Gears of a Mad God: A Steampunk Lovecraft Adventure

By Brent
Nichols

Copyright 2012
Brent Nichols

Smashwords
Edition

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 – Grim
Tidings

Chapter 2 – Dragon
Alley

Chapter 3 – A
Disappearance

Chapter 4 – Striking
Back

Chapter 5 –
Flight

Chapter 6 – A Midnight
Caller

Chapter 7 – The
Decision

Chapter 8 – Tick
Tock

Chapter 9 –
Daylight

It was ironic,
Colleen Garman reflected, how often a clockmaker could lose track
of the time.

She was up to
her elbows in brass gears and grease, thoroughly enjoying herself,
when the grandfather clock in the corner began to chime. In moments
half a dozen more clocks joined in, and she straightened,
suppressing an unladylike curse. Six o'clock! Roland would be
picking her up at seven, it would take half an hour to get home,
she needed half an hour to scrub the smell of grease from her skin,
and then there was her hair-!

She left her
tools sticking out of the clock cabinet, not the way her father had
taught her at all, but this was an emergency. Then she raced around
the workshop, turning down gas lights and making sure the windows
were shut. She pulled a jacket on over her coveralls and paused in
the doorway, looking over her domain.

Everything was
squared away, aside from a few wrenches. Dad would be proud.

If she'd known
how long it would be before she saw her workshop again, she would
have stayed longer. Instead she turned away and locked the
door.

The evening
shadows were long, and at first she didn't notice the tall man in
the long, dark coat, striding across the lawn. Her workshop was one
bay in a long block of warehouses, so she didn't pay any attention
to him. He was undoubtedly on his way to see one of her
neighbors.

She jogged
across the grass, and he saw her, and veered toward her. Something
in his face disturbed her, a look of dark intensity, and she jogged
faster, heading for the lights of Spadina street a block away. The
warehouse district got short shrift when it came to streetlights, a
fact that usually didn't bother her, but tonight she was
nervous.

Feed thudded on
the grass and she looked over her shoulder. The man was running
after her, and Colleen broke into a run as well. She dashed up
Treadwell Street, a growing anger fighting with her fear. What
right did some clown have to chase her, to make her run? Of course,
she was late, after all. She decided that was reason enough to keep
going. If she turned and taught this man a lesson, she'd miss her
date with Roland completely.

He was gaining
on her as she reached the intersection with Spadina. It was a much
busier street, with shoppers strolling between stores and
businessmen leaving their offices. She was thinking about stopping,
turning to face the guy, when she saw a streetcar just ahead of
her. She decided to run for it instead, and picked up the pace.

The man behind
her sped up as well. He was no more than a dozen feet behind her
when her stretching hand caught the rail on the back of the
streetcar and she pulled herself on board.

She stood
panting, staring back at him, ready to hammer on his fingers if he
grabbed the railing. But he was too far back. He was quite
determined, the long black coat flapping around his legs as he
sprinted, but he quickly began to fall behind.

Colleen stared
into his face. It was an ordinary face at first glance, long and
thin, a clean-shaven man somewhere between youth and middle age.
But there was a disturbing intensity to his features. As the
streetcar pulled away from him there was no frustration in his
face, no disappointment. Just a grim focus as he stared after
her.

Colleen
shivered and hoped she'd seen the last of him. The next time she
worked late, she decided, she'd tuck one of her larger wrenches
into her pocket. If he came after her again he'd get the surprise
of his life.

Home for
Colleen was a rattletrap row house on a steep hill with a view of
Lake Ontario. With her parents gone the dark house often depressed
her, but tonight she was too distracted to be troubled. She trotted
up the front steps, then paused to pluck an envelope from the
mailbox at her front door.

Inside, she
turned on the lights and tore the envelope open. She was
distracted, thinking of Roland, thinking of how she could be ready
in time, but the words on the page hit her like a blow. It was a
telegraph form, the message succinct, blunt, and brutal.

Very sorry your
uncle Roderick passed this AM in Victoria.

Colleen stared
at the rectangle of paper for a long minute, then walked to the
nearest chair and flopped herself down. She kept staring at the
sheet in her hand, but she was no longer seeing it. Uncle Rod was
dead?

By the time
Roland arrived she was packing. She told him about Roderick in
distracted bursts as she darted back and forth across her bedroom,
gathering her possessions. She took no more than she could fit in a
suitcase. A steamer trunk was more traditional, but it would be a
nightmare to move, and Colleen liked to be mobile.

Roland listened
silently, only sympathy on his face. He was dressed for the night
of dancing he had promised her, and he looked devastatingly
handsome in a brown suit that showed off his height and his broad
shoulders. Colleen looked at him and felt a pang of regret for
their missed evening, and a rush of affection for him. She had
ruined his evening completely, and his only thought was how he
could help.

He carried her
suitcase down to the front door, went to the corner drugstore to
phone for a taxi, then came back and looked her up and down. "I
hope you're not travelling in that," he said.

Colleen looked
down at herself. She was still in her coveralls, hardly suitable
attire for a young lady in public. She frowned in irritation.
Skirts were frankly a pain, and she would be travelling for at
least a week. Well, there was nothing to be done. She thought about
packing her dirty coveralls just in case, but it hardly seemed
likely she'd wear them.

