Sample #3 of my steampunk novel
If you've been following along, I am sharing the first part of my WIP steampunk novel. It has been over a year in the making so far, including a medium-sized rewrite, an outline of about 35 pages or so, tons of notes and "aetheric science" creation, etc etc.
Since this is only the first draft, there are characters and organizations that will probably be renamed, for potentially obvious reasons ;)
If you missed the first releases, Chapter 1 can be found here, and Chapters 2 & 3 can be found here.
As always, I am open to constructive criticism, but be nice. With that said, please enjoy Chapter 4 of...
CHAPTER IV
He was handsome, she would give him that much, but Catherine was more interested in the details of the mission itself than anything. Normally there would be a pre-recorded interview with one of the flight crew that would glean some details of the hulking craft.
Another handful of popcorn leapt from her fingertips to her waiting lips.
A gentle tone came from the speaker of the televiewer as a rectangular box appeared in the bottom right corner of the screen.
INCOMING CALL --- MARISSA MCMILLAN
Bloody hell, she thought. I already told her I wasn't going out tonight.
“Answer,” she called to the voice receiver unit.
The rectangle blinked for a fraction of a second and the smiling face of a mid-20s woman appeared within its thin red border.
“I already said no, Mary,” she said, not even letting Marissa get the usual drawn out “hey” before Catherine interjected. Marissa frowned a little.
“Oh, I know, ya big nerd,” came the thick Scottish reply, a smirk creep across her crimson lips. “But yer gonna miss a helluva time!”
“Oh yes. A half dozen birds on a pisser, on about how Tim looks in his new trousers and Joan's latest pumps.” She rolled her eyes. “Whatever shall I do without this vital information?” Her eyes focused back to the main screen.
“All right, ya nippy old hag,” Marissa snickered. “Not the reason I called. I need ya tae cover me nex' Friday. Was asked tae cover an overnight at University.”
“Yeah, sure. What time?” Catherine was barely listening. She just wanted the interruption to be over. The camera panned across the tarmac to show ground crews scrambling to complete pre-flight checks on the three vessels. The Exodus, Chancellor, and Hawking all sparkled in the afternoon sun.
Oh, how she wanted to be there. Not even on board on of them, but to be standing there next to them. To see for herself the magnificence in structure and design. To touch the smooth carbon.
“Eleven. You're on with Hanno and Bahar.”
“Fine, fine. Eleven; next Friday; Hanno and Bahar,” Catherine echoed.
“Thanks, love. I owe ya one.” Marissa wiggled her fingers in a wave. “Have fun with your space show.”
Before Catherine could manage a reply, the rectangle disappeared from the corner. The handsome man was back on the screen now.
“... as the final flight checks are taking place for this remarkable flight, scheduled to depart in less than 30 minutes time. For more on this, we go to Asha Kanchi, reporting live from the historic event. Asha?”
“This is Asha Kanchi reporting live from the Kennedy Space Center,” the lady's words filled the cab of the airbus. “Today's monumental launch will ensure the continued growth of the human race throughout the stars as three spacecraft, each hosting 500 passengers from all walks of life, will soon depart for the first city built on the moon, Copernicus City.”
“But the Importance of this flight isn't without debate. Conservative governments worldwide, as well as Republicans here at home, are calling this a massive waste of tax-payer dollars. Many organizations have protested this flight, from ecological foundations to hardline religious groups. Even the ever-controversial Westberg Baptist Alliance has threatened to picket the event, as the Prince and heir of Sobraka, Khaviya Rasadik, son of tyrant dictator, Bhodan Rasadik, is said to be onboard one of the shuttles departing within the hour.”
That was his cue. She mentioned the church by name. Now was the time. The message had to be spread.
Francis tossed the news-comm back on the passenger's seat. He straightened his collar one last time, picked up his mobile comm from the console and opened the door. Steeling himself for the confrontation to come, he took one last look at the explosive cache in the cargo bay of the airbus, shoved the mobile comm into the pocket of his jeans, closed the door and marched towards the reporter and her crew.
He could feel the bead of sweat return, quickly gliding towards his cheek. A quick swipe with his cuff and it was gone. His pace steady, his resolute iron. He knew what had to be said, what had to be done. This would be Westberg's shining moment. After the decades of ridicule from simple minded idiots that couldn't understand, this would be their hour of glory.
The man who held the holorecorder motioned with his head towards Francis as he approached. The reporter paused mid-sentence. She looked over her shoulder, a look of confusion upon her features from her colleague's gesture. The look faded and gave way to one of smugness.
Typical, he thought. Media puppets, all of them.
“And speaking of the Westberg Baptist Alliance,” Asha continued, turning back to face the holorecorder, “it appears we are joined by their leader, Minister Franc-“
“'Bishop,'” Francis belted. “It's 'Bishop,' you heathen.”
Asha recoiled at the harsh verbal spur. “Sorry, 'Bishop' Francis Phillips,” and she turned to face the balding, late-50s man who now stood next to her.
