selves into a hell of our own making?
R. S. Hunter moves into a grittier, rebellious tone, putting its emphasis on the latter syllable of the genre; resistance, never futile, is given a proper honorarium here in this introspective telling of what makes a man stand up and move on when circumstances reach up to waylay him. Strike Breakers may not offer you a seat on the train, but it makes you heed the whistle’s call and get on board.
And then we arrive at Full Fathom Five, by Peter A. Smalley. It’s a solid civil war yarn inspired by Bill Shakes’ The Tempest, which explores the terrible responsibility inherent to advances in technology, as well as the consequences upon the lives of those who depend upon them. It’s also an intense drama on and beyond the high seas that reminds us that the best science fiction is the kind that peels back the layers of technology to expose the human hearts that beat within.
But the wondrous delights of this anthology in no way are limited to these—we are also granted additional tales involving everything else you have either come to expect (or soon shall) from the best of the Steampunk genre: mad scientists, giant robots, life-threatening innovation, political intrigue, fabulous cultures, airships…and, of course, zombies.
This anthology reflects, I believe, one of the true fascinations I feel towards Steampunk in general—that it is a flavor which goes so well with so many others; far more than just a simple exercise on technological awareness or cultural examination, but a framework and design which can function as a template for so many broader concepts, spanning the thematic spectrum. Are you a fan of high adventure? There’s a place for you here. Do you prefer a bit of Lovecraft in your literary tea? If so, you may be duly pleased as well. Or if your tastes run simply to the random, enjoying a good quality yarn where there are such to be savored, then I expect this tome will be to your pleasure.
So there we have it, my friends: ten tales of adventure, drama, and exciting new shores rising up on the horizon of pure (if not somewhat salty) imagination, and only a page or more separates you from it. Thus will I delay you no further from your new wonders: please feel free to take a deep breath, adjust your waistcoat and dive right in. Adventure awaits!
Ren Cummins
Author of the Chronicles of Aesirium
Crush Depth
By Michael Farley
Day one hundred and twelve
With nearly ten weeks until the Ceto sees daylight again, I feel I now have no choice but to put pen to paper to both pass the time and preserve my sanity in the absence of any intelligent conversation.
It has now been nearly a fortnight since I last engaged in any meaningful contact with another person. My self-imposed solitude may seem unhealthy, but I could not tolerate the prospect of another two and a half months of trivial chit-chat with my tedious oaf of a crewmate. Of course it goes without saying that the punchcard-related rigmarole I still have to endure in order to communicate with that wretched adding machine is not, and never will be, a substitute for genuine human company. With so little to occupy myself during my free time, I swear that I have already listened to the boat’s entire library of brass cylinders so many times that I could hum all the tunes off the top of my head.
I am fully aware that maintaining this journal is a futile activity. In truth of fact, this document will never be read by another soul. It will regrettably have to be destroyed long before we rejoin civilisation to prevent the information about my current assignment falling into the hands of one of the Empire’s many enemies.
It was never my intention to keep a journal. It has always been my opinion that if a man has the time to document his life, his deeds are almost certainly not worth reading about. Nevertheless, for the time being it amuses me to chronicle my thoughts and I intend to carry on doing so.
Incidentally before starting this record my only experience with diaries was to steal Elizabeth’s journal when I was a child. Full of anticipation, I can still remember the crushing disappointment of discovering page after page of tosh about her favourite pony. I hope this document will prove to be more interesting.
Day one hundred and thirteen
Having re-read my passage from the previous day, I fear I have done my one and only fellow crewman a disservice.
Caruthers is not really a ‘tedious oaf’. If anything he is merely an engineer with all the character traits one would expect to accompany such a career choice. I believe he feels more at ease tinkering with machines than spending time in company. At least one would assume so, based on the perpetual grease under his fingernails.
However, over the course of our weeks together I have learnt to treat his constant air of boredom and monosyllabic responses as an ‘eccentricity’ rather than an insult.
In truth, on the occasions when we have spoken about the technical specifications of the boat, his breadth and depth of knowledge have been almost inspiring. If you speak to him about sport or the arts, you will be lucky to get a whole sentence in response. But if you so much as mention a flywheel or regulator sprocket in passing, this will dominate the conversation for an hour or more.
