Avast, Ye Airships Anthology Read online

  Synopsis

  In a daring history that never was, pirates roam the skies instead of the seas. Fantastical airships sail the clouds on both sides of the law. Within these pages, you will find stories of pirates and their prey with a few more pragmatic airships thrown in. With stories ranging from Victorian skies to an alien invasion, there is something for everyone in these eighteen tales of derring-do!

  Avast, Ye Airships!

  edited by Rie Sheridan Rose

  Copyright © 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Editor’s Note

  Ahoy, mates! Welcome aboard. Here there be pirates. When it was suggested that Mocha Memoirs should do a Steampunk Airship Pirates anthology and that I should edit it, I had absolutely no idea what was involved. I’d been in a lot of anthologies, but never worked the other side of the boat, as it were. It’s been a wild ride. We started taking submissions in May of 2014 and ended in December. We had dozens of stories, but I think we picked the best. There are proper pirates, would-be pirates, retiring pirates. There are British pirates, Ottoman pirates, and Confederate pirates. There are pirates with pistols, with swords, with buzzards! There is romance. There is adventure. There is even an alien invasion—with a living airship. In short, I think there is something for everyone within these pages. I hope you agree.

  Rie Sheridan Rose

  February 2015

  Come and Be a Pirate

  Leave behind the law and lawyers,

  When you leave behind the land—

  For the law that rules a pirate

  Is you take whate’er you can.

  So you want to be a pirate?

  Well, repeat after me—

  I’ll pillage, whore, and plunder

  And live the life that’s free.

  Little boys who listened

  When their Mamas said they should

  They ain’t the kind o’ pirates

  That will do me any good.

  I want a crew that’s ruthless

  Cutthroats, thieves and ghouls.

  ’Cause we don’t hold tea-parties,

  And we don’t live by the rules.

  We sail upon the heavens,

  In an airship tried and true

  It’s a whole new world of treasure

  That we’ll find before we’re through.

  So, if you want to be a pirate

  Come on down to the ship.

  We need a dozen sailors

  To replace those lost last trip!

  Rie Sheridan Rose

  lyrics from Dragons vs Pirates

  for Marc Gunn

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Synopsis

  Copyright

  Editor's Note

  ~Beneath the Brass by Stephen Blake

  ~Maiden Voyage by Jeffrey Cook & Katherine Perkins

  ~Colonel Gurthwait and the Black Hydra by Robert McGough

  ~Captain Wexford's Dilemma by Ogarita

  ~Her Majesty's Service by Lauren Marrero

  ~A Wind Will Rise by Andrew Knighton

  ~Hooked by Rie Sheridan Rose

  ~Go Green by Ross Baxter

  ~Lost Sky by Amy Braun

  ~Miss Warlyss Meets the Black Buzzard by Diana Parparita

  ~Plunder in the Valley by Libby Smith

  ~The Clockwork Dragon by Steve Cook

  ~Adventures of a Would-Be Gentleman of the Skies by Jim Reader

  ~A Clouded Affair by Steven Southard

  ~The Climbers by D Chang

  ~The Steampunk Garden by Wynelda Ann Deaver

  ~Lotus of Albion by Steve Ruskin

  ~And a Bottle of Rum... by K.C. Shaw

  About the Authors

  Other Books from Mocha Memoirs Press

  Beneath the Brass

  By Stephen Blake

  This Journal is the property of Miss Alice Reynolds, and this is my record of the things that are occurring around me.

  Thursday 13th April 1878

  The doctors, in their wisdom, have allowed me to keep this journal. It was the young doctor, Dr. Wilson, who convinced the others. He thinks jotting down my thoughts might be more helpful than the ice baths and drugs. I’m all for a diary over an induced seizure any day.

  I don’t know where to start. I know there is nothing wrong with me. I’m a healthy woman of twenty-two years. My parents passed away, and—although my elder brother promised to care for me—here I find myself. In this asylum.

  Of course, when I tell people that my brother’s love went beyond that of a sibling—when I try to tell people what happened to me—I know that I play into his hands and re-affirm to everyone that I’m disturbed and delusional.

  I know I should lie. I just can’t do it. I am the one wronged and yet it is I who am being punished.

  One of the orderlies decided he knew what I needed to put me right. He’s not been seen for a while. Seems a rusty spoon and his scrotum did not mix; no matter how hard I pushed.

  No man will touch me again.

  The doctors did note my mood had improved. I told them the orderly’s new sweet singing voice had cheered my heart. He was squeaky before the incident, but it soothes me to pretend I made him speak so.

  Friday 14th April 1878

  I’m writing this down here because I can scarcely believe what has happened.

  Late last night, this strange metallic creature kicked my door in. I can only describe him as some sort of automaton; brass-like in appearance, but amongst the clockwork mechanisms was a human being.

  When I read this back later I will probably think myself mad, for as I stepped beyond my cell I saw numerous amalgams of men and machine each with the visage of a pirate.

