Steampunk Airships
I wrote these twelve chapters on my website for friends in the cosplay group called Steampunk Evolution. Each time I sat down to write a chapter I would do so with the idea that the characters would guide me. I would think of Sarah, or Samuel or Virginia and start writing. Though I did follow some classic POV rules, I changed between close third person and first person when I felt it suited the chapter. It was fun to write and good practice. When the first volume ended, I was actually quite surprised as I hadn’t seen it coming. But something told me that I had written enough. For now.
Happy reading.
Steampunk Stories – Airships Twelve – Truce:
24 January 2026
*** Series begins with “Airships One: Dragonfly” *** The winter rain pattered on the cobblestones outside of the small tea house. Sarah Hunter sat outside under a canopy sipping tea and smoking a cigarillo. The endless grey skies of London lurched above her. Masses of clouds that resembled airships and angels and enemies. She inhaled deeply then snubbed out her cigarillo. She gulped down the last of her cold tea and left a handful of coins on the table. The serving boy bowed to her as she opened her umbrella. She nearly tripped when her foot caught on her polonaise dress and cursed out of earshot of the serving boy. She rarely wore anything other than canvas and leather, but in central London she had little choice but to conform. An unaccompanied woman in a tea house was one step from being a harlot. After the destruction of the dreadnoughts, Darkhouse & Sons had sent the Free London prime minister a request for peace talks. A truce had been signed less than a fortnight ago, but Sarah doubted it would hold. Both sides had refused to draw back from the meandering, fortified line that ran from Southend-on-Sea to Oxford, from Bristol to Pembroke. The Free London newspapers screamed that the War Machine Line was impregnatable. After her experiences in the air, she doubted Darkhouse & Sons could be held back so easily. In her mind the victory against the armada had not been a victory at all. The Hackney Carriage clattered down the London street with Sarah bouncing inside. The rain had nearly stopped but the clouds still cloaked the sun. The slowing rain made her miss being up in the air. The damage to her precious Darner had been severe and it would be some time before she flew again. Sarah’s father, military engineer Treyton Hunter, toiled with his team to repair the ornithopter. He had been shocked to see the damage and wondered how Sarah had managed to pilot it to safety. She had neglected to tell him that she had actually crashed into a tree before landing in thick hedges. First Mate Edward Keenan and Captain Samuel Tyler had jumped into the park pond only seconds before the crash. The carriage stopped in front of the London Central Law Library. Sarah paid the fare and allowed the driver to open the door for her. She struggled out with her polonaise catching on the door latch. She ignored the driver’s disapproving stare. She wobbled up the stairs and into the atrium dotted with tables and chairs next to a small café. She walked purposefully towards a pretty young woman with strawberry blonde hair who sat alone near the roaring fireplace, her brow furrowed as she studied a large tome. “Good day to you, Virginia.” Virginia Tyler looked up and offered a sad smile. “Thank you for meeting me, Sarah. Please sit. May I order you tea?” “No thank you, I just had one,” Sarah replied. Virginia folded her hands in her lap. “I met with our family lawyer earlier, things do not look good for my father. The military tribunal is intent on trying him for manslaughter of two air-sailors who died when parachuting, the abandoning of his ship and for the wreck of the Proud Gale.” “Than’s rubbish,” Sarah snapped. “If it hadn’t been for Captain Tyler’s daring, I would never have been able to firebomb the two dreadnoughts. The battle was won because of our combined efforts. Doesn’t the tribunal understand that?” “I think you understand our peculiar situation,” Virginia said. “We are both women who have taken roles reserved for men. Father was convinced of your abilities but most were not. I think in part he’s paying the price.” Sarah drew her shoulders back. “So, it’s my fault?” “Oh no, that’s not what I meant!” Virginia exclaimed. She reached out and took Sarah’s tense hand. “Please forgive me. I only wanted you to understand why this will be so difficult. Father and I both believed in you, but the Free London government is hardly ready to accept women in defining roles. Somehow, we must mount his defence keeping this in mind.” “I spoke to my father,” Sarah said. “He will speak on behalf of Captain Tyler’s character in front of the tribunal.” Virginia’s eyes misted. “Thank you. Treyton Hunter is highly respected. It will help our cause greatly to have him speak on my father’s behalf.” Sarah nodded and cleared her throat. “Have you any word from your brother on the Northern Front?” “Only news from a week ago,” Virginia replied. “Charles is still commanding a War Machine just outside of Oxford. He has not been promoted to lieutenant-colonel of the battalion as he had hoped. Probably because of the shadow of our father falling on him.” “I was referring to our tactical positions,” Sarah said. “Is the line truly being held by the War Machine Battalions as they say in the papers?” “Oh, I see,” Virginia said. “I can’t be sure of that. We need to be careful in our correspondence.” “I thought you said you have your own secret code?” “We do but it’s very limited,” Virginia said. She bit her lip. “You don’t believe the truce will hold?” “I’m not sure I believe that a truce was signed,” Sarah replied. “It seems so improbable. Though we did destroy the three most advanced airships Darkhouse & Sons had, we suffered nearly twice their casualties in the airship battle. It makes no sense for them to call for a truce. Why haven’t they pressed on with a land attack?” “We did capture a handful of their most important spies and informers,” Virginia said. “The ledger you stole from them,” Sarah said with a half-smile. “I suppose they can’t be sure of our military positions anymore. Very well done, Virginia.” Virginia blushed. “I just did my part.” Sarah tapped her fingers on the table. “As we all did. But this government doesn’t see that a woman’s sacrifice is equal to a man’s.” “No, they do not. It will take some years before that will change.” “Assuming it will ever change.” “It will,” Virginia countered. A slow smile spread across her face. “You should see the girls in the slums wearing trousers and pretending to fly. Who do you think they are imitating?” Sarah looked away. “Well, I’m sure that they’ll be flogged for it.” Virginia laughed. “I doubt that. You’re on everyone’s lips, whether they like you or not.” She leaned back and grinned. “Whether you like it or not.” Sarah mumbled as Virginia laughed again. But Sarah knew there was little to laugh about. The truce reeked of falsehood. Darkhouse & Sons would not give up on their empire, and losing a few spies and some elite airships would not stop them for long. Free London’s War Machines had held up well, better than the airships had managed, but the frontier was over three hundred miles long. Sooner or later their enemy would find a weakness and launch a land attack. The darkening sky grumbled. Sarah once again promised Virginia that her father would testify on Captain Tyler’s behalf. Virginia thanked her with tears in her eyes. Sarah wasn’t for tearful goodbyes and nodded brusquely before she turned to walk to the door. She ordered the young porter to hail a Hackney Carriage and then stepped out into the rain with her black umbrella over her covered head. She had even worn a bonnet to appease the good Londoners. As Sarah walked clumsily in her polonaise to the carriage, she cast a gaze up at the sky. She continued to see enemy airships in every dark cloud. She hoped her father would complete the repairs to the Darner sooner than promised. Her impatience was growing. She needed to get back into the cockpit to hone her skills. Sarah knew she would soon be called to arms, and the Darner would be needed whether the men of Free London liked it or not. END VOLUME I.