At first I was mildly insulted when we were paired to serve together aboard the Ceto (after all, a man is judged by the company he keeps). My employers claimed to have gone to great lengths to match engineer to officer based on their respective characters and proficiencies. However I appreciate that my employers’ choices were limited; only twenty-four men could be picked to crew the dozen prototype Britannia class sous-marins, so I suppose I should be grateful that I am here at all.
I have always endeavoured to avoid complaining when no good will come of it. The die had been cast so I decided to make the most of my situation. During our first weeks on board, I tried to befriend Caruthers. When my twelve-hour shift finished at noon, I would ensure there was a full handover before Caruthers came on duty. Similarly I would insist on another meeting at midnight before my shift started. However with so many systems on board controlled by Mr. Babbage’s Empirical Crystalline Thinking Engine and maintained by the on-board automata, there was often little to report from one day to the next.
During these briefings, I would try to draw Mr. Caruthers out of his shell by introducing a range of subjects. But he would appear uncomfortable whenever I touched on any topic he considered not directly related to his duties or his precious machines. Instead, I suggested that we make use of the limited diversions provided by our employer. We would play cards at midnight and chess at midday. I insisted that we should not wager, in case the matter of outstanding debts led to unnecessary hostility on either part.
However over time it became obvious that Caruthers was merely humouring me. In any given week he would consistently win four out of seven games of chess and three out of seven games of cards. I am confident that while lacking in social skills, his keen analytical mind would make him a force to be reckoned with at any gaming table.
After I made my discovery, I even briefly considered deliberately playing like a rank amateur, just to see if Caruthers’ tactics would also deteriorate in order to continue to hold the balance. When I finally suggested a fortnight ago that we impose a hiatus on our gaming sessions, he appeared visibly relieved.
Since then we have only spoken in passing to exchange occasional pleasantries. However it is not as though we can stand and chat about the weather when neither of us has so much as seen the sky since three days after leaving Plymouth.
Any information relevant to the satisfactory completion of our duties is still recorded in the boat’s audio-log, retained in the form of brass recording cylinders. Given the size of the vessel and our habit of largely remaining in our cabins when not on duty, it is not uncommon to go several days without encountering one another if there is nothing urgent to report in person.
In point of fact, it has been a couple of days since I last saw him in person but as the boat continues to run without mishap, and no new entries have been recorded in the log, I am sure there is no cause for alarm.
Day one hundred and fourteen
I cannot sleep. An hour ago, I was drifting off when a skittering sound against the hull woke me.
I quickly realised it was just our boats’ trio of automata carrying out a routine exterior inspection. However since then I have been wide awake, driven to distraction by every sound on board.
The hum of the electric engine. The sigh of the oxygenation systems. But the noises that occupy my mind the most are the telltale groans of six score fathoms of water pressing down on the hull.
I have tried to tell myself that these are no different to the creaks of the wooden-hulled vessels I used to race through stormy waters off Devon’s south coast. Indicators that the craft was being pushed to the extent of its limits, but no cause for concern in itself. However my current circumstances are very different. At least off Dartmouth if the mast snapped or the hull cracked under the strain I could swim to shore or cling to flotsam to await rescue.
Even during my ill-fated tenure in Her Imperial Majesty’s Aerial Navy, I always kept in the back of my mind the location of the nearest parachute in the unlikely event of a gasbag breach. This far beneath the waves there is no such option and I am constantly reminded of the fragility of this vessel.
During my initial aeronautical training, I encountered many men with no head for heights. These individuals were often driven into the military by family tradition and were completely unsuited for a life in the clouds. No amount of training or acclimatisation would help them to overcome their fear. They would invariably drop out (no pun intended) or, if they were well-connected, end up behind a desk on terra firma.
Is it possible that I suffer from the opposite affliction; that I have no ‘head for depths’, as it were?
When my intermittent bouts of insomnia first struck shortly after coming on board, I tried to convince myself that this was nothing more than my dormant sense of duty reaffirming itself. That listening for every change of pitch in the engine’s tone was nothing more than a desire to ensure that all was well with the boat for the sake of the crew.
But this is poppycock. My ‘crew’ consists of one man who is my equal in rank, a glorified adding machine and three mechanical arachnids. In fact in the event of mechanical failure it would be more likely that Caruthers would save my skin than vice versa. The automata would probably be able to scuttle along the sea floor all the way back to Plymouth with nothing but a few barnacles to show for their misfortune.
