Nimbus
A Steampunk Novel
AUSTIN KING
B.J. KEETON
Copyright © 2012-2013 Austin King and B.J. Keeton
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the authors, except where permitted by law.
AUSTIN
For Mom and Dad
B.J.
For my Momma.
You believe in me and support me, even when I don’t think I need it.
And I always do.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to our wives, who have dealt with a great deal of boyish giggling and juvenile humor over the past year. We love you.
And a special thanks to Aunt Seenus. You know who you are.
Prologue
“Your son is dead, sir.”
Cornelius Rucca took a deep breath and tried to keep his knees from buckling. He grabbed at one of the sconces on the wall to steady himself, and then stared Cleric Wymore directly in the eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“I am sorry, High Prelate,” Cleric Wymore said, taking a small bow. “There is nothing more that can be done. The boy is…gone.”
Cornelius’s jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. Here he was, High Prelate of the Assembled Court—the religious leader of the entire damned world—and he was helpless. His son was dead. And there was nothing that he could do about it.
“The doctors are still with your son,” Cleric Wymore said. “Would you like to go back inside before they remove the body, sir?”
“In a moment,” Cornelius said, regaining some of his composure. He glanced at the antique clock hanging above the archway to the medical bay. It was early morning, still too soon for the sun to be up, and most members of the Assembled Court would still be asleep. Surely, there was something he could do, though. “Wait a moment,” he told Cleric Wymore. “Are you familiar with augers?”
Cleric Wymore shuffled nervously on his feet. “They were like prophets, sir,” he said. “Some dabbled in steamwork mechanics, but most were preoccupied with more supernatural technologies. As far as I am concerned, they are a fringe cult—and nothing more.”
“My ancestor was an auger,” Cornelius said slowly. “From what I’ve been told, he learned to do some very interesting things.”
Cleric Wymore glanced back toward the medical bay. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but what does this have to do with your son?”
“There are ways to save him,” Cornelius mumbled. He wracked his brain for every bit of knowledge he knew about augers and their fringe studies. Perhaps there was a way to do what needed to be done in secret. “I need you to empty the medical bay of all personnel, Cleric Wymore. When you are finished, report back to me.” He looked back at the clock. “We have some long hours ahead of us.”
Cleric Wymore bowed and went through the double-doors that led into the medical bay. Once Wymore was out of sight, Cornelius headed back toward his office. The Assembled Court’s headquarters consisted of several interconnected buildings, but Cornelius had been High Prelate for the better half of the past decade. He knew the shortcuts by now.
When he arrived at his office, he locked the door behind him. Then, cautiously, he went over to his desk and pressed the button that opened the entryway into the god-king’s chamber. The chamber was empty, of course. The god-king may have still been the official world leader, but those chambers had been vacant for the last five hundred years or so. It was he—Cornelius Rucca—that did all the real work.
Cornelius had only been inside the god-king’s chambers a few times before, but he knew exactly what he was looking for. The bookshelf beside the god-king’s bed had collected plenty of dust over the centuries, and Cornelius had taken the liberty to read several of the books. In those books, he had discovered many secrets—things that not even the High Prelate was probably supposed to know.
He grabbed a tattered, stained book off the shelf and stared at the foreign glyphs on the cover. Yes, this was the one that he was looking for. Smiling to himself, he grabbed a large, cylindrical container and headed back into his own office.
Cornelius stared at the container. “Will you do this for me?”
There will be consequences.
The voice seemed to echo from inside Cornelius’s own head. It raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“Please,” Cornelius said. “I need you to save my son. His fever became too high—and the sickness reached his spinal column…” He sighed heavily. “The doctors couldn’t do anything.”
Silence.
“Please,” Cornelius repeated. “Will you save my son?”
You will have to Bond us.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Cornelius said. He was speaking quickly now, and his mouth was absurdly dry. “I am aware of the risks. I have this book with me. I—I think I can perform the ritual, if I must.”
You will have to act quickly.
“I know!” Cornelius shouted, forgetting himself. He practically ran to the door, and he paused only long enough to look down at the container once more. “Please, will you help?”
There was a long pause. Cornelius could hear the purified air pouring out of the vents in the ceiling. He opened his mouth to ask again—
Yes.
“You’ll do it?” he asked.
Yes.
A great weight seemed to leave Cornelius’s chest. He exhaled deeply, and then wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes. Perhaps everything would be okay, after all. And by the time he arrived back at the medical bay, he was feeling both hopeful and anxious.
“Is everything all right, sir?” Cleric Wymore asked. “You look rather pale.”
“I’m fine,” Cornelius said. “Did everyone evacuate the medical facility?”
Wymore nodded. “Yes, High Prelate.”
“Good.” Cornelius composed himself, and when he caught Wymore staring at the tattered book and cylindrical container, he snapped the Cleric back to attention. “Stand outside these doors,” he instructed Wymore. “No one comes inside. Not even you. Is that understood?”
Cleric Wymore nodded slowly.
“Excellent,” Cornelius said. He headed through the doors. “Remember, Cleric Wymore: No one comes inside. Under any circumstances.”