Steampunk Stories – Airships Eleven – Burn:
17 January 2026
*** Series begins with “Airships One: Dragonfly” *** The clatter of the ornithopter’s wings sounded like basket upon basket of silvery cutlery being dumped onto cobblestones. The Darner billowed steam from her tailpipe and acrid smoke plumed from her wings. As she flew overhead, I finally understood the reason for the unholy sound; she was flying on only three wings. Captain Sarah Hunter dropped the crippled ornithopter’s nose in a frightening display of acrobatics. She ducked under the gas envelope of the first of the two dreadnoughts held fast to the Proud Gale and jolted forward. I closed my eyes and listened for the sound of her wings snapping off as they struck any one of the ropes of the hitch lines, but the only sound I heard was a brief whistle before a tremendous crack and the thick, gurgling of liquid. I opened my eyes to see the first of the fire bombs buried the deck of our enemy. Thick, fiery liquid poured down the inclined planks and raced up the tar covered gas envelope rigging. I missed the second drop as it happened while I watched the first dreadnought burn. I heard the second incendiary charge rolling down the inclined deck of the dreadnought farthest from us. Luck was on our side, as before it could roll off it crashed into the elevated quarter deck and leaked out its burning sludge. A moment later the timer-flare ignited and the dreadnought went up in flames. The Darkhouse & Sons’ air-sailors screamed and scrambled for their parachutes as both of their ships burned. The ornithopter had already flown out of danger and disappeared into the clouds. “Captain Tyler, she’s done it!” First Mate Edward Keenan crowed. “Both dreadnoughts are in flames!” He twisted his body and planted a foot on the railing. “There are three Free London destroyers at half a nautical mile from us. One heavy volley of cannon fire from them will bring us all down.” “Aye, lad, this battle is won at the cost of the Proud Gale.” Keenan pushed off the rail and thudded on the deck. He crawled towards me, fighting against the pitch of more than fifty degrees. He put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry that she has to go. The Proud Gale has served us well against Darkhouse & Sons.” “Well, I can’t say I’ll miss her as I’ll be going down with my ship. Are you sure there aren’t any parachutes left?” Keenan had his eyes on our gas envelope rigging as fire roared upwards. “No, Captain Tyler. And there’s no chance of us reaching one of our destroyers. They are already levelling their flight for cannon fire.” A few enemy air-sailors had managed to fit parachutes and were hurling themselves off the decks. I found I couldn’t wish them ill-will and I hoped their parachutes were robust enough to reach London below. They would be caught, imprisoned and tried. If we were lucky, Free London could try a Darkhouse & Sons officer, but not a captain. I knew the captains would not leave their burning ships. “Well, lad, it’s been an honour having you as my first mate.” Keenan looked over my head. “Captain Tyler, the Darner is coming straight for us!” I rolled and wallowed about on my hands and knees. With my poor sight I could barely make out the blue ornithopter at two hundred yards distant. I felt my stomach clench. “She’s coming apart, lad! There’s something hanging from her underbelly!” “She’s not coming apart; it’s a rope ladder!” Keenan shouted as he scrambled to the railing. He gripped the handrail and pulled himself to his feet. “We’re getting off the Proud Gale!” “No lad, a captain goes down with his ship.” “Not if every other sailor is off of it,” Keenan said. He pulled on my arm. “Up you go, captain. You have a story to tell.” The Darner was at fifty yards. She was hovering erratically as she slowed. “I can’t leave, Keenan. I haven’t done a walk-about to ensure no one is still on board.” “You’ve already been below deck and no one was there,” Keenan said as he tugged me along. “And we can both see there is no one on deck.” “One last look, First Mate. I’m not leaving this ship without one last look below deck. You get to that rope ladder.” I pulled free of Keenan’s hands and crawled towards the galleyway steps. I tumbled down and landed with a thud. I pulled myself upright by using a cross brace on the wall and used the galley partition as support to stumble into the sleeping quarters. I shouted and tugged on the empty hammocks. I lit a gaslight lamp sitting on a table and dared to take it with me. If I dropped it I would burn before I was hit by cannon fire. I slid down the steep steps to the hold below, nearly dropping the lamp. I continued to shout in the low light but received no answer. But I still wasn’t confident that everyone was off the ship. I retraced my lumbering steps and overturned trunks in the sleeping quarters. I stumbled along the inclined wall to the first and second mate’s quarters. Both were empty. Finally, I limped into my Captain’s cabin. I pulled my mattress to the ground but there was no one hiding underneath it. There wasn’t a soul on board, I knew it now. But I couldn’t bring myself to leave my ship. The Proud Gale and I were one and if she made the ultimate sacrifice then so would I. My hand reached into my pocket for my rosary. I sat with my back to my bed and began to pray. Keenan’s young voice bounced off the walls as my cabin door flew open. “Captain Tyler, I’m not leaving without you!” “Get off this damned ship!” Keenan held out a hand. “It’s the both of us off or I’m going down with you.” “You have a family!” “As do you, Captain Tyler.” For a moment I stared into my young First Mate’s eyes. I could see there was no moving him. He would make a fine captain if I got him off this ship. I reached out my hand and Keenan grunted as he pulled me up. We gripped the wooden walls as we scraped and pulled ourselves to the galley steps. Our hands and knees propelled our bodies onto the burning deck. For the smoke I couldn’t see the Darner but I heard her buzzing. Keenan pulled me along as we gasped and choked. My eyes were stinging and with every push of my boots I feared I would roll off deck. I fell but Keenan never let go of my arm and he hoisted me back up. The boom of cannons arrived just before I felt the buckle of the planks as they groaned and splintered. Shards flew past me and suddenly my right arm felt like it had been stabbed. I stopped on the severely inclined deck and tumbled. Keenan grabbed my jacket and jerked me to my feet. Through the smoke I could make out the Darner chattering above me, her rope ladder only a few feet away. I had no strength left and put my trust in my First Mate and our winged saviour. END.
Steampunk Stories – Airships Ten – Holding Fast:
27 December 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** The sudden gust of wind twisted the Proud Gale and slammed her bow into the dreadnought to the strident sound of crunching bones. The impact thrust me forward and my feet caught on the galley way steps. A cry went up from our enemy’s crew as they fell on their decks. The Proud Gale swung back and nearly toppled me down the stairs. More cries filled the air as other air-sailors fell. The grappling hook lines were so taught that they sang furiously in the gusts of the wind. The angry, shrieking melody of the ropes was that of a banshee. Their song was one of warning. Soon they would snap and my ship would plunge thousands of feet down and into the cold waters of the Thames. Or perhaps we would spear ourselves on Big Ben. I crawled along the planks towards First Mate Edward Keenan. He had already pulled himself back up to the grappling cannons and was fitting in the last of our ropes and hooks. The industrious lad had to use his teeth to hold open the firing lid as he needed one hand to manage the grappling hooks and the other hand to keep himself balanced. The Proud Gale was tilted even further than forty-five degrees. Terrible for Keenan, but convenient for my plan. The extra tilt had now forced the bow of the closest of the two dreadnoughts to point perilously downwards. The impact moments ago had compromised her hull and the creaking and groaning told me she wouldn’t stay aloft much longer. Many of her gas envelope lines had snapped off. The second dreadnought was sound, but trapped. If Keenan could fire one last volley to hold us fast, we had a chance to bring down both dreadnoughts and the cost of our own lives. With a grunt I rolled over onto my back and jammed my bad leg against the railing. I had to bite down on my lip not to cry out. I summoned all of my strength and pushed myself to a sitting position. I grabbed hold of the rail and pulled myself to my feet. I was staring straight down at London as if she had been put on a serving platter and tilted upwards. But it wasn’t London that was skewed, it was the increasing lean of the Proud Gale. I was a seasoned captain and had been an air-sailor since I was hardly more than a boy, but the view straight down from a dangerously pitched deck gave me a violent sense of vertigo. The skies were grey and threatened rain. I leaned on the railing and scanned the air for the Darner. There was no sign of the dragonfly class ornithopter neither starboard, nor bow, nor stern. I summoned my courage and twisted my body and put my back to the railing. It creaked in protest as nails loosened but it held my weight. I squinted my eyes and scanned port side. My heart started to pound. “Keenan!” I shouted. “Captain Hunter is arriving, port side! Fire whatever grappling hooks you have loaded before the other lines snap!” “Aye, Captain!” Keenan shouted. From my position I couldn’t see his face, but I was certain Keenan had a grim smile on his lips. His body jerked around as he dragged himself over the grappling cannons and to the loading bay. By his movements I guessed he was loading the small charges to help trigger the spring-loaded firing mechanism. A rope snapped next to him and the recoil damn near took his head off. Keenan froze, but only for a moment. Then