  One of them spoke to me. He introduced himself as Frank. He was bare-chested, other than a bandolier over his shoulder, various sheathed blades and a couple of pistols. From the waist down, he was machine—merged with a chair with wheels. Steam chugged from this part of him as he whirred around. He explained that they were a liberation force and offered a simple choice; stay at the asylum or leave with his group.

  Without hesitation I asked to leave. My fellow patients and I formed a queue, whereby we were briefly questioned as to our ailments. It seems that those with severe mental health issues were promised transport to a facility guaranteeing safety, security, and genuine care. The rest, including those with physical disabilities, were asked if they wanted to join the crew. One man, who could not stand without crutches, asked if he would have to have a machine fitted to his body. The answer given was staggering.

  He was told this: “You can have aids if you choose, or if you need them, but we are asking if you wish to contribute what you can, with or without them. All we offer in return is shelter, food, respect and dignity.”

  Well, the man sobbed his heart out. He replied that “respect and dignity” was all his heart and soul desired, and that he would gladly abstain from food and shelter for some small semblance of dignity.

  When they came to me, they eyed me suspiciously. Thankfully, they agreed that I was not in the least bit mad and I confirmed I was physically able. They offered me escape and a new identity. It seems a couple amongst their ranks took exception to helping me until Frank intervened.

  He told me as we left that many of the crew harbored resentment t
o able-bodied people because of how badly they had been treated. I’ve seen enough with my own eyes to understand this and feel no resentment toward them.

  I asked Frank what he had said that made them accept me. He told me that he had reminded his comrades that not all wounds or scars are visible but that they exist all the same.

  Saturday 15th April 1878

  Yesterday’s escape was nothing short of astonishing. Behind the asylum, I was amazed to see airships of various descriptions. Each was a ship of sorts hanging beneath a trio of balloons. One was for the poor souls who were being taken to a place of healing. Their vessel appeared to be enclosed, looking like a whale with numerous portholes. Each window showed a face peering out. I could not meet their gaze.

  Another was like a large galleon. The front of the vessel opened to allow us to walk or be carried aboard. Before boarding, I looked right to see the final vessel. It was similar to the one I was boarding except the “pirates” (I’m not sure if that is the right or wrong way to describe them) were using that one as a cargo ship. I believe they were stocking up on medication, various pieces of metal and other bounties the crew had liberated.

  We were blindfolded for the duration of the night-time flight. I will not lie, I did not like it one bit. Still, I did as they asked. My face felt the cool breeze and I concentrated on finding my flying legs.

  I’m proud to say that I did not throw up. Judging by the retching noises around me, others were not so fortunate. The swaying of the ship under its balloons was a strange sensation, but one I must say I enjoyed and felt quite at home in.

  I find myself this morning in a room with fifteen other women. The lodgings are sparse, but the cots are comfortable and the bread they’ve given us, delicious.

  I’m promised a meeting with their leader tomorrow. Captain Hawk is his name. I’m really not sure what to say or ask for.

  Sunday 16th April 1878

  I actually got more than a few hours of sleep last night. To be sure, the nightmares were still there, but when I woke I felt safe. It’s reassuring to know the threat is only in my dreams and that the waking world is a little less threatening.

  Daylight leaves my “rescuers’” appearance no less startling. The sun offers them a shine to their metal accompaniments. Some take a break from their aids; their limbs look sore where metal and strapping have rubbed on flesh. I note that many could not get around without the aid of these mechanisms. Once you get past the unusualness of it all, you have to appreciate how marvelously inventive they are and how many of these folk are renewed and able to take on this world.

  I’ll update again in a bit, when I’ve seen the Captain.

  #

  I’m not sure what to write. I’m at a complete loss for words. I’ve met an extraordinary man. Well, to begin with, they took me to the highest point at our location. I realize now that we are on an island. A small outcrop really, with accommodations built into the landscape; but mostly there are numerous docking points for airships.

  It was to the uppermost docking point that I was taken, where I boarded a small vessel. It had the appearance of a Viking longship, but with lodgings at the stern and all manner of technological devices located throughout the deck.

  I was shown aboard and then left alone, so that I might have my meeting with Captain Hawk. I called out, “Hello!” but no one answered. It was then I heard something akin to a small locomotive. I turned to see this automaton, garbed as a pirate, stride towards me.

  I must admit, his fierce visage, along with his near seven foot bearing, caused me to step back a couple of paces.

  As he came close, he removed his hat, swept it down before him, and bowed low. He—it—had a flamboyant air about him.

  He wore a beautiful blue velvet tunic. The brass buttons were so highly polished that they distracted from his grim gray metallic face.

  The greatest shock came when he spoke. I can only describe his speech as stilted. Every word had a pause between them, in the way a foreigner tries to seek the correct word to use next.

  He asked for my name, if I was well, and if I required anything. It took me a while to decipher his questions, since his speech seemed muffled, like a voice from within a fog.

