Real Girls Don't Rust

  Real Girls Don’t Rust

  With Stories by:

  Tonja Drecker

  Valerie Hunter

  Jason Keith

  Kristin Lanett

  Rachel Schieffelbein

  Carmen Tudor

  Roxanne Werner

  Edited by Jennifer Carson

  SPENCER HILL PRESS

  Copyright © 2013 by Tonja Drecker, Valerie Hunter, Jason Pederson, Kristin Lanett, Carmen Tudor, Rachel Schieffelbein, and Roxanne Werner

  Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized.

  Spencer Hill Press

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA

  Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com

  First Edition: September 2013

  Drecker, Tonja, 1972

  Hunter, Valerie, 1982

  Lanett, Kristin, 1974

  Pederson, Jason, 1971

  Schieffelbein, Rachel, 1982

  Tudor, Carmen, 1985

  Werner, Roxanne, 1953

  Real Girls Don’t Rust: a Steampunk short story anthology - 1st ed. p. cm.

  Summary:

  An anthology of Steampunk short stories.

  The authors acknowledge the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this fiction: Remington, Colt, Winchester, Lefaucheux

  Cover design and interior illustrations by Veronica Jones

  Interior layout by Jennifer Carson

  ISBN 978-1-937053-90-1 (Trade Paper)

  ISBN 978-1-937053-87-1 (E-Book)

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedications

  For Eve and Lani, and all those who brighten the darkness…… C.T.

  For my Grandpa, Warren Henning Marteness Sr., my parents, and my husband. Thank you for believing in me…… K.L.

  For Shannon and Maddie…… R.S.

  To my son James who listens to my stories with a discerning ear…… R.W.

  Table of Contents

  Miz Fixit

  Valerie Hunter

  In The Shadow of The Eagle’s Eye

  Tonja Drecker

  Red Sky at Night

  Carmen Tudor

  The Henning Flyer

  Kristin Lanett

  My Dangerous Heart

  Roxanne Werner

  Seeing Red

  Rachel Schieffelbein

  It’s Only Rust

  Jason Keith

  Miz Fixit

  Valerie Hunter

  I wipe away the last of the grime and carefully reset the balance of the lever, testing the tension with the lightest of touches. Perfect. I withdraw my hand from the beast’s innards, close the flap, and nod to Old Clem, who brings over the key and twists it a few times. The beast ambles a half-dozen steps across the field, its jeweled eyes glinting in the sunlight.

  Clem nods his approval. “You’re doin’ a bang-up job, Lar’by,” he says as he removes the key from the beast’s side. He motions me on to the next one, then scratches at his graying beard. “Seems like these beasts are just waitin’ to be coaxed to life by your little fingers. You’re a regular Miz Fixit.”

  “They’re probably just glad for a break from your rough touch.” I joke, but inside I feel a warm rush of happiness. Pa used to let me fix his farm machines when I was a bitty girl, but he’d never praised me for the work. “Tinkering,” he’d called it, as though I was playing instead of helping him. My brother, Jackson, had been more impressed, even awed, but he hadn’t been mechanically-minded whatsoever. I would perform the simplest task and he’d act like it was a blasted miracle. It feels good to be praised by someone who knows what’s what.

  I clean my hands on my coveralls and turn my attention to the next beast, squinting in the midday sun. Likely visitors to the carnival never think about clockwork beast maintenance when they’re ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the mechanical creatures during the tent show and along the fairway. But then I guess that’s kind of the point—spending a night being awed, without thinking about it too deeply, and going back to a humdrum life the next day.

  I stick my hand into the next beast, gently popping out the gear drive and then disassembling it so I can get the dirt out. It’s unbelievable how grimy the mechanisms can get after just a few performances. If I didn’t clean them regularly, the whole system might gum up, leading to clumsy, stilted movements. It’s bad for business—the audience pays to see lifelike, majestic mechanical beasts, not ones that stagger about like drunkards. It’s worse for those who perform on and around them, though. Old Clem told me a story about a young acrobat in a show who’d gotten crushed by one of the beast’s heavy feet because the beast hadn’t made its expected move. I’m saving lives with my services. At least that’s what I try to remind myself when I’m elbows deep in grease and gears on a sweltering day like today.