It took Cornelius just a moment to spot his son’s body. The boy was lying in a bed, and there were more tubes coming from his body than Cornelius wanted to count. As he eased near the bed, Cornelius felt bile rising in the back of his throat. He clenched his teeth and held it down. Then, when he was close enough, he touched his son’s arm.
“I am sorry, Demetrius,” he said aloud. “Perhaps a second life is better than no life at all, no matter the differences in quality.”
Cornelius laid the book down and rifled through the yellowed pages.
You don’t need it. I know what to do.
“You can do the Bonding without my help?” Cornelius asked.
Of course.
Cornelius fumbled with the lid—a century’s worth of rust made it rather difficult, after all—but he eventually got the container open. Then, it was as if the room itself darkened. The entire area became considerably colder, and a draft of wind passed through, even
though there were no windows to the outside world in the medical bay.
Fog rolled into the room, and for just a moment, Cornelius feared that this had all been some elaborate trick. If this was the same fog that covered the surface of the world, then it would only be a matter of seconds before his skin was torn to shreds. He coughed, closed his eyes, and then a blast of energy sent him across the room. He smacked into a medical cart and rolled onto the floor.
Cleric Wymore burst through the doors. “High Prelate Rucca!”
“I’m fine!” Cornelius bit out. “I told you not to enter!”
“I’m sorry,” Wymore said. “There was a noise, sir. It sounded like an explosion.”
Cornelius stumbled to his feet. The fog had disappeared, and everything seemed to have returned to normal inside the room. Wymore blinked dumbly at him several times, but other than that, the man didn’t seem shaken up at all.
“Are you okay, sir? I felt a gust through the doors.”
“I’m fine!” Cornelius snapped again. “But I told you not to come in, Cleric Wymore, and you will pay dearly for disobeying a—”
“Dad?”
Cornelius and Wymore turned at the same time. Sitting up in his bed, Demetrius Rucca looked bright and healthy. It was hard to believe the boy had been dead and colorless only moments before.
Without thinking, Cornelius rushed to his son. He grabbed the boy in an enormous hug, and without caring how crazy he sounded, he began to laugh. He ran his hands through his son’s hair, ran a finger down the boy’s nose and around his eyes, and then glanced back at Wymore.
“Is this real?” he asked.
Wymore’s mouth hung open, and his eyes were bulging. Cornelius took that as a yes.
“What happened, Dad?” Demetrius asked. He looked around the room. “Why am I here?”
Cornelius hugged his son again. “You don’t remember?”
The boy shook his head.
“Nothing,” Cornelius said, smiling. “You’re all right, son. That’s all that matters.”
Then, the boy started crying. It escalated quickly into all-out wailing. The air seemed to leave Cornelius’s lungs. He grabbed his son by the shoulders and shook him.
“What’s wrong, Demetrius? What happened?”
Tears streamed down the boy’s face as he looked into his father’s eyes. “I can’t feel my legs anymore.”
Cornelius always remembered that day, for a number of reasons, but mostly because that was when he realized that everything was going to change.
PART One
Chapter One
Jude felt someone shaking him. Though his vision was blurred, he saw the bulky form of Calvin Reedy hovering over him. The First Mate of the Gangly Dirigible was a man so stone-faced the crew joked he was a walking boulder, and he was shaking Jude. The second time was a bit more forceful. It nearly knocked Jude out of his bunk.
“What do you need?” Jude asked. He sounded slightly more irritated than he intended. He hoped Reedy hadn’t noticed. If there was one thing Reedy hated, it was insubordination.
“We’ve got one,” Reedy said. His red beard was flecked with grey and there was currently a piece of food dangling from his chin hairs, like he’d just left breakfast in a great rush. “Some of the Hosers are out there already, but we need you—pronto.”
Jude glanced around and saw that both Robert Thorne and Robert Gwynn, fellow Hosers who were known around the ship as the Roberts, were already out of their bunks and getting dressed with the enthusiasm of grown men preparing for castration. There was no sunlight coming in through the rounded windows, but the stars had already faded away; Reedy was at it particularly early this morning.
Jude groaned and started getting dressed. “I’ll be up there soon.”
“No lollygagging,” Reedy said. Jude had no illusions that Reedy wouldn’t strangle any one of the crew if they failed to meet his demands. “If you and the Roberts aren’t up there in five minutes, I’ll have you swabbing the decks for the next month at half wages. You understand me?”
Jude grunted a “Yes, sir” while the Roberts just sighed heavily. Reedy seemed satisfied enough to leave them. As he opened the door, Jude could hear the loud whirring and puffing of the steam engines below. The boiler room was just underneath the corridor outside. Some of the dense, white smoke drifted up from the boiler room and through the floorboards, finding its way inside the room before Thorne slammed the door shut.
“First mate on this bloody ship and he can’t even remember to close the damn door.” Thorne fumbled with the buttons on his wool overcoat. “It’s likely cold up there. The sun won’t be shining for another hour or so. I’m freezing just thinking about it. He wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if he was out there manning the hoses, I’ll tell you that much.”