he was back fumbling around the cannons. He pulled back the hand crank and I heard a hiss. There was a familiar crack and the grappling hooks launched. He yanked a lever as the hooks descended on the far dreadnought and the ropes retracted, pulling themselves taut. Only then did he glance up to look port side. “There she is!” Keenan cried. “I can see that the Darner has two charges clasped between her legs.” He twisted to look at me. “Captain Tyler, how will she navigate through the tangle of three airships and hundreds of ropes? Even the dreadnoughts are severely inclined. Won’t her firebombs bounce off deck?” “Leave that to her. She is a pilot unlike any we’ve ever seen. Have faith lad, the dreadnoughts will soon be burning.” But Keenan was right. I had given Captain Sarah Hunter a monumental challenge. She would have to drop her charges on two dreadnoughts at their highest position to keep them from rolling off immediately. Then we would have to hope that the thick, flaming goo of the charges would coat the ships before they fell down on London. If they didn’t, her work would be for naught. If our lines snapped, it was likely that at least the second of the two dreadnoughts would escape to terrorize London. I could offer Sarah no help if not to mumble the Lord’s prayer. The Darner was close enough to hear her chattering wings. But the sound was strange, not harmonious, but like a poorly trained drummer boy. I strained my eyes and my breath caught. There was something wrong with her wings. The ornithopter’s flight was unstable, I could see that clearly now. It seemed as though Sarah was pulling in one direction but the ornithopter was pulling in the other. I felt my stomach sink. How could she fly the unstable airship and drop two charges with hairpin precision? The buzzing swelled as the Darner neared the first of the dreadnoughts. Our enemies couldn’t fire their Gatling gun but it didn’t stop them from using their rifles. The normally lithe Darner was ponderous as she hobbled to the first of the dreadnoughts. The ornithopter was smoking from her wings. She was strained and I feared her wings would snap off at any moment. The tiny, blue ornithopter brought her Gatling gun to life. The enemy air-sailors dropped their rifles and sought cover as Sarah spewed bullets upon them. The Darner tilted and dove towards her prey. The demonic chatter of her wings made my own teeth ache. The air-sailors on the dreadnoughts screamed. Time seemed to slow as the Darner flew under the pitched gas envelopes and through a tangle of ropers. I closed my eyes and prayed. But I am ashamed to say I offered up a very unchristian prayer indeed. I prayed that the falling charges would strike our enemies and send them screaming to Hell. *** End
Steampunk Stories – Airships Nine: Battle Over London:
01 November 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** The sound of the collision was tremendous. The only thing that saved my life from dying on impact was the buffering effect of the gas envelopes up above. But before I even realized what had happened, I had been thrown back in time. I could see my darling wife crying out to me to save our daughter. I saw the midwife turn her back to shield me as the surgeon cut into her belly. I heard the first wails of my perfect Virginia. I felt my body tremble with joy and despair. I felt a cold wind on my face. I heard someone shouting my name. I only wanted peace. “Captain Tyler! Captain Tyler! Wake up sir! Please, wake up!” “I—I what? Keenan lad, where am I?” “You’re on the Proud Gale, sir,” he said. I saw him looking over me but I couldn’t understand how he could be standing so high above me. “The gas envelopes are tangled and the grappling hook lines are taut, but they aren’t enough to keep the Proud Gale latched to both dreadnoughts.” “What are you talking about, lad?” “Sir, your plan to bring down two of the three dreadnoughts,” Keenan said. He reached under my arms and began pulling me up. I only then realized I had been lying on the deck of my ship. “We need to decide if we are to break free or fire another set of grappling hooks to try to hold them long enough for the Darner to act.” Keenan scanned the horizon. “I don’t see Captain Hunter, but she fire-bombed the other Darkhouse & Sons dreadnought earlier. It was a fantastic sight, sir. Captain Hunter set the dreadnought ablaze with her tiny Darner, and our destroyers blew her out of the sky.” I could barely focus on the words that came from Keenan’s mouth. My head was stuffed with linen and lace. “What are you going on about, lad?” “Captain Sarah Hunter, sir,” Keenan said. “She must be rearming with charges and will be back soon.” He looked me in the eyes. “Captain Tyler, what’s the plan for our trapped dreadnoughts?” I looked around my ship and then to the dreadnought smashed up against us. Suddenly the events came rushing back to me. I gasped and nearly stumbled. I looked my First Mate in the eye. “Keenan, what are you still doing on deck?” “Serving my captain.” “I ordered everyone to parachute off,” I said. “I can have you court martialed for disobeying my orders.” He grinned. “I look forward to it, sir.” I stared at my First Mate and in spite of myself I burst out laughing. “You’ve got nerve, lad.” “I inherited it from my captain.” I shook my head and clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder. I looked across at the dreadnought and felt my throat tighten. The enemy air-sailors were running across the deck with axes. They paid no heed to Keenan and me as they scrambled to the grappling lines. “Keenan, are there any parachutes left?” “No sir, there weren’t even enough for the crew,” Keenan said. “Some air-sailors had to jump off in pairs.” I felt sick. Those men were almost certainly dead, splattered on a London rooftop or drowned in the Thames. But I couldn’t think of them now. “Fire another volley of grappling hooks. We need to hold the dreadnoughts fast while I think.” Keenan bounded to the grappling hooks and began loading. I searched for my sight glass monocle on the wooden planks as my mind turned. If I could sight Sarah somewhere in the distance there was still hope of sending down the two dreadnoughts with firebombs. I lumbered across the deck and picked up my sight glass. It was cracked, but I fitted it to my eye. I swept my gaze over the sky but I did not see the ornithopter. The dull thud of the grappling hooks being fired reminded me how little time we had to take a decision. I hobbled over to Keenan. “The Darner is nowhere to be seen lad.” Keenan turned towards me. “We’ll need another plan.” “Are we holding fast to the dreadnoughts?” “Aye sir.” “Reload and fire another set of grappling hooks,” I said as I limped towards the companionway. “Sir, where are you going?” “Fire the grappling hooks, Keenan! I need us to be held fast to our enemy.” I looked at my first mate and shook my head. “I’m sorry lad.” I limped down the galley way steps and turned to the port side of the ship. I slid my keys out of my coat and opened a heavy oak door. The light inside was dim so I took one of the gas lamps with me as I walked down the tight passway. I reached the helium envelope anchoring station and sighed. My hand touched the cold steel bar and I allowed myself a brief moment of meditation. I needed my full weight to pull back the safety holder. I grabbed hold of the first rope pulley latch and rotated it until the rope broke free. The backlash nearly took off my face. The thrum was like the sudden buzzing of millions of bees. Then I was shrouded in suffocating silence. I moved to the second rope release and then to the third. With each snap I could feel the Proud Gale pitching. By the time I had freed the last of the ropes the Proud Gale was so inclined that I had to crawl out of the envelope anchoring station, grimacing at the pain from my bad leg. I crawled down the hall and pulled myself up the companionway steps. “Keenan! Keenan lad!” “Here sir!” I saw Keenan waving with one arm as he clung onto a mast. I took stock of the situation. My poor, Proud Gale was pitched at forty-five degrees. The additional ropes Keenan had fired had been enough to hold us fast. The dreadnought she clung to was also pitching dangerously and swayed. It felt like we were on a teeter-totter on the open seas. I could see the enemy air sailors jostling and crawling on deck as they stumbled to cut the additional grappling hook lines. Their shouts and curses from the enemy filled the sky. Would the dreadnoughts break free before the Darner arrived? I scanned the skies in vain, hoping to sight Sarah Hunter. END
Steampunk Stories – Airships Eight: Serving Boy:
