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Welcome to The Wormhole and my stop on the tour.
Author Bio
Steff lives in an off-grid house on a slice of rural paradise near
Auckland, New Zealand, with her cantankerous drummer husband, their two cats,
and their medieval sword collection. The first CD she ever brought was
Metallica's 'Ride the Lightning', and she's been a card-carrying member of the
black-t-shirt brigade ever since.
Steff
writes about metal music, her books, living off-grid, and her adventures with
home-brewing on her blog
www.steffmetal.com. She writes humorous fantasy under
the name Steff Metal, and dark, dystopian fantasy under S. C. Green. Her latest
novel, The Sunken, explores an alternative Georgian London where dinosaurs
still survive.
Title: The Sunken
Author: Steff Green
Genre: Steampunk
Dark Fantasy
In the heart of London lies the Engine Ward, a district
forged in coal and steam, where the great Engineering Sects vie for ultimate
control of the country. For many, the Ward is a forbidding, desolate place, but
for Nicholas Thorne, the Ward is a refuge. He has returned to London under a
cloud of shadow to work for his childhood friend, the engineer Isambard Kingdom
Brunel.
Deep in the Ward's bowels, Nicholas can finally escape his strange affliction –
the thoughts of animals that crowd his head. But seeing Brunel interact with
his mechanical creations, Nicholas is increasingly concerned that his friend
may be succumbing to the allure of his growing power. That power isn't easily
cast aside, and the people of London need Brunel to protect the streets from
the prehistoric monsters that roam the city.
King George III has approved Brunel's ambitious plan to erect a Wall that would
shut out the swamp dragons and protect the city. But in secret, the King
cultivates an army of Sunken: men twisted into flesh-eating monsters by a
thirst for blood and lead. Only Nicholas and Brunel suspect that something is
wrong, that the Wall might play into a more sinister purpose--to keep the
people of London trapped inside.
Excerpt:
James Holman's Memoirs —
Unpublished
The
history books — the thick sort written by real historians — will tell
you England's troubles began when Isambard Kingdom Brunel knocked Robert
Stephenson from the post of Messiah of the Sect of the Great Conductor, and
became overnight the most powerful engineer in England. But they do not have
the full story.
The true origin began many years before
that, with George III — the Vampire King — and the damage wrought by his naval
defeats, and his madness. His depravity might have been held in check were it
not for a mild spring afternoon in 1830, when a dragon wandered into Kensington
Gardens and ate two women and a Grenadier Guard.
I
happened to witness this occurrence, although witness, my critics would say, is
a word I am not permitted to use, on account of my complete blindness. I had
been granted a day's leave from my duties at Windsor Castle to come into the
city. In my left hand, I clutched two envelopes. One contained a thick,
pleading letter to my publisher, written on my Noctograph in large, loopy
letters to arouse their sympathies, humbly requesting a payment for royalties
due on my book. The second contained a request for a period of extended leave
to travel to Europe, addressed to the Duke and signed by my doctor. In my other
hand, I held the brass ball atop my walking stick, rapping the pavement and
listening for the echoes whenever I felt myself veer from my path.
I
arrived at the offices of F., C., and J. Rivington, my publishers, a little
after four, and was surprised to find their offices empty, the door locked, and
no one about. I ran my fingers over the door, but could find no notice. Perhaps
they had taken an extended luncheon? I sniffed the air, remembering the
delicious pie shop on the corner beneath the barbershop. Yes, perhaps I should
look for them there.
I had
no sooner taken a step across the street, my mouth watering with the
anticipation of pie, when coach bells jangled, whistles blew, hooves thundered,
and a great commotion rumbled down the street — a carriage speeding over the
cobbles, the inhabitants crying out as they were flung back in their seats. I
yanked my boot back just as the carriage screamed past and several Bobbies blew
their whistles at me. Boots pounded along the street as the usual gaggle of
reporters, thrill-seekers, and layabouts chased after the carriage, anxious to
see the cause of the commotion.
Of
course, being somewhat of a thrill-seeker myself, I shoved the letters into my
jacket pocket and followed. I didn't need my stick to follow the sound of the
carriage, and I fell in step amongst the crowd and allowed the jostles of the
nosy to pull me along. I collected details in my mental map — a right turn
here, a left there, the rough cobbles giving way to silken lawn and neat, paved
paths. We'd entered Kensington Gardens, tearing through the squared hedges of
close-cropped yew and prim holly, cut and shaped to mimic the bastions and
fortifications of war. Hydrangea and rose perfumes drifted on the breeze, until
the coo of songbirds was interrupted by piercing screams as women scuttled
between the hedges, looking for a place to hide.
Then, I
heard the roar.
The
sound was so low it shook my insides about, so my organs felt as though they
had sunk into my socks. The crowd around me, only moments ago hell-bent on
moving forward in search of the commotion, scattered in fear, diving into the
trees flanking the Round Pond and leaving me in the centre of the path to
confront the scene before me.
Though
I could only hear and not see what unfolded, the vivid accounts read aloud to
me by friends from the papers allow me to picture it now as clearly as
anything. A female swamp-dragon (Megalosaurus bucklandii, in the new
taxonomy) appeared from nowhere beside the Round Pond, obviously in need of a
drink. She bent down, fifteen feet of her, to lap at the water with her thick
tongue, her leathery green skin catching the midday sun. The gentlemen who had
been preparing to launch their boats on the water scattered, but their women
were busy setting up the picnic tables and laying out the tea settings, and did
not notice the commotion until the beast was upon them.
A woman
cowered under her table, clutching a crying baby and trying to muffle its sobs
beneath her skirt. But the dragon — like me — saw the world with her ears. She
drove her wide snout under the table and tore at the unfortunate woman, tearing
out her pretty arms and staining her dress with blood.
Crème scones and Wedgewood china
flew through the air as the beast charged the picnic tables, snapping up
morsels of womanly flesh. The screams brought more bystanders — lovers
strolling along the Serpentine, the Royal Horticultural Society, who'd been
admiring the hydrangea beds, and, finally, a nearby guard on duty with his
shiny blunderbuss.
The
shots rang in my ears for several moments, and I leaned on my stick, suddenly
blinded to the world around me. The ground trembled as feet thundered past, and
I turned to move after them, but a voice broke through my panic.
"You sir, don't move!"
I froze. Now I heard the hiss of
air escaping the dragon's nostril, and the click of its claws as it stalked
across the garden path toward me. The air grew hot, carrying with it the smell
of butchery — blood and flesh mingled with the beast's fetid breath. At any
moment it would be upon me. The panic rose in my throat, and I fought the urge
to run.