Thorne left the room mumbling to himself, slipping gloves onto his hands. Jude had learned to ignore Robert Thorne. After nearly a year of rooming with the outspoken curmudgeon, he’d perfected the art of blocking out Thorne’s rants.
“I’ll bet my left foot that water’ll be frozen,” said Gwynn. He stroked his moustache—it was a nervous tick Jude had grown accustomed to seeing. “And I’ll bet my right foot that Cap’n Schlocky won’t give a hoot.”
“If Reedy doesn’t, neither will Schlocky,” Jude said. The captain was even less forgiving than his first mate. Jude pulled his wool cap down over his ears and headed outside. “I’ll see you outside, Robert. Don’t take too long. I think Reedy meant what he said about half wages.”
The outside corridor was filled with the heat and smoke from the engines below them, but Jude had grown used to it. Heat and smoke were as common to him as the drinking competitions held by the engineers in the galley every Thursday night, or the way Gwynn stroked his moustache or Thorne went off on long rants. In the year he’d been on the Gangly Dirigible, the engineers had been vowing to fix the leaks; however, empty promises were a second language to the mechanics.
On his way up, he bumped into one of the engineers. Barely reaching three feet in height, Jonah Roebuck was easy to overlook, but what the man lacked in physical presence, he more than made up for with his big personality. Roebuck was covered in black grease, and his skin was pink from the heat of the engines. He wiped the fog from his goggles and smiled when he saw that it was Jude.
“You wouldn’t be pickin a fight with a man half your size, would ya, kid?” he said. “Cause I’ve gotta warn ya: I keep a switchblade in my back pocket.”
“You got a little something on your face, Roebuck,” said Jude, ignoring the comment.
“I got a little something everywhere.” Roebuck laughed and wiped some of the grease from his cheeks. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth and nodded toward the steam rising up through the floorboards. “If you think this is bad, you should see the boiler room. I just came up here for a cigarette break.”
“It’s about time one of you guys fixed those leaks, isn’t it?” Jude asked. He knew the answer before Roebuck gave it.
“One of us should, but it ain’t gonna be me. I got enough to do around here.”
“Excuses, excuses,” said Jude. The two of them laughed until Gwynn walked by, reminding Jude that Reedy warned them about being late.
“Caught a cloud, huh?” Roebuck raised his eyebrows. “We’ve already met the quota. I guess this means we’ll be getting paid soon, boys.”
Jude walked with Gwynn through the metallic corridor leading upstairs to the deck. Long pipes and steel conduits ran parallel to the corridor, providing the crewmembers with semi-filtered drinking water and electric lamps that were often so dim their existence was often pointless.
Jude pulled on his wind-goggles and made sure his coat was securely fastened. As he and Gwynn came on deck, the wind knocked them back. Jude had to grab onto the railing just to keep from being blown down by the gust. The other Hosers were already there, each one manning a different hydro-hose, and they seemed to be struggling with the strong winds, as well.
“There you are,” Reedy shouted to them. “Get a move on! This one’s ready to be Hosed.”
Jude went to his hydro-hose at the main kiosk and pulled it to the port side of the ship.
“Drop the hoses!” Reedy called over the wind whistling through the smokestack pipes.
Jude dropped his hose over the edge. The wind gusted again, sending him forward, and Jude saw himself going overboard and falling the thirty-five thousand feet to his death. That was, assuming the deathly fog beneath the Skyline didn’t kill him first, eating away at his flesh like a starved orphan. He grabbed onto the railing before any of this could happen, breathing a sigh of relief and taking a step backward.
“Begin the raking!” Reedy said.
Jude ensured his hydro-hose was at the right level, its nozzle raking just above the large cloud. The other Hosers did the same, until nearly fifty hydro-hoses were raking over the cloud, ready to begin the next stage.
“Ready on three!” Reedy barked. He marched over to the kiosk on the starboard side of the ship and pulled the first of three levers. A loud hum filled the air. “One…”
Jude could feel the electricity pulsing through the hose, could hear the whirring of the mechanisms by the kiosk. His grasp tightened and he prayed the wind would subside for a few moments longer. The darkness made it dangerous enough—the wind would make it practically deadly.
“Two…”
Jude couldn’t see through the dark, but he knew Reedy had pulled the second lever to start up the filters at the collecting tank. All of the hydro-hoses connected to the collecting tank, which sent the water three floors below deck to the Refinement Chamber. There, the water would be further filtered and purified until the once-poisonous liquid was ready for drinking. It would then be placed into glass bottles, most of which would be then sold at port.
“Three!” said Reedy. He pulled the last lever. Jude and the other Hosers all lurched forward as the hydro-hoses began suctioning water particles from the cloud. Reedy barked his final command. “Begin the extraction!”
Jude used all of his strength to hold the hydro-hose steady as it suctioned the water particles. It was a loud, arduous task, but it was a better life than living subterraneously in the Burrows. Jude had spent the first nineteen years of his life in Burrow 12, and there was no way he was going back. He didn’t care how difficult—or dangerous—this job was.