I will play a couple of hands of patience and then try turning in again, but I fear this will be another restless night.
Incidentally, still no sign of Caruthers today.
Day one hundred and sixteen
More sleeplessness.
I found a still hidden under a tarp in the engine room this afternoon. This must explain Caruthers’ continued absence and his refusal to respond when I bang on his door: the man must be dead drunk when off-duty! Oh well, if he continues to perform his obligations satisfactorily I suppose I should be happy he has found a pass-time.
I took the liberty of drawing off a generous flask-full to sample at my leisure. I am pleased to say that after nearly seventeen weeks of enforced teetotalism, I am well on my way to inebriation! Hurrah!
Still can’t bloody sleep though. The booze has succeeded in settling my nerves, but has provoked a self-pitying mood instead. My earlier fears for my safety have been replaced with a preoccupation with how I came to be here.
One drunken mistake. A moment of carnal weakness. It is no excuse for my actions, but by God she was beautiful and I defy any hot-blooded man to not fall into the same trap.
We’d been in the air for weeks, patrolling Her Majesty’s Caribbean Territories for pirates and American slavers. Countless alerts and unsatisfying skirmishes had left the crew deprived of sleep and our airship was perilously low on food, fresh water and powder. The opportunity for a few days’ shore leave on Saint Vincent was welcomed by all.
I joined the rest of the junior officers in heading straight for a hotel in the heart of Kingstown. It was affordable without being disreputable, with staff that were well known for their discretion.
And then I met her. After nearly two days of heavy carousing, it goes without saying my judgement was impaired by drink. When she suggested I join her upstairs, I barely hesitated for a second.
Rest assured, I am not one of those scoundrels who drops his trews at every opportunity when out of sight of England, but if you had seen her you would agree that there is not a monk in all of Christendom who wouldn’t have been tempted.
Of course no sooner had we started to, as it were, ‘enjoy one another’s company’, than half the island’s bloody militia kicked down the door and dragged me downstairs with barely a moment to ensure my decency.
How was I to know she was the Governor’s daughter?
After a couple of days of intolerable treatment in the stockade, I was visited by my Captain and ‘Mr. Jones’, a grey-suited bureaucrat from the foreign office (with the title of ‘Special Military Liaison’ or some such).
They told me that I had been accused of forcing myself on the girl but that the Governor was willing to drop all charges if I left the island immediately. That bloody Whitehall pencil-pusher even had the audacity to act like I was being done a great service!
It turns out that the apple of the Governor’s eye had a predilection for men in uniform and that I was far from the first to fall under her spell. My fellow officers had tried to warn me but I was blind stinking drunk and wouldn’t listen to reason.
The Governor had been fully aware of his daughter’s activities but was unable to control her. News had even spread all the way back to London, thanks to the wireless telegraph (the scandalmonger’s best friend). He was rapidly becoming a laughing stock. Of course this indignity was also a source of great embarrassment for Her Majesty’s government, especially as it was taking place in such a strategically important region of the Empire. Officials in the Colonies Office quickly realised that ousting the Governor would be impossible; as the Prime Minister’s cousin, questions would be inevitably be raised by his opponents in Parliament that would only lead to further opprobrium.
So it was decided that the Governor should reassert his authority. The young lady should have her reputation restored by any means necessary. An example would have to be made to allow her, and the rest of civilised society, to draw a line under her misdemeanours.
And all it would cost for the Governor to be able to show his face in London society again (and stand a chance of marrying off the little doxy one day) was a year at a Swiss finishing school for the young lady and the termination of a promising young officer’s otherwise unblemished military career.
It was quickly apparent that the Admiralty were more than willing to sacrifice one bad apple if it meant they remained on good terms with the Governor of a vital re-fuelling post. And of course they were always keen to set an example to discourage any other young bucks from being led astray in future.
I was never officially charged, so there was no chance to clear my name at trial. Facing the prospect of being court martialled in absentia, I opted to resign in the hope of avoiding further disgrace and was immediately stripped of rank. The return journey to England was spent confined to cabin.
Of course my airship, and the officers who could have vouched for my character, remained in the Caribbean. The crew of the vessel that carried me back home knew nothing of my circumstances and treated me with the contempt they felt I deserved.