“I understand that the Alliance holds a staunch opposition to this flight, among the countless other topics for which you are known for standing against. Why the migration to Copernicus City?” She pointed the pinhead-sized voice recorder towards him.
He could feel the rage churning within. He allowed his eyes to close, inhaled sharply and attempted to quell the internal storm brewing. “First off, you blasphemers will never understand. The true God is vengeful. The fact that these sinners are abandoning the planet that He made for them is shameful. Cowards, the whole lot of them! They can't escape God! No one will ever escape Him, nor his righteous fury!”
Asha slowly shifted her eyes toward her holorecorder operator, her expression depicted to him the same that he was returning to her; complete bewilderment. She cleared her throat and set her gaze back upon Francis.
“Um... alright then. So, what of the standard picket line? It's quite unusual to see you out alone at something that your, um, 'organization' stands against. Where are your followers?”
“I don't need my congregation to say what needs to be said today.”
He fumbled his hand into his pocket, palmed the mobile comm, took a deep breath and then, a step towards the holorecorder, ensuring that he filled the entire view field of the tiny device. It was time for his close up.
Khaviya was still shifting in his seat. Pillow or no, these damn chairs were nowhere near as comfortable as the brochures had promised.
Anica put her hand on his shoulder and gestured to the large projection against the forward bulkhead.
“Khavi,” she whispered, unblinking eyes fixated on the image before her.
Khaviya gave one last tug at the pillow against the small of his back and looked up. He knew that face. Why did he know that face?
“Sorry, 'Bishop' Francis Phillips,” the reporter's voice came through the cabin speakers.
That was it. He was the lunatic behind that insane cult posing as a church. The West-something Alliance. Last year, they organized a bunch of miscreants with slanderous signs, shouting about his father, King Bhodan.
Admittedly, Bhodan did deserve a backlash for the campaign. Thousands of innocents died when the Sobraka militia stormed the city of Perekva, many of them of a Baptist religion, as he recalled. King Bohan said that it wasn't supposed to turn out as it had. “The intel was wrong,” he claimed.
He tended to say that a lot, actually.
Khaviya focused back on the viewer, the reporter's voice fading back in over the stream of reflection within his mind.
“Where are your followers?” from the reporter.
“I don't need my congregation to say what needs to be said today.”
The Bishop was fidgeting with something. Khaviya knew that body language all too well. He watched as the man on the viewer pulled what appeared to be his mobile comm out of his pocket. Khaviya leapt to his feet.
“Miss!” he shouted, calling for the attention of the flight attendant. “Miss! Someone need to stop that man!”
“Sir, please. You need to sit down,” the soothing delivery came from the hostess. “You're upsetting the other passengers.”
He jutted his finger toward the window, toward the Bishop. “That man has a bomb! Someone needs to stop that man!”
Gasps erupted throughout the cabin, as if all at once, the lungs of the entire passenger manifest heaved in unison. The startled exclamations quickly turned to panicked shouts all around him. Travelers were scrambling for their bags, crowding into the aisle, which became gridlocked within seconds.
Khaviya kept his eyes anchored to the viewer. He dared not look away as the crazed cleric stepped closer to the holoviewer source, as though the man would come straight through the bulkhead. Eyes, replete with madness, that felt like they were indeed staring directly at him; through him.
The commotion of the cabin faded away as Khaviya stood frozen. He didn't even notice Anica's hand take his, gripping it tightly.
“King Bhodan Rasadik, the Westberg Baptist Alliance finds you guilty of religious persecution, genocide, and warmongering. Your campaigns over the past 4 decades have not only been offensive to us, but offensive to God. Today, in His name, I cast judgment.”
The Bishop lifted his mobile comm with his left hand and hovered his right hand over it.
“Holy shit! He's got a bomb!” The reporter screamed. “He's got a bomb!”
He stood unwavering, unblinking, and unmovable. Even as the crowd around him fled in terror, even as the holorecorder stood paralyzed, Bishop Francis Phillips did not flinch.
“'He who keeps lovingkindness for thousands, who forgives iniquity, transgression, and sin; yet He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished...'
“The sins of the father, today, shall be paid with the blood of the son. Prince Khaviya Rasadik: God may forgive you, but the Westberg Baptist Alliance does not.”
His hands clapped together around the mobile comm.
Khaviya had only enough time to look to his wife.
“I lov-”
I hope you enjoyed it, even if it wasn't as action-packed as the first chapter. If this post receives a positive enough response, perhaps I will share the final two chapters with you guys!
Remember, this is only a first draft, so it may have some upcoming tweaks and doctoring.
Big shout out to @rhondak @aggroed and the @sft project (I hear they are featuring Chapter 1 tomorrow! Yay!!!), @minnowsupport for all they do, and @nettybot for being awesome!
Check outChapter 1 here, Chapters 2 & 3 here, and Chapter 5 here!