18 October 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** The restaurant bustled with the esteemed patrons of England’s elite. Oxford was a border town, but nothing like the dreadfully violent American ones. It was kept quite safe with chevaux de frise along the southern border. Then men and women knew these were a temporary measure to stop violent democrats and would be removed and burned once the war was won and order reestablished. The vaulted room buzzed with news of the liberation of London. Darkhouse & Sons had sent a large fleet of airships to weaken the rebel defences before the ground assault. Lord Darkhouse had advised caution as not to cause severe damage to the city. The restaurant patrons were divided over the strategy. Some of the men supported the slow strangling of London while others wished for a decisive, crushing attack. The royal family and Darkhouse & Sons had the technology and numerical superiority, so what were they waiting for? “All of this dilly-dallying isn’t fit for an empire,” Eugene Boyle said. “Those damned democrats are half starved. I say we roll in and have at it.” “Patience, my good man,” Harold Webster replied. The young accountant had been friends with Boyle since he first partnered with him nearly a decade ago in London. “Our patron Lord Edmund Darkhouse knows his rabble. If we are too hasty, those democrats are likely to burn down the city.” “Nonsense,” Boyle scoffed. “London is made of brick and stone!” “There is enough gun powder to flatten the entire city,” Webster responded. “Bah! A quick and decisive attack will be the end of those spurious democrats.” Boyle turned and waved a hand. “Boy, fetch me a cognac. And be quick about it. We’ve important business to attend to.” The serving boy bowed and skittered away as Boyle took out his pipe and tobacco out of the leather satchel hanging on the chair. “All of this waiting is driving me mad, Webster.” “I think it’s high time you relax,” Webster said. “Have a smoke and then we must be off.” “Will you not partake?” “My throat is quite sore,” Webster coughed and winced. “The pain is increasing by the minute.” “We’ve been working too hard,” Boyle said. “Yes, there is no rest for us accountants now that we are the Empire’s top planners.” “And to think that the empire only thanks the generals,” Boyle huffed. “If someone didn’t make a headcount of every man and war machine, we’d be nothing more than a headless, bankrupt octopus.” He yanked on his collar. “Damn if it’s warm in here.” Webster wiped his brow. “The people won’t ever be able to understand the critical role of the war planner.” The serving boy placed the cognac on the table, bowed and slipped through the sea of waiters and patrons. Boyle smoked and coughed as Webster continued to wipe his brow. But as the strong Brits they were, the two men continued their conversation. They wondered out loud what would come to be. What role would they have when the war was over? They were no longer two simple accountants; they were the men who tracked all expenditures. From the supply chains and soldier transfers to the war machines for the incoming ground assault on London. They expected to be rewarded with important positions in the new Darkhouse Empire. They spoke dreamily about their future offices Surely they would be given a bureau in Buckingham Palace. And their summer cottages would certainly be countryside estates. “Well, we must be off,” Boyle said. He dropped his pipe and struggled to push himself upright. “I’ll be damned if that cognac was strong.” Webster grunted. “Boyle, my throat is on fire.” “It’s nothing, Webster,” Boyle hacked out a cough. “You’ve just caught a chill.” “In July?” “It’s the stress,” Boyle said and he fumbled for his satchel. He frowned. “Webster, didn’t I leave my satchel hanging on this chair? Webster! Get your head off the damned table, man!” Webster slowly raised his head. “I’m really not well, Boyle. Perhaps I should take the rest of the day off.” Boyle cast about and reached out a hand grabbing a serving boy’s arm. “You, boy! Where is my satchel?” The boy blinked. “I don’t know, my good lord.” Boyle waved a finger. “Didn’t you bring me my cognac just minutes ago?” “No, my lord, it must have been one of the other boys.” The maître d’ appeared with gliding steps. “My lord, what has disturbed you?” “This young scoundrel has stolen my satchel!” Boyle wheezed. He tried to stand but slouched back into his seat. “I want him flogged and my satchel returned.” “My lord, the boy has just begun his shift. You were served by another boy who has just terminated his duties for the day.” The maître d’ shouted to the restaurant host. “Close the doors! Look for a serving boy with a satchel! My lords! What is wrong?” Boyle and Webster slumped onto the table knocking glasses to the floor. The maître d’ cast about frantically. “Is there a doctor in the room?” The serving boy leapt onto the train with his head down. He ducked through the passenger cars and ignored the dark glares from the distinguished men and women. Looking left and right, he withdrew a key and unlocked a door to a private cabin. He slipped inside just as the train began to roll North towards Derbyshire. Virginia Tyler took off her wig and set it on the small table by the window. She shrugged out of the serving boy’s clothes and sighed as she looked at her stylish, yet rigid polonaise. Such was the fashion of the times. She smiled as she brushed her hand over the satchel. She unlocked the false bottom of her small traveling trunk and gently set it inside, then snapped it shut. Virginia settled back for the daylong trip North. This evening, she was due to encounter her contact, the code breaker that she hoped would be able to read through the accountant’s ledgers. The tallies of the soldiers and war machines were important, but the patriots of the Free London movement were keen to discover what military secrets were hidden deep within the files. Secrets that could turn the tides of war. END
Steampunk Stories – Airships Seven: Lithe:
04 October 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** The Darner chattered over the airships like the clattering bones of an extinct tetradactyl. The ornithopter dipped her nose and plunged suddenly before a hail of Gatling fire could reach her lithe frame. Sarah Hunter swivelled a small wheel to bank the Darner left, then she pushed on two levers to dive under a volley of cannon fire. She straightened out the orthithopter’s nose by pulling upwards and flew below the hull of an enemy ship. Sarah tilted her head to rest one eye on the long-sight monocle mounted in the cockpit. Her lip curled into a hungry sneer. Sarah could taste her dreadnought prey. The ornithopter buzzed upwards on her four dragonfly wings. The fast beating allowed for three-hundred sixty degree flight, but the power came from a small, coal fired turbine. Sarah opened the steam lever to thrust her tiny airship under the helium gas envelope of a Darkhouse & Sons cruiser. She did not drop her charges on the deck below. She resisted the urge to salute the howling enemy air-sailors. Flying the Darner through the taught ropes required maximum concentration. If she misjudged her exit even by a few feet it would spell the end of her and her beloved ornithopter. The Darner was fast but with two charges held between her legs she could not reach full flight speed. Even last-minute adjustments to her steam turbine couldn’t return the desired swiftness. But Sarah knew she needed the additional charge. Darkhouse & Sons were aware of London’s new flying machine and she could expect that the enemy air-sailors on deck would be ready to extinguish a fire bomb. But dropping two charges, one on the bow and one on the stern, would make it next to impossible for the enemy to put them out before they compromised the hitch lines to the gas envelope. Or so Sarah hoped. Sarah set her small gatling gun blazing. One hand rotated the hand crank in the cramped cockpit, the other hand darted back and forth between the levers to keep the Darner on target. She was half a nautical mile from the dreadnought, at the extreme maximum range of her gun. But she only needed it to get the enemy air-sailors scampering so she wouldn’t face pistol fire. She adjusted the Darner’s trajectory with both hands and cranked the gatling gun back to life. She was less than a quarter of a nautical mile from her target. There was a metallic, hissing clang and the Darner jolted and dropped tens of feet. Sarah’s hands flurried over the levers to regain control. She cursed as she saw a Darkhouse & Sons cruiser below her that had opened fire. The sudden drop in altitude had saved her life as the barrage of projectiles now flew above the ornithopter. She felt a strange vibration in the cockpit and frowned. She turned her head and bit her lip. One of the Darner’s wings had been hit and was immobile. The ornithopter pitched and began drifting. She pulled hard on the levers and looked up. She was on a collision course with the bow of a dreadnought. Straining her muscles to the limit, Sarah pulled on the levers and the ornithopter began climbing. Too slow. She was within two hundred yards of the dreadnought. Sarah’s hand snaked up and grabbed hold of the wings’ inclination lever and pulled it full back. The jittering ornithopter lurched upwards in a near vertical climb. Sarah groaned as the downward pressure pushed on her lungs. She grabbed the inclination lever and jerked it forward for horizontal flight. One hundred yards from her target. The unstable ornithopter opened fire on the dreadnought. Her tiny Gatling gun was enough to cause panic on the enemy’s deck. She received a few gunshot blasts but they would not trigger the fire bombs until compounds mixed. Sarah reached between her legs and slammed her palm down on a push-button. She heard the gurgle of the liquid primer mixing into the two firebombs. She slammed her palm on a second lever and the pilot light flickered to life. Sarah grinned like a demon as she flicked away the first bomb-release safety lock and shouted to the gods. “For a free London!” The first charge dropped on the bow and exploded into a raging fireball. The screams of the air-sailors overcame the chatter of the ornithopter’s beating wings. As Sarah neared her escape between the heavy ropes, she pushed aside the subsequent safety, pulled the lever and dropped her second charge. The booming explosion combined itself with the howling air-sailors. Sarah pulled hard on the levers to jerk her hobbled ornithopter to the left just in time to avoid colliding with the gas envelope hitches. She continued to pull to avoid colliding with a Darkhouse & Sons cruiser. Her hands frantically worked the controls to fly between two enemy ships. The Gatling gun crossfire ceased as the air-sailors could not risk killing each other. Panting and wheezing to maintain control of the Darner, Sarah circled around to see her dreadnought prey taking cannon fire from a Free London destroyer. The impact shattered hitches and tore up planks. The dreadnought received a second volley from another London destroyer and more lines snapped. The enemy deck was a massive blaze with flames licking up the ropes. The Darkhouse & Sons state of the art warship snapped free from her gas envelope and plummeted to the ground below. Sarah allowed herself a small smile as she wiped the sweat from her brow. She took a wide circle and then grimaced. There were still two dreadnoughts left and she was flying on three wings. But hobbled or not, she was determined to mount two more charges and return to assist Captain Samuel Tyler in ridding the skies of this new menace. He would likely be in position now, desperately trying to bunch up the dreadnoughts to slow their arrival over the city center. The ornithopter flew erratically to reach the supply ship. She was distracted by an odd scene and she squinted her eyes. She put her head to the long-sight monocle. She shook her head and adjusted the sight distance. She let out a sharp gasp just as the Proud Gale collided full thrust with a dreadnought. END