By the time I finally arrived in Portsmouth, my life as I had known it was over. Reports had been submitted to the Admiralty by wireless telegraph weeks before my arrival. There had been no discretion on the part of the Aerial Navy Grand Command and word had spread like wildfire.
When I finally returned to my family home, I had to spend two days sleeping in the inn in the village before I was granted permission to enter the house to collect my personal belongings. My mother claimed at all times to believe I was innocent, but I don’t think it was a coincidence I was never left alone with any female servants. My father refused to see me.
And of course my engagement to Elizabeth was over. The daughter of my father’s business partner, we had known each other since childhood. I had been fond of her for as long as I could remember, hence my disappointment upon stealing her diary all those years ago (Even at the age of ten, I had hoped I would play at least a small part in her private thoughts.). It had always been taken for granted by both families that when my tour of duty in the Caribbean ended I would request a station closer to home so that we could finally be married.
I wasn’t even permitted to visit her in order to explain what had happened. I suppose I didn’t do myself any favours by getting drunk on cider in the inn like some common farm labourer. I stood outside her home in the middle of the night, screaming that I demanded to be let in until I was finally escorted away to sleep it off.
The next day I returned to London to lose myself in the anonymity of the city. I attempted to call in such favours as I had left with the aim of finding gainful employment, either at sea or in the air. But of course my reputation was in tatters. My letters to friends went unanswered. Potential employers with connections to my father would offer transparent excuses to avoid meeting with me.
Within weeks, my savings were nearly exhausted and I had all but given up hope when I was contacted by a representative of the Britannia Project. It was the same grey-suited bureaucrat who had arranged my downfall in the Caribbean. This time he introduced himself as ‘Mr. Smith’, but did not supply a job title. I am sure men in his covert line of work change identities and roles like a snake sheds it skin.
He acknowledged my military experience and extended to me the opportunity to continue serving Her Majesty’s Empire. Through sheer desperation, I accepted his offer without hesitation and the next day I arrived in Plymouth to begin my training as a sous-marinier.
But that is a story for another day. That poison of Caruthers’ concoction is gut-rot of the lowest order. I can already feel the beginnings of a headache that could likely bring down a highland bull. It is already eight o’clock; my shift starts in a few short hours and if I don’t at least try to catch some sleep I shall be worse than useless.
Day one hundred and seventeen
I have spent much of the day recuperating in my cabin. When I awoke this morning, my hands shook and even standing for any length of time brought me out in a cold sweat. Mercifully, my duties have been light today, giving me time to rest without being accused of dereliction.
With little else to occupy myself until I am fully recovered, and having a desperate urge to take my mind off my wretched physical state, I will continue to recount my story of joining the Britannia fleet.
Like any self-respecting aerial officer, the prospect of serving beneath the waves had never even crossed my mind. Until I encountered the Britannia Project, I had assumed sous-marin technology was still in its infancy.
Ever since the first sous-marin was invented by the French Republican Subaquatic Navy thirty years ago, they have been written off by the Admiralty as little more than an annoyance. Even today, the vessels used by England’s closest neighbour and oldest enemy to disrupt traffic in the English Channel are laughable contraptions. They still cannot reach any great depth and are forced to re-surface every few hours to prevent the crew from being asphyxiated by noxious engine fumes. Ridiculous!
The boats used by the Independent Southern American States to smuggle contraband and slaves are little better. Having hunted more than a few during my time spent enforcing the Empire’s trade embargo in the Caribbean, I have found them to be at best an adequate match for any competently manned British airship. Quicker than the French and able to travel for several days without surfacing, American vessels would be worthy opponents if not for the fact that these improvements come at the expense of any real offensive capabilities or armour plating.
However my experience with both of these types of sous-marin did little to prepare me for the sheer scale and ambition of the Britannia Project. When I first entered the dockyards in Plymouth and saw the dozen Britannia prototypes patiently awaiting their crews, I was astounded. After this initial shock passed, I quickly recognised elements in their design from the Victory class vessels of my youth.
I am confident that every military man of my age will admit to having collected cigarette cards or newspaper clippings of the Victory fleet as a child. After all, this was the British Empire’s first attempt at sous-marin technology, intended to reaffirm our military supremacy to all our rivals. The launch dominated kino-newsreels around the world for weeks. However within a year the whole initiative had been quietly abandoned. Hundreds of British seamen died in a series of embarrassing defeats in both the Atlantic and Pacific. Many blamed the same design flaws that had plagued the French for years, others complained of a lack of training for officers who previously only had experience above the surface. However the whole debacle cost a great many politicians their careers (no great loss) and countless hundreds of thousands of pounds.