  Truth is, I’d do the job even if it was less vital. First off, there aren’t too many jobs a girl can get in these parts, ’less you want to be a wife (which doesn’t pay) or a fancy lady (which does, but requires more grace than I possess). Far as I know, I’m the only sixteen-year-old lady carnival mechanic in the Territories. But I don’t care none. It’s a job I love even when my back aches from bending into the beasts’ bellies all day long. The nuances of manipulating the gears, the perfect puzzle pieces of the mechanisms, the pride of watching the beasts walk smoothly after I’m done with them—it all gives me a feeling of happiness straight down to my toes.

  Then there’s the money, of course. I don’t get as much as a boy would, and I only make half as much as old Clem, but money is money, and like I said, it would be pretty hard for me to earn it any other way. I’ve been with the carnival six weeks now. I figure in a year or so I’ll have enough money saved to go home and keep my promise to Jackson.

  I carefully fit the now-clean gear drive back together, double-check my work just to be certain it’s perfect, and insert the drive back in its rightful place. This beast is the one I nicknamed Ornery because it’s particularly temperamental, apt to refuse to move unless everything is set just-so. Kind of reminds me of my brother Carsten, except Carsten isn’t made of clockwork. Anyhow, it was Ornery who got me my job in the first place. Old Clem had just chuckled at me when I’d first approached him, and when I persisted he’d given me Ornery to work on, saying I could have a job if I could get the beast going. The smirk on his face told me my failure was inevitable, but I ignored it, and forty-five minutes later I had both Clem and Dr. Fish, the carnival’s owner, gaping at me as Ornery jaunted spryly around them.

  I shake myself back to the present. Clem is putting Ornery through a successful test run. All the beasts have now been serviced, and I flop on the grass for a moment, enjoying the sun and the feeling of accomplishment. Everything’s ready for tonight, the first of two we’ll spend on the outskirts of some hick town whose name I can’t recall. I’m not even entirely sure which territory we’re in, come to think. Working for the carnival has a lot of upsides, but in my mind the travel isn’t one of them. Every new dinky town we visit looks the same and takes me farther from home.

  I sit up and dig through my coverall pockets until I find the little clockwork mouse I’m working on for my little sister, Izaly. The gears are all set; I’m just trying to make the exterior look a little more endearing. I don’t want it to scare her, though according to my old
er sister Delancy’s letters she’s pretty fearless.

  I try to picture my sisters, who I haven’t seen in nearly five years. I can call to mind Del’s dark curls, her over-wide eyes that look just like Ma’s. The last time I saw her was her wedding day. She was seventeen then, a year older than I am now, and likely five years haven’t changed her overmuch. But Izaly was just a bitty baby, a lump in my arms. No matter how many times Delancy describes her in letters—that she has my coppery hair, that she can’t say her r’s properly but talks a mile a minute—I still can’t picture her in my mind. All I can remember is how empty my arms felt when Delancy took her. “You have enough to worry about, taking care of Pa and the boys,” she’d said. “Cam and I’ll take Izaly.”

  Pa had agreed, like giving up a daughter was nothing, and I had secretly wished he would give me to Delancy and her husband too. In the end he got rid of Seb and Tucker instead, sending them to live with Uncle Beaudean and his wife where money and mothering were more plentiful. I’ve only seen my little brothers a few times since then, though I spent a few weeks with them after Jackson’s death, before I got this job.

  “Lazing about now, are we?”

  I’m shaken out of my memories by Leroy’s grating voice. Old Clem’s son—and previously his only assistant—has been bent on disliking me since my arrival, and though I came in with an open mind, the feeling was fast becoming mutual.

  “If by ‘lazing’ you mean relaxing after cleaning four beasts, which was twice as many as you cleaned today, then yes, that’s what I’m doing.”

  Leroy pouts, looking more four than fourteen. He has the same narrow face as Old Clem, but while Clem’s seems friendly but shrewd, Leroy’s is just weaselly. “Betcha I did a better job on mine, Miz Fixit.”

  I roll my eyes but don’t respond; arguments with Leroy only serve to get my blood boiling. He’s the same age as my brother Carsten, and while they both have the ability to drive me batty, that’s where the similarities end. What I wouldn’t do to swap Leroy for Carsten now. My brother’s sullenness can be infuriating, but he’s never whined a day in his life, and he’s ten times the worker Leroy is.