Steampunk Stories – Airships Six: Dreadnoughts:
20 September 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** The sparks from the Gatling guns struggled to replace the night stars. But the grey dawn was thrust to full daylight by the exploding mouths of cannons. Heaving and snarling, the two air-navies faced off in the air. The airships blotted the sky over London like a tattered patchwork quilt. The destroyers of our great city formed a multilevel blockade, but struggled to hold position against the Darkhouse & Sons armada. They had three state-of-the-art dreadnoughts in their fleet. They were faster than our destroyers and had three rapid fire Gatling guns to our two. The scene from rearguard was enough to make me choke. Our enemy was slowly breaching our defenses. “Captain Tyler, we’ve been flagged!” First Mate Edward Keenean pointed to our second mate who had raised his banner. Keenan began turning the helm. “We can be in position in minutes.” The young man had no fear. He did not comment on the fact that we would likely be facing off against two of the dreadnoughts in order to slow the attack on our London. But this was the plan. The outcome of the meeting in the war room had been clear. We expected to be overwhelmed by Darkhouse & Sons and we were to slow their assault to allow the Darner to make her attack. I looked at my dear Proud Gale. She had been haphazardly repaired and cleared for flight. She still needed at least two more weeks of reconstruction on the drydocks, yet we had taken to the skies. “Keenan, full throttle, lad.” Keenan hammered on the bell and the engineer signaled in return. Seconds later I heard the gulping groan of steam being forced to our propellers and we lurched forward. The wind was like an icy blade at this height, even though it was July. I felt a shiver run down my spine, though I could not say if it were the cold, or the two dreadnoughts that faced us. “Sir, the second mate has signaled,” Keenan shouted. “In ten seconds we will be in position to fire.” “No lad,” I said as I limped to the helm. “We wait for the first volley.” I pulled on the wheel and turned our trajectory. “But sir, we’ll be off course to shoot our own first volley!” “Keenan, get down on deck and wait for my signal.” The young man swallowed and saluted. He scampered away like a jackrabbit and sprinted across the planks to the second mate. I watched them gesture towards me and then they turned towards the dreadnoughts. If they had known my plan they would have committed me to Bedlam. We took Gatling fire seconds later. I signaled to the second mate and we returned fire. Shouts of fear and pain filled the air. We were hit by a cannon volley that sent shards of wood skittering across the deck. Still, I did not order our cannons to fire. I stared at the two dreadnoughts. These were two out of three that Darkhouse & Sons had unleashed upon us. I flew the Proud Gale obliquely cutting across their path. Only one could now engage in combat. The second dreadnought was trapped behind the first. I pulled hard on the helm. “Keenan! Keenan!” I shouted with all of my breath. “Alert the Ambulance Ship!” Out of the corner of my eye I saw the hospital airship at not less than half a nautical mile from us. A confused Keenan raised the white flag with a red cross. Just as the airship responded we were hit by a second cannon volley. “Keenan! Return fire!” Our cannons exploded in a nearly useless trajectory. I could imagine what the First and Second Mates thought; the old sailor had lost his mind. He can’t hit a dreadnought at an arm’s length. I imagined the captain of the enemy ship laughing and my ineptitude. I could see him turning to his own first mate to say how London’s fleet was outdated and captained by half-wits. I looked across the deck to see Keenan racing towards me. “Sir! We’re off course!” Keenan gasped. “We can’t hit them with cannon fire if we’re flying straight on!” “Keenan, get all the men to the far side of the ship,” I said and straightened the Proud Gale. “Throw the mooring ropes and get the gangplanks across to the ambulance ship.” “But I don’t understand,” Keenan said. “We’ve hardly suffered any casualties.” “Now, First Mate!” I roared. My hand grabbed the hammer and I vented my rage on the engineering bell. I received confirmation and felt the propellers push us forward. I hammered on the bell again and from a distance I could see the engineer balk. Yet he gave another order below deck. The pipes began to rattle and steam billowed as we picked up speed. “My God Sir,” Keenan whispered. He looked at the dreadnoughts and then back to me. “This is suicide.” “Get everyone off this ship!” I shouted. “You’ll have precious seconds to send the injured across. The rest are to parachute below.” “But sir! I have to protest—” “I will not give this order again!” Keenan and the Second Mate scrambled and shouted orders. I watched the injured being carted towards the gangplanks for a mad flight-transfer. I could only pray no one would fall below. Air-sailors from below deck began pouring out in panic. Parachutes were passed around as the injured were dragged hastily across the gangplanks. Lines ripped as the Proud Gale tore away from the floating ambulance. My heart nearly stopped as I saw the scene on my deck. The air-sailors had paused and removed their caps. They stared at me silently. If not for the howling wind I would have heard a pin drop. Keenan looked me in the eyes and tears dropped on his youthful cheeks. He gave me a trembling salute, then he turned and shouted orders. The men raced to the gangplanks and leapt into the air. Godspeed to them. I faced the two dreadnoughts. I was at an angle where their cannons would be virtually useless. The closest one opened fire with her Gatlings but quickly ceased. Their air-sailors realized my intentions and panic ensued. I could see them racing to reach the lower decks to get their own parachutes. I wouldn’t give them the time. I slammed down the helm lock to keep the suicidal trajectory. I lumbered down the steps to the deck below. With a hurried limp I crossed to the foredeck and put my hands on the grappling gun cranks. I rotated them to shoot up over the first airship in the hopes it would reach the second. I stared into the fuming eyes of the dreadnought’s captain. Seconds before impact I pulled on the grappling gun levers. Final log entry from Captain Samuel Tyler. END
Steampunk Stories – Airships Five: Lord Darkhouse:
14 September 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** “The knife, Clyde,” Lord Edmund Darkhouse said. The antique edge traced delicate lines in the hands of its master. Even strokes moved back and forth to liberate his prize. Lord Darkhouse set the knife down on a wooden holder and steadied his aged shoulders. He reached inside and extracted the organ which he then delicately placed inside a sacred vessel on a bed of exotic wood and incense. “The basin,” he said. His hands broke the surface of the lukewarm water. With slow and methodical movements Lord Darkhouse splashed his left hand six times, then his right hand six times. He proceeded to rub his hands together a further six times. He raised his arms and allowed the drops to fall into the crimson water. He took the towel from Clyde and wiped his hands. His servant whisked away the basin and stained towel. “Very good, Clyde,” he said. “Prepare my pipe and snifter. I shall rest for a moment and then we will continue.” Lord Darkhouse turned away from the stone altar and walked to a large armchair in the corner of the room near the hearth. He stopped to admire the portrait of the great Nathan Darkham. The noble family of Darkhouse descended from Nathan, a rare coin dealer who established Darkham House Trading in 1747. His grandson, Walter Darkham, combined the trading house name and his surname to create the Darkhouse family. Walter then founded Darkhouse Trading and opened the first family bank in 1789, a most peculiar year on the European continent. It was that same year that they were awarded the Barony of Darkhouse by the British royal family. Through cunning and skill, the late Walter Darkhouse expanded business from England into France and Germany. The business name was changed to Darkhouse & Sons to include the vast family network that governed a financial empire with branches in most of Europe. But it was in London where Walter Darkhouse took up permanent residence in 1801. The Darkhouse family had lived in London until 1887 when unfortunate events precipitated and forced their temporary displacement one hundred fifty miles North. The estate home in Derbyshire was a safe haven for Lord Edmund Darkhouse’s illustrious family. Rebels had attempted to plant bombs and parachute in balloonist assassins, but each attempt had been cleverly thwarted. The skies and streets were patrolled with the latest technologies and any vile rebel that set foot on his estate had been caught and killed. Derbyshire gave Lord Edmund Darkhouse the tranquility to improve the empire’s finances. As he said to his grandchildren, war was the ideal time to conduct business. With the help of the royal family, Lord Edmund Darkhouse had financed a fleet of airships and took back Scotland, Ireland and most of England in a matter of weeks. Darkhouse & Sons had liberated the country from democrats as far South as Oxford. The peasants, workers and