She changed
quickly, pulling on a blue dress and grabbing a bonnet, and ran
back downstairs. "I'll come with you to the train station," Roland
said as the taxi pulled up. "I could even go with you to
Victoria."

"Don't be
silly," Colleen told him. "You haven't packed. And you don't want
to pay for a taxi to come all the way back from the station. I'll
be fine."

"I don't know,"
he said, and she smiled at the concern on his face. She stood on
tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. "Thanks for understanding," she
said. "You're very sweet. I'll see you as soon as I get back."

He insisted on
carrying her suitcase to the taxi. He opened the back door for her,
then took her hand, his face serious. "We need to have a talk when
you get back."

Colleen nodded
and climbed into the taxi. She watched him through the back window
as the car pulled away. She had a feeling he was planning to
propose to her, and the thought put a flutter of excitement in her
stomach, but they had a few issues to work out first. Roland had
some fairly narrow views about how a proper young woman ought to
behave, and they didn't involve wearing coveralls and working with
hand tools.

But she'd been
shaken by the news of Uncle Rod's death. He was her last living
relative. She was truly alone now. Marrying Roland, being part of a
family again, coming home to a house full of light and life and
love, would be hard to resist.

She lugged her
suitcase into the station, found a ticket window, and bought a
return ticket to Vancouver, wincing at the price. She wouldn't have
long to wait. Her train was leaving in less than ten minutes.

She was on the
stairs, the suitcase bumping her legs with every step, when some
instinct made her turn. A man was sauntering across the lobby
behind her, and he lifted a newspaper to hide his face as she
turned, but he was a moment too slow. Colleen felt her stomach turn
to ice. She knew that thin face, that dark coat, those burning
eyes.

It couldn't be
a coincidence. He was following her. But why?

Not for any
good purpose, she was sure.

She kept
moving, down the staircase, her eyes scanning the station. She was
safe enough for the moment, but what if he boarded the same train
she did? She had a sudden vision of going to sleep at night,
wondering what he might do as she slept. Or she might confront him,
teach him some manners, and maybe get herself thrown off the
train.

A group of
sailors stood at the bottom of the stairs, half a dozen
rough-looking young men talking and laughing loudly, and Colleen
instinctively edged away from them. Then one man's words caught her
attention.

"I'm telling
you, it's been stolen."

"You lost it,"
the man beside him said. "Check your pockets again."

"I don't have
that many pockets," the first sailor retorted. "I'm telling you,
someone nicked my wallet."

Colleen stepped
closer and said, "I think it was him."

"Huh? What?"
The sailors stared at her, and Colleen, her heart thumping, let go
of her suitcase with one hand so she could point up the stairs.
"That guy in the black coat, with the newspaper. I think he took
your wallet."

The sailors
looked where she pointed and Colleen quickly moved away before they
could ask any awkward questions. She hurried to her platform, not
turning her head when she heard raised voices behind her, followed
by the sounds of a scuffle. She allowed herself a small smile as
she handed her suitcase to a porter and boarded her train.

The trip from Toronto to the coast took three days.
At first Colleen distracted herself by examining the hardware of
the train, from the straightforward mechanics of the steam
locomotive to the complex, cutting-edge pneumatic brake system. She
watched the scenery, and chatted with her fellow passengers, but by
the second day all of that began to pall.

She brooded
over her shattered family. Her mother was a distant memory, just a
face in a photograph and faint images of warmth and love and a
golden smile, so long ago that she wasn't sure if she was
remembering or imagining.

Her father's
death, 18 months earlier, was fresh and devastating in her mind.
The two of them had been inseparable, working side by side in the
workshop whenever she wasn't in school. She still woke up some
mornings not remembering that he was gone, and was crushed anew
when memory came flooding in.

She reviewed
what she knew of Uncle Rod. He had visited on half a dozen
occasions, always on his way to some exotic new location. He was
rootless, Dad had said. Born to wander the Earth, seeking his
fortune, seeking adventure, never content.

She remembered
a broad-shouldered man, his stomach a bit bigger on every visit,
his face a thicket of bristling whiskers. He smelled of tobacco
smoke and peppermint and something else, a scent she'd never been
able to identify. The first time Colleen encountered whiskey she'd
been shocked to recognize the smell. She'd meant to tease Uncle Rod
about it, but she never saw him again.

Six visits in
twenty years. Oh, probably he'd visited when she was an infant, but
six visits was all she could remember. They hadn't been especially
close. This feeling she had, that she needed to drop everything and
dash across the country, had less to do with their relationship
than with the fact that he was all the family she had left.

Was this trip
ill-advised? She told herself she was going to settle his affairs,
take care of anything that needed doing. She told herself she was
being responsible, but in truth it had been an impulsive
decision.

She was plagued
by questions, and it would take three days at least to get any
answers. Meanwhile there were probably telegrams and letters
stacking up at home with the answers to all of her questions. She
sighed and read the one telegram she'd received for the umpteenth
time.

The telegram
was signed "Jane Favisham." Colleen had never heard of her. Was she
a friend of Uncle Rod? A girlfriend? Whoever she was, she knew
about Colleen.

On the morning
of the third day some of her questions were answered. She found a
Vancouver newspaper, four days old, in the dining car. She glanced
at a lurid headline, dismissed it, and started to turn the page.
Then a name caught her eye and she turned back, a chill spreading
through her body as she read.