Now it was apparent that the Victory fleet had not been abandoned after all. Development had evidently carried on, away from the prying eyes of the world. Each of the Britannia vessels was more than double the size of its predecessor, but nevertheless the similarity was obvious. How they had managed to keep this a secret from the Empire’s enemies, and the general public, for over fifteen years was beyond me.
And it was not just the sous-marins themselves that were made up of ‘borrowed’ technology. It soon became apparent that this entire project was run by magpies who had no qualms about stealing ideas left, right and centre. Even our tutors seemed to be largely made up of French and Southern American engineers, obviously persuaded to give up their respective nations’ secrets in exchange for a sizeable fee.
Time and again during my weeks of training I noticed familiar components and systems. For example, the electrolytic conversion system which would provide both hydrogen for fuel and oxygen for breathable air (thereby solving the ‘French Problem’) has been used by the Aerial Navy to power their airships and sustain the lives of their crew at high altitude for nearly ten years.
Similarly the Empirical Crystalline Thinking Engine at the heart of each vessel is merely an adaptation of the model already used by the Aerial Navy Grand Command for tactical calculations and battle simulations (although I will concede that it was no mean feat for my employer to source the components and skilled personnel needed to construct an entire dozen of them). Even our automata are nothing more than modified versions of the primitive self-governing mining machines that have been in common use across the Empire since Brunel first worked on the Great West Railway.
My initial misgivings disappeared once the primary purpose of the Britannia Project was revealed. I quickly learned that the engines, electrolytic converters and a hundred other pieces of technology illicitly acquired from around the globe are of little importance. They are all just a means to an end: All that matters is the final result of our endeavours. It is with great pride that I write that, despite my early doubts, I am grateful to be a small part of the Britannia Project. If successful we have the potential to change the British Empire and the entire world as we know it for generations to come.
Day one hundred and eighteen
My condition is finally starting to improve. This morning I noticed a jar of Caruthers’ toxic drink in a secluded corner of one of the storerooms. It was full of engine parts, vaguely reminiscent of some nightmarish biological sample pickled in formaldehyde.
Given my violent reaction of the last thirty-six hours, it dawned on me that this liquid was never intended for human consumption (unless the human in question needed to be thoroughly de-greased).
One to be chalked up to experience, I think.
Day one hundred and nineteen
I have not seen Caruthers in over a week. This is beyond a joke. The Ceto is not so large that another person can completely disappear.
This afternoon I attempted to gain entry to his cabin without success. The blasted thinking engine refuses to unlock the door. It rejected my punchcards time and again, spitting out yard upon yard of tickertape full of nothing but gibberish. Without Caruthers to decipher and diagnose the cause of the malfunction, I am temporarily at an impasse.
I will try again shortly. If the thinking engine refuses to instruct the automata to assist me, I will have no option other than to use force. The interior doors are reinforced to resist a hull breach. However I am confident a few well-placed sledgehammer blows should do the trick.
Sweet mother of Heaven! So much blood!
During my military career I have seen injuries that would turn the stomach of the most experienced battlefield surgeon. Men who have taken cannon fire to the torso at point blank range. One poor soul who fell into a turbine feet first and was slowly chewed to a pulp while still screaming. But never anything like this.
Day one hundred and twenty one
Another sleepless night. I listen out constantly for any indication that those terrible automata are coming to finish me off too. Today I attempted to search the entire boat for any sign of them, armed for my protection with the hammer I had used to break down Caruthers’ door. For all I know, they could even be outside the boat, clinging to the hull inches from where I sit right now, waiting for the ideal moment to tear a hole in the side of the boat and condemn me to a watery grave.
My progress has been impeded by more locked doors. The engine room, oxygenation control, storage compartments, all the rooms of any significance, are locked and sealed. Only my cabin, the mess, the bridge and connecting corridors remain easily accessible. I am hesitant to force entry this time, in case the disturbance provokes the trio of brass assassins.
The thinking engine will no longer even acknowledge my commands. I cannot activate the wireless telegraph in order to contact my superiors. Helm control and navigation are similarly unusable. I am at a loss what to do.