lawyers could not be trusted with day to day running of the country, let alone planning for the future. The United States of America was a growing economic threat, and forced Darkhouse & Sons to act. In order to sustain England’s great empire a great family was needed to govern it. But stubborn London expelled the royals, blockaded the Thames and set up a long perimeter of war machines North of the city. And to think the democrats dared call him a war mongering despot. Lord Edmund Darkhouse was profoundly offended by the appellative ‘despot’. His only wish was to ensure that the British Empire stood above all others. His strong finances would create favourable trade agreements which would improve the life of even the lowliest peasant. This was something the unschooled couldn’t understand and he didn’t blame them. Though he did blame the lawyers and politicians who dared call him a despot. They had the culture to understand the necessity of Lord Darkhouse’s plans. Some days he wondered if the problem of his persona was that he was too enigmatic. He was rich beyond what a common man could understand, but he was neither lavish nor decadent. He had funded countless country schools and had even had a hand in writing curriculum guidelines for the children. He had made many donations to the common kitchens for the poor. He had constructed orphanages, completed roads and had even donated common living quarters in Whitechapel. Perhaps it was his physical appearance that put people off. His large frame was wide and heavy. His face broad, his nose unusually small and narrow, his beard neatly trimmed. Though he was not auburn, he took pride when he was compared to King Henry VIII. But the population too often saw the long dead king as a philanderer. He was anything of the sort. He was married and was very discreet in his use of mistresses. Lord Edmund Darkhouse was truly puzzled by his unfair depiction. “Your cognac, my Lord,” Clyde delicately placed the snifter next to the pipe on the table. “You’re a common man, Clyde,” Lord Darkhouse said. “What is it that your folk cannot understand about the liberation of the English Empire from those damned democrats?” “I believe they don’t understand the confusion that voting causes,” Clyde responded. “First they vote right, then they vote left, then they vote down the middle and nothing gets done.” “Well noted, Clyde,” he nodded and lit his pipe. If his servant weren’t so punctual and perfect in his daily tasks, Lord Darkhouse would have promoted him. “But how to make them understand?” “My Lord, perhaps when the conquest is completed and peace is established there will be the right conditions for a discourse,” Clyde said. “Yes, after the war has been won I can write a speech or two and circulate flyers,” Lord Darkhouse puffed and blew out smoke. “Then I will sign a proper trade agreement with those ghastly Yankees so I can rebuild London and spread riches to the poor workers.” He drained his snifter and sighed. “Though I will have to make an example of those damned lawyers, politicians and rebellious admirals.” “I’m sure my Lord will do what is necessary,” Clyde said. “The incense burner is ready, my Lord.” “Very good, Clyde,” Lord Darkhouse said as he rose from the armchair. “Let us complete the auspicious ritual for an everlasting peace under the umbrella of Darkhouse & Sons.” END
Steampunk Stories – Airships Four: Take to the Skies:
09 August 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** I jolted awake to the sound of a hand-crank siren. My hand fumbled around the night table for the gaslight before my mind was conscious of my actions. In my drowsy stupor I overturned the pack of matches and they whispered to the floor. My bad leg sent a wave of pain to my teeth as it touched the wooden planks. I whisked my hands about until I found my matches. Moments later the gaslight lit the gloom. My leg throbbed and I was thankful I could not see it under the bandages. The smell of puss made me nauseous. I had been neglecting the herbs and compresses that Virginia had prepared for me. When she returned, I would be treated to her scolding. But my daughter was right. I had to strengthen my body for the long war ahead of us. There was a thunderous knock. “Captain Tyler!” First Mate Edward Keenan’s muffled voice filtered through the door. “Sir! Scout balloons have sighted Darkhouse & Sons’ Dreadnoughts over the Thames!” Damn our enemy! The Dreadnoughts were enroute a day before our spies had told us to expect them. These were state of the art airships that we could not match. The Dreadnoughts had steam turbines and heavy guns that were years ahead of our own dirigible. Our only defence was the risky act of blocking their entrance over London and praying that Sarah Hunter’s incendiary bombs hit their marks. I shouted at the door. “Keenan, the ground crew preparations?” The oak staves swaddled Keenan’s voice. “They completed them in the evening. The Proud Gale is ready for her gas envelope pre-flight inspection.” “Keenan, lad,” I winced as I pulled on my boots. “Take her up to the launch dais. I’ll meet you there.” There was a moment of hesitation before he spoke. “But your leg, sir.” “Now, First Mate!” “Aye sir!” His padded gallop faded quickly. I sighed and put a hand to my head. Keenan was a fine lad and should have been home with his pregnant wife and his young child. Instead, he would be facing advanced airships on the relic I commanded. He deserved better. All of London deserved better. I would likely be the death of Edward Keenan before this was over. And the death of many others. I was an old man with a bad leg. I wasn’t fit to lead our defence but our fleet was sorely lacking experienced men. I had never been amongst the best of captains. My tactical abilities had always been pedestrian. Only my great experience and nerves of steel had won me battles. I had retired long before Darkhouse & Sons had begun their murderous conquest of England. I had returned to serve my great city. I cared little for honour and titles and took up a role as captain and not admiral. In the third air battle I had suffered cannon shrapnel in my leg. Even Virginia couldn’t heal it for me. She said I needed herbs and rest. I barely had time for herbs and no time for rest. I thudded down the stone corridor without my cane. A cane was of no use up in the air. On the deck of the Proud Gale my only hope of keeping upright was to cling to a rail or to the helm. I would keep Keenan on the helm for as long as I could. I needed the lad to learn quickly and I needed to pace myself during the battle. I was ashamed to think I would need to rest until we were in the thick of it, but my leg would not allow for anything more. Dawn’s light crept around my feet. I looked up and a gust of wind nearly blew off my captain’s hat. Each time I looked at the spectacle I was humbled. Dozens of airships moored to floating docks above the Thames. They took their turns to hover up to the dais for a final helium envelope inspection before they would billow out to battle. Normally a captain boarded his ship on the ground, but I was too slow to get moving. I would board the Proud Gale from the inspection deck. “Good morning, Captain Tyler,” a silhouette detached itself from a mooring line that rose fifty feet in the air. Even with narrowed eyes it took me a moment before I recognized the lithe figure. “Captain Hunter. A good day to you, madam.” Sarah’s lip curled upwards as she brought a cigarillo to her lips. She drew in deeply and released a rippling cloud of smoke. She was in her flight canvas and leathers, her goggles on her head and her red flight cap hanging from her neck. She strode towards me. “It seems like Darkhouse & Sons wants to end this war quickly.” I thought it was the most curious thing to say. “You expected differently, Captain Hunter?” “Yes sir,” Sarah flanked me as we walked towards the scaffolding. “I expected Lord Darkhouse to toy with us like a cat with a mouse.” She gave me a wicked grin. “Then when the time was right, Lord Darkhouse would tear us apart and bring home his trophies.” Such a curious thing to say. “Why would he do something so foolish? A war is won when its battles are quick and decisive.” “With respect, Captain Tyler, you don’t know Lord Darkhouse,” she said as she put her hand on the banister. She slowed her pace to match my ascent. “He doesn’t want a quick victory,” She stopped and gazed into my eyes. “He wants to feed on our souls.” I felt the icy shock of her words. Was she suggesting that Lord Darkhouse was some sort of devil worshipper? What did she know about his true aims? I had just opened my mouth when she spoke again. “It looks like the Proud Gale has been cleared for flight,” Sarah said and saluted the inspector. “I’ll leave you to your crew.” I ran my hand over my auburn mustache. “Madam, when are you scheduled for flight?” “Right after all destroyers and frigates have taken to the skies.” Her braid whipped in the wind. “The Darner doesn’t have enough steam capacity to manage a sustained flight.” I nodded. “The second incendiary charge is in the grappling legs?” “Yes sir, and I’ve conducted a second test flight,” Sarah shook her head. “It slows the Darner greatly so I’ll need to use the Proud Gale for cover until I’ve released the first charge.” Sarah spoke the words to me with regret, almost with shame for having to hide behind us. But it was she who took the greatest risks of all. The Darner had no armour to defend against Gatling fire. One cannon shot would blow her from the sky. I bowed my head. “The Proud Gale is at your service, madam.” Sarah saluted. “For a free London.” I returned the salute. “For a free London.” I watched her descend the wooden steps. Though she was a grown woman she kept the youthful, bouncing gait that I remembered. I shook my head and limped up to the extended inspection deck to board the Proud Gale. As I returned Keenan’s salute, I pondered her words about Lord Darkhouse. What kind of enemy were we facing? And what else did Sarah Hunter know? END.