  I found myself speaking to him like he was a simpleton, pausing between words, just as he did when speaking to me.

  As we conversed I looked again at him and saw, now, cables or piping, leading from him to the covered area at the stern of the ship. I moved to walk past the Captain, but he blocked my path, stating merely that the area was “off limits.”

  I cannot lie, my interest was piqued. I’ve never been good with “off limits” or “not allowed.” I managed a pirouette or two and unbalanced my host briefly, before dashing past him.

  When I entered the covered area, I found a handsome man, with long dark hair. He sat in a contraption—I’d call it a chair, but there was so much more to it. It seemed to have pipes, wiring, and all sorts of other components running from it. Cocooned within the seat was this man. I circled him, and surmised by the stillness of his body that he was paralyzed, from the neck down, possibly more.

  His body appeared languid, thin; his features were strong, but it was his eyes…his eyes were fiercely determined—they radiated a life-force the likes of which I’ve never met.

  His pirate avatar joined us, and I saw now that a series of blinks—which appeared to be monitored by a light that shone on his face—enabled the automaton to speak and move.

  It was like a code of some sort. I found myself hearing the stilted speech coming from my prone host and I looked at him intently as he spoke.

  We talked then, for what I thought was a short while, until a French gentleman interrupted and advised us that it had actually been hours. The dimming light outside confirmed this. Apologies were made on both sides. I’m slightly shocked to say I asked if I might return and talk with the Captain again. I am delighted to say he agreed.

  The Frenchman escorted me back to my quarters. I learnt from him that he, and a few others, were behind the technology I saw around me. It was he who had used phonaughtograms to record words which the Captain then played back to me to mimic speech. He also explained that the person bristling with ideas, and by far the most inventive mind on the ship, was our good Captain.

  It’s late. I’ve written here much more than I intended. The other women in the dormitory would like me to put out the light, so I shall sign off for today. I cannot wait until tomorrow.

  Sunday 23rd April

  Um, well, I’ve not written for a week. I don’t know where the time has gone. I just seem to sit and talk with the Captain each day. He assures me that he is pleased with the company. He is the first man who has ever appreciated my opinion on matters without metaphorically patting me on the head like a good little girl.

  The man’s spirit is a tempest of strength and intelligence.

  I think I may be falling in love with him. He tempers his inner passion with a gentleness that renders me breathless around him.

  I’m being silly. Or not. I’m confused. I’ve never felt this way before, especially about a man, especially after what happened with my brother. That’s the strange thing though. I’ve not dwelled on the past at all. I’ve not thought about my brother, about revenge. These last few days, I’ve lived and loved the present, and maybe I’m a little hopeful for the future.

  Tuesday 25th April

  A shocking thing has happened. A number of the pirate airships had been out rescuing others from asylums, as they did me, and they returned last night with supplies and others rescued, waiting for re-homing, etc.

  I was part of the group that welcomed the new arrivals. I was shocked to see that one of the people who walked off the ship was Arnell—the orderly I had had problems with.

  My first reaction was to question why he was here. It seems he claimed to another he was permanently physically injured following a brutal attack. Upon seeing me, he named me as the attacker—and accused me of being a spy for
the police as well.

  These are good people here, generally speaking, but they do not always question things, so a large number immediately believed the effeminate-speaking idiot, and tried to detain me.

  Some of the Captain’s allies quickly surrounded me and prevented a lynching.

  Arnell, a couple of guards, and I went up to see Captain Hawk. The automated, more intimidating, version of him I should add.

  Somehow, the Captain already knew what had occurred. The mechanical pirate quickly strode toward Arnell and lifted him high into the air. A piston-driven arm flipped my nemesis upside down like a child might throw around a rag doll. Holding him by the ankle, he dangled him over the side of the ship.

  Arnell firstly wet himself, and then, fumbling in his pockets, produced some sort of pistol. Before any of us knew what was happening, a flare was sent up high into the air. Arnell had obviously tried to signal someone.

  The Captain, dropped him with one hand, and caught him with the other. Seemingly Arnell thought his work was done in locating us, and promptly spilt the beans that he was here on behalf of a gentleman who sought us, and not on behalf of the Bow Street Runners or such like.

  He stared hard at me. I’m proud to say I met that stare, held it, and forced him to look away. The Captain noted this and queried how we knew each other. I, rather embarrassed, told the tale of the rusty spoon. I was not embarrassed for my actions, it must be understood, but rather for my vulnerability. It was odd talking to the machine and not the man, but such is the technology that the automaton held my gaze and tilted its head to one side, seemingly reflecting the real man’s concern for me. At least that is how I interpreted it.

  This moment between us seemed to have loosened the grip he had on Arnell, who swung himself free of the Captain and lunged at me.

  I had never seen a man killed. Good or bad, death by sabre is not quick and despite sometimes thinking of hurting others, I see now that it is not for me. Arnell represented much of what I hated in men—but in that moment I knew pity for him.