Deep in my heart, I know it will do little good to stay alert. Those stealthy machines were able to crack Caruthers skull open only feet away from me and I remained blissfully unaware. With so many furlongs of hidden ducts and pipes, they could be anywhere. But trying to stay awake is my only option. I will not give up without a fight!
Day one hundred and twenty three
After nearly twenty-four hours at the con, attempting time and again without success to unlock the helm, I finally returned to my cabin, exhausted. My intention was to retrieve the hammer I had used to enter Caruthers’ cabin. With all other options exhausted, I hoped to regain entry to the other locked rooms and damn the consequences!
My cabin door swung shut behind me and locked fast. Before I could even attempt to reopen it, I heard the skittering noise again, the sound of metal against metal and the hissing of a welding torch.
What a fool I am! How could I not see that this was a trap? I can only blame sleep deprivation and pray that this mistake will not be the end of me.
In my locker, awaiting my return, is approximately a week’s supply of food (possibly even a fortnight if rationed carefully). There is even a small bottle of Caruthers’ moonshine. It seems I have a considerate gaoler. Thankfully water and sanitation are not causes for concern as my cabin is fully plumbed.
It seems obvious I should prepare myself for a lengthy confinement.
Day one hundred and twenty nine (I think)
Yesterday I managed to find some peace and even slept briefly. But today I was frantic. I don’t know how long I had been pacing the cabin. My belongings were in disarray, the result of my searching for something, anything that might assist my escape.
These last eighteen weeks, time had had little meaning without sunlight and stars to separate day from night, but since being incarcerated I have lost even the twelve-hour cycle that had come to regulate my life. My chronometer would say it was eight o’clock, but was it breakfast or supper time? I would be convinced that hours had passed only to find that minutes had elapsed.
And then I heard a voice. My voice to be exact. Four little words, drifting though the ventilation duct. It sounded distorted, the intonation somehow unnatural.
At first I didn’t know what to make of it. I fell to the deck, astonished, dumbfounded, doubting my own senses. Then I realised, it was a sentence stitched together from my recordings in the boat’s audio-log!
The voice repeated, “Pawn to King Four”.
This continued at three-minute intervals, each time with a slightly different cadence, the same phrase but pieced together from different recordings. Occasionally I heard snippets of Caruthers’ voice. My stomach would turn as I was reminded of his grisly fate.
Eventually I gave in to the inevitable and retrieved the chessboard from my locker. I set up the pieces and performed the machine’s opening move as requested. After I had taken my turn, I hesitated, unsure how to proceed. I was about to tell my captor which piece I had just moved, when it announced its next instruction. Obviously it could see as well as hear me.
When the game completed, the voice spoke again. ‘Good. Now you are calm. Rest now. Speak tomorrow.’ and then silence.
Day one hundred and thirty
Last night was filled with a deep, dreamless sleep, the result of weeks of exhaustion combined with my resignation to whatever fate awaits me. I think I rested for twelve hours, but without any way to tell morning from evening it could have been twenty-four for all I knew.
At last I awoke refreshed, my faculties restored. I performed my morning ablutions thoroughly for the first time in days. I was unable to attend to my whiskers as my razor was missing (no doubt confiscated for my own safety) but still it is remarkable how a hot wash and a clean shirt on one’s back can do wonders for one’s constitution and outlook.
Finally, I sat at my desk, ate a light breakfast in silence, arranged my papers and announced to the empty room, ‘Good morning’.
A pause. And then a reply, ‘Good morning. We shall start now. Why am I here?’
And so began the strangest few hours of my life. I spoke at length of England and her role in the world. I spoke of the classified Britannia Project and its aim to ‘rule the waves’, bringing peace and civilisation to the entire globe in the name of the Empire.
I explained the Ceto was one of the first of a whole new type of vessel, capable of travelling far beneath the sea for months at a time, drawing fuel from the hydrogen atoms in the very water itself. That if this initial six-month voyage was a success, within a decade there would be hundreds of similar craft, patrolling every ocean and major waterway in the world, all controlled by thinking engines.
At times the thinking engine would stop me to ask specific questions, or to query the meaning of words or concepts it did not recognise. Mercifully, every question confirmed that I was still of some use to the machine and worth keeping alive.