Steampunk Stories – Airships Three: Sarah Hunter:
19 July 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** “A ludicrous decision,” the airship frigate captain said. He cast a glance at Admiral Robert Walker and whispered harshly. “To think that Admiral Walker has included her in our defence formation.” “Preposterous,” an airship destroyer captain responded. “She is likely to lose consciousness in a prolonged flight at high altitude.” “Indeed,” the frigate captain replied. “It is well known that the female organs cannot withstand reduced air pressure.” “What if she suffers hysterics during the next air battle?” A captain said from the next table. “She might crash the Darner right onto my deck.” “These war meetings used to be quite pleasant,” the captain next to him said. He sighed into his whisky. “Yes, the situation regarding London is dire, but the war room should be kept a gentlemanly affair.” “Can’t the London Free Council see the right and the wrong of Sarah Hunter?” “A woman’s place is in the home!” “Why is she muddled up in the business of war?” “I wish to see no more of Sarah Hunter parading about as a pilot.” “The war room has been upended and I dare say it will not recover.” “I propose we address the situation with Admiral—" The war room door slammed shut. Standing tall in a leather vest and wool pants, Captain Sarah Hunter surveyed the room. Her dark hair was pulled back in her customary braid that reached her waist. Her long arms hung loose and her fingers twitched. With slow, cat-like steps she padded across the floor to stand next to Admiral Robert Walker. Her green eyes glittered with disdain. She offered a crisp salute. “Admiral Walker and my fellow captains, good morning.” Her emphasis on ‘fellow’ was unmistakable even to the most obtuse man in the room. The three dozen captains stood. There were a few grumblings but the men returned her salute and sat again quickly. Captain Samuel Tyler settled back in his chair with a wince and sighed. He had listened to the captains deride Sarah for the better part of an hour. Each time one went silent someone else took his place. All matters of comments were made, from the absurd to the tasteless. They questioned her abilities, morals and even her male-like physicality. The captains simply would not accept that a woman, especially one so young, could be a critical factor in the air defence against Darkhouse & Sons. Tyler had known Sarah for nearly ten years. He had met her when he had collaborated with her father, the Victorian military engineer Treyton Hunter. While the two men made improvements on rotor-fins the spirited child handed tools to the brilliant engineer. She would boisterously claim that one day she would become the greatest pilot the world had ever seen. Tyler was quite certain that she had already achieved her goal at only twenty years of age. The brief history of Sarah Hunter the pilot seemed charmed. She had flown her first experimental ornithopter when she was only thirteen. Three years later she outclassed senior pilots when flying Raven ornithopters at airshows over London. Now at twenty years of age, she was the only person capable of flying the Darner, an airship so confounding that the men who tried to pilot her had renounced their efforts. They had claimed it was not possible to govern the prototype. Too many levers to the Dragonfly Class Combat Bomber. Too unstable when flown at full throttle. When hovering the ornithopter threatened to roll over. While they argued with Treyton Hunter over the ornithopter’s complexity, Sarah ignited the steam turbines and leapt into the cockpit. She buzzed over the Thames and nearly sheared off their top hats when she dived over the test field. Her perfect hovering and soft landing had made a mockery of the pilots. Admiral Robert Walker had little choice but to assign her to London’s air defence. Tyler watched the mismatched pair whisper briefly. A tense Walker nodded curtly and he put his hands on the scale model of London. “Lady and gentlemen, we will discuss our new strategy for the air defence of the city.” Walker turned a hand crank and toy-sized airships painted with the Union Jack descended. He actioned a second crank and the fleet of Darkhouse & Sons fell from the roof like birds of prey. “Our spies inform us that the new Dreadnought Task Unit will be joining the Darkhouse & Sons war fleet. It is expected that we will face at least three Dreadnoughts in the next attack on London.” Walker rotated a small handwheel which shifted the dangling London airships and set them in defence formation. “We must block their entrance into the city’s airspace and allow the Darner to fly through our formation to fire bomb this new threat.” A sneering frigate captain stood. “Admiral Walker, permission to pose a question about the tactics,” his eyes darted from Walker to the impassive Sarah. Walker nodded. “Permission granted.” “How can the Darner dispatch any more than one dreadnought with only a single incendiary charge?” The frigate captain looked around the room to the nodding heads. “Aren’t we compromising standard defence for a risky ploy with a barely tested prototype flown by—,” he flailed his arms. “Flown by the gentler sex?” The room bubbled as Walker glared. His fierce beard, cleanly shaven head and icy grey eyes restored order without raising his voice. “Captain, the Darner has been modified to carry a second charge.” Walker looked at the expressionless Sarah who offered a curt nod. The admiral rotated a wheel and the tiny Darner bobbed on a steel wire towards a large, flat-decked airship. “The floating resupply ship has been fitted with a cantilever landing pad. Captain Hunter has run a test simulation to fit a third and fourth incendiary charge.” Walker motioned to Tyler. “As we’ve seen with Captain Samuel Tyler, the combined efforts of a destroyer and a Dragonfly Class Combat Bomber were successful in bringing down the superior Crusher.” There were a few murmurs from the room as the frigate captain mumbled a thank you and sat with a stony look on his face. Captain Tyler grimaced at having been singled out. Though he had been called a hero in the streets and pubs of London, his fellow captains had offered little more than a cool thanks for his risky mission in facing the Crusher. Sarah had received no thanks at all. But no amount of derision would stop Tyler from collaborating with the young Sarah. She was a fundamental piece in the defence of the city. And the daughter of his friend. Captain Samuel Tyler cast a gaze at the tall and lanky Sarah next to the grim Walker. He felt an affinity for her and her father. The two men had both lost their wives during childbirth. Tyler had his twenty-four-year-old son, Charles, and his twenty-two-year-old daughter Virginia. Treyton Hunter only had Sarah. They were two widowers fearing for their grown children with London at war. Sarah risked her life in the air. Virginia endangered herself as a spy and assassin. Charles was in constant peril crammed in a war machine on the Northern London battlefront. The two fathers had confided in each other at the start of the war. Had they made the right choices for their children? What price would their families pay to free London from the boot of tyranny? END.
Steampunk Stories – Airships Two: Apothecary:
05 July 2025
*** Series begins with "Airships One: Dragonfly" *** The soft click of china cups intermingled with low laughter. White lace tablecloths spilled down onto dresses and trousers. Trays of cakes and scones came and went on the shoulders of impassive waiters. Next to a gas light a young woman cast an otherworldly shadow onto the delicate, flowered wallpaper. She wore a black coat over a dark green velvet polonaise. Her white gloves matched her chalky hat. She smiled and curtsied as a rotund man with long sideburns rose to greet her. “A pleasure madam,” he said as he smoothed out his rumpled jacket and offered a curt bow. “I must admit, I was most surprised when I read the telegram that your husband would be sending his darling wife to our meeting.” “Oh, Harold is such a scatterbrain,” she laughed into her hand. “He booked two meetings for this afternoon. If our servants didn’t screw his head on every morning, I fear he would take the steam car to Darkhouse & Sons without it.” The man chuckled and pulled out her chair. “Yes, our Harold has too many things on his mind. It’s a shame I can’t discuss details of the meeting with you.” His mouth widened in a cat-like smile. “I would hate to put a strain on your delicate sensibilities.” She giggled and waved her hand. “You know women too well, my good sir. With our soft brains we’re likely to have a fit with too many particulars.” He laughed and puffed his cigar. “I don’t disturb my wife with such facts, either.” He tapped the table. “You brought the ledger?” “Oh yes, here it is.” She bumped her arm into the porcelain teapot and sent it crashing to the floor. There was a gasp from the teahouse and the woman with the chalk coloured hat wrung her hands. “My goodness what a disaster I am! Luckily you still have your tea in the cup.” She smiled and lowered her eyes. “You best drink it up before I’m the cause of another Greek tragedy!” “Think nothing of it,” the man drained his teacup and smacked his lips. “I’ll have another sent right over.” He raised his arm. “Boy! Teapot! And be quick about it!” “Thank you, sir.” She folded her hands in her lap and leaned back. A young waiter filled her cup with boiling black tea. She smiled and adjusted her hat. “I take it you have the documents Harold requested?” “Of course,” he patted the satchel slung over the chair. “But why rush? Let us enjoy a few moments of company.” His eyes roamed up and down her frame. “We could have another scone and then perhaps retire to my private tea room.” “Oh my,” she batted her hand feverishly. “I wish I had brought my fan.” “I’ll have one provided to you, madam.” He raised his hand. “Boy! Bring a fan for my gracious guest.” Two waiters exchanged words and one walked to the back of the tea room and disappeared through a small door. The woman smiled and reached for a scone and delicately took a bite. The man stared and licked his lips. His heavy brow glistened with sweat. His jowls threatened to sog themselves into his collar. This was a man used to a catered and soft life. Someone who felt no shame in thriving on the backs of working men. It was evident in his every gesture. The woman’s eyes flicked to the entrance and she pressed her elbows into her sides. She lowered her eyes and spoke softly. “If you’ll excuse me a moment my lord. I need to attend the powder room. Feminine matters.” “Of course, madam.” He coughed and pulled on his collar. “It’s very warm in the teahouse.” She whispered over her shoulder as she stood. “Perhaps you should call for your coach.” He clutched his stomach and moaned. “Yes. Yes, I shall. Boy! Call my carriage.” The woman threaded her way through the tables and towards the powder room. She opened the door, slipped inside and threw the latch. She pulled off her hat and dark wig to reveal strawberry blonde hair beneath. She placed her disguise on the marble counter and released her long locks. She drew pins from her sleeve and deftly set her hair back. She reached into her bag and pulled out a yellow overcoat with a flower motif. She removed her black one and quickly slipped into her sunny disguise. She fitted a matching yellow hat and adjusted it to a jaunty angle. She took one final look at herself in the mirror. Staring back at her was Virginia Tyler, daughter of Captain Samuel Tyler. She crammed her disguise into her bag and unlatched the powder room door. As she walked into the tea room, she saw her supposed husband gesticulating over the disgusting man collapsed on the table. The waiters were shouting about a dark-haired woman in a green dress and black overcoat with whom he had shared tea. Of course, Virginia had shared much more than just tea. She had added a little something to the teapot before the waiter had served it. Such a pity that it had accidently crashed to the stone floor before she could drink from it as well. As a skilled apothecary, Virginia knew which dose could heal and which dose could kill. The execution of the man had not been her primary goal. The London Free Council suspected the papers he carried contained a list of moles and a planned infiltration of their army. The sudden appearance of Harold Webster, a young accountant for Darkhouse & Sons, had kept her from retrieving the documents. She was disappointed at the lost opportunity, but the war for freedom was full of setbacks. Virginia turned her head and walked purposefully to the tea room entrance. She hesitated to hear the man’s last gasp. At least she could take heart in the fact that there was one less senior trader in Darkhouse & Sons. END. Thanks to Fabio and Sara for the Apothecary suitcase with its clever vials.