  “Anyhow,” Leroy goes on, “I’m going to fix Jewel long before you can.”

  “I’m sure you will,” I say in my most condescending tone, though I keep my fingers crossed to save my conscience. I’ve discovered of late that the best way to avoid an argument with Leroy is to agree with him, which confuses his little brain so much he stops talking. If I’m really lucky, he goes away.

  This time he just glares at me suspiciously, and I’m saved by the ringing of the dinner bell. Dinner is late and hearty on the day of a show, as the performers won’t get a chance to eat again until near midnight. I take my place next to Old Clem at the end of a long table and eat in silence. Clem’s nice enough to me, but Leroy chatters incessantly. The rest of the table is full of roustabouts, the unskilled laborers. Most of them don’t like me overmuch, maybe because I’m a girl, maybe because I’m new, maybe because I have a skill that makes me less expendable than they are. After the meal I help them get the beasts in their proper places, and they shuffle past me like I’m no help at all.

  As the first townsfolk start to wander in, I head to our wagons on the outskirts and swap my coveralls for my one nice dress. Barring a catastrophe, my duties as a mechanic are done for the day and I’m free to roam the carnival like a guest. Usually Dr. Fish gives me some kind of agenda, like helping fill the audience of a show that’s sparsely populated, or, more likely, proving that some of the attractions aren’t dangerous despite people’s old-fashioned notions. If folks see a girl get on the Aero-wheel or go up for a ride in the steam balloon, they’re more likely to ride them themselves.

  Tonight it’s the steam balloon that is slow to draw a crowd, or so Dr. Fish tells me as he drags me away from the midway and thrusts coins in my hand, pairing me up with Pierre, the carnival cook. If I go by myself I’ll just be seen as a fool girl with a death wish, but if I go on with my “father” (played by Pierre, or sometimes Old Clem) or an older “brother” or “beau” (any of the younger roustabouts), surely their male judgment that I will be safe is beyond reproach.

  This is the third time I’ve been up in the steam balloon, which is a big draw in the richer towns, but not so much in the smaller, poorer ones where people still farm with their own sweat and toil and aren’t real familiar with steam technology. The first time I went up I was terrified, though I was careful not to show it. As soon as we were up in the air, my fears disappeared. We floated along smooth as silk, and the view was magnificent. From this distance it was the people who looked mechanical, like tiny dolls, and the beasts that looked alive.

  It wasn’t until my second ride, several weeks after the first, that I added the pilot’s skill to the list of reasons why the ride wasn’t nearly as scary as it should have been. I had barely noticed Travis, the pilot, the first time in my nervousness and excitement, but the second time I watched the calm, sure way he went about working the dials and knobs on the basket’s control panel. He didn’t look much older than me, but he clearly knew what he was doing, and that put me at ease.

  The balloon’s basket can fit up to twelve people, including the pilot, but because it’s a slow night, we have just two nervous-looking men in addition to Pierre and myself. Once we’re in the air, their unease seems to grow.

  “Wish we hadn’t come,” one mutters, sitting with his head down.

  “Why did you?” I ask. The first two times I went up I stayed on the seat, but this time I dare to pace around the basket’s perimeter. It gives me a dizzy but not unpleasant feeling.

  “Friend dared me,” the man says, his voice still miserable.

  “Well, you might as well enjoy the view,” I suggest.

  He peeks up, then immediately groans and lowers his head. His companion isn’t doing much better, gripping his knees with white knuckles.

  “Can we…go back down?” the second man gasps.

  Travis looks over from his controls, his gaze impassive behind his wirerimmed spectacles. “Only if all the passengers agree. What do you think, miss?”

  By rights I should consent; after all, I’m not technically a paying customer. But I’m enjoying the ride and, perversely, taking just a little pleasure in the men’s fear. “Oh, please don’t,” I say. The two men groan and Pierre rolls his eyes at me. I think I see a hint of a smile on Travis’s face.

  When the ride finally ends the two men stagger off, but I make sure to smile widely and thank Travis in hopes of encouraging onlookers to be brave and give