Steampunk Stories – Airships One: Dragonfly:
24 June 2025
“Captain Tyler! Battleship off the starboard bow!” My head snapped to follow First Mate Edward Keenan’s warning finger. Billowing out of a grey cloud above us, a gigantic battleship sneered like a hungry megalodon. She was both beauty and beast. I didn’t need to see her flank to know she was the Crusher, the flagship of the despotic conglomerate Darkhouse & Sons. Two of our destroyers could have fit on her gondola. She was painted the colour of dull iron with a giant red cross on her monstrous helium gas envelope. The Crusher had a double propeller design to move her impossible weight. She was powered by three massive coal-fire engines and she mounted wind stabilizers the size of frigates. What terrified me most wasn’t her two hundred cannons but her state-of-the-art Gatling gun mounted on her foredeck. It was the size of a steam car and required a team of five men to operate. It could shred a hull like a cat’s claws could slice through writing paper. “Hold the course steady, lad! Do not bank!” Keenan was a fine first mate. Only twenty-five years old and thrust into the position after the death of too many seasoned men. The first months of the air battles had been a disaster for London. Keenan swallowed hard. “Aye Captain.” He grabbed the helm and kept us on the suicide course. We were Destroyer Class, half the size of the incoming battleship. Yet we were London’s best hope. I would not allow the Proud Gale to deviate from our secret mission. “Captain!” Keenan jerked his head from the steering mounted spyglass. “The Crusher is preparing her Gatling gun!” “Relieved, Keenan!” I shouted as I limped up to the helm. My bad leg felt like rotten wood. I took Keenan’s position at the massive wheel. “Target her heavy gun.” “Second mate!” Keenan shouted. He hopped off the foredeck and thudded on to the wet planks below. The youth paid no heed to the cold rain. “Ready for fire!” “Aye sir!” I watched the second mate scamper across the deck and shout orders to our gunners. The Proud Gale had two medium sized rapid turn Gatling guns. Not enough to cause serious damage to the Crusher, but with careful aim we could force our enemies to scramble away from their own massive gun. I looked at my pocket watch. The Darner should have reached us by now. My orders may have seemed like a suicide mission to my men, but I was not a captain with a death wish. We were to bring down the Crusher by coordinating our attack with a new airship. The city of London had built a high-speed combat bomber ornithopter that could change the course of the war against Darkhouse & Sons. “Keenan!” I shouted as I set my bad leg on the helm post. “Full throttle!” Keenan rang the engine bell and waved the warning flags. The chief millwright raised his flag in return as the turbines hissed out steam. Our propeller doubled its rotation and thrust the Proud Gale forward. I put my body into the helm and the rotor-fins deviated us port side. The gondola groaned and swung under the gas envelope as the ship banked violently. The crew struggled to keep itself balanced as our Gatling guns blazed to life. Tracer rounds tracked the shooting straight to the Crusher’s massive gun. Our enemy was slow to open fire and abandoned their heavy weapon. But it was no victory. Within seconds we would be in full range of their cannons. “Keenan!” I swung hard starboard to run parallel to the Crusher. “Drop twelve ballast sacks!” “But Captain!” Keenan shouted over the snarling thunder. “The upward thrust will rip the envelope lines!” “Now, First Mate!” I roared. I pitied Keenan. He knew nothing of London’s daring plan. Disciplined and loyal, the First Mate shouted orders and the air-sailors hacked and chopped at a dozen ropes. The ballasts dropped and the ship cords whined and rippled up to the gas envelope. With a stomach-turning heave, the Proud Gale leapt skyward. I tried not to think of the giant weights we dropped on London. God only knew what or who they would strike. This was the price of war. Icy rain showered me and dripped from my thick mustache. Our destroyer climbed and took cannon fire. A hitch line lock exploded in a shower of splinters. Three air-sailors were blasted off deck. Planks dislodged when the starboard safety rail was blown apart by cannon fire. I pulled hard on the helm and prayed for the arrival of the Darner. “Keenan! Return fire!” Our cannons blasted a volley as our destroyer levelled out above the Crusher. The cannon balls bounced off the envelope’s cage and crashed down on the battleship’s deck. It did not stop our enemy’s climb to reach us. Both ships had taken heavy fire but the Proud Gale was littered with wood and steel and lost limbs. We lost two hitch lines to our gas envelope and our gondola swayed dangerously. The Crusher’s gunners scrambled to their massive Gatling. I lowered my monocular over my eye and watched the enemy’s men working the hand cranks. The ponderous gun swivelled and I knew they would aim for the helm. In less than thirty seconds they would cut me to pieces. I looked at my pocket watch and mouthed the Lord’s Prayer. “Captain!” Keenan pointed to the horizon. “Starboard side! Unknow airship above us!” I felt my heart leap as I focused my monocular. God save London! The Darner chattered in on four beating wings at a speed no other airship could match. Her long, sleek frame was a blue streak as she dove towards our enemy. She was the first of her kind, a Dragonfly Class Combat Bomber. The Darner fired her Gatling gun as she shrieked downwards. She trailed steam and leveled her lithe frame to intercept the immense battleship. I struggled to watch the inequitable match. With a dexterity I didn’t think possible, the Darner screamed through the massive ropes that held the Crusher’s envelope to her gondola. The Dragonfly’s legs unclenched and dropped her incendiary charge. I watched it crash on deck and ignite in a blinding spectacle. I could hear the enemy scream as the oily flames rolled and burned and licked up the ropes. “Keenan! Full fire!” Our cannons erupted and our Gatling guns spewed rounds. The Crusher found herself level to us as we fired a second, devastating cannon volley at her deck splintering wood and bone. With her crew panicking in the flames not a single man returned fire. We unleashed a final cannon volley at our nemesis and burning wood splintered away and rained down on London. The battleship’s forecastle ropes snapped and the gondola pitched forward. Men shrieked as they plummeted to their death. With a violent heave the Crusher tilted and moaned like a dying whale. I could smell the burning timbers through the driving rain. The rolling flames distorted the battleship’s gas envelope and her lines snapped. In an instant she dropped like a stone. The Crusher disappeared below the clouds as suddenly as she had appeared. What had been a suicide mission was now a triumph. A whoop went up from my crew as the Darner chattered past us. I trained my monocular on the small cabin just in time to catch a salute from Captain Sarah Hunter. She wore her gold goggles and red leather helmet. Her long, dark braid snaked in the wind. As she buzzed the Darner around the Proud Gale, I was certain her lips were curled in a mocking grin. Sarah rolled the Darner in a frightening display of acrobatics. The men cheered and waved their leather caps. The Dragonfly Airship was a masterpiece of Victorian engineering. Sarah Hunter was London’s best test pilot and now she was our secret weapon against the immense air fleet of Darkhouse & Sons. Samuel Tyler, Captain’s Log, 20 June, 1880. First daily entry: The battle against the Crusher was a needed victory, but the war to defend London has only just begun. Darkhouse & Sons have conquered Scotland, Ireland and the entire North of England. The trading company behemoth hungers for world domination. The city of London is leading the fight against the private empire but the winds of war are not in our favour. END Thanks to Fabio and Sara for leaving the dragonfly ornithopter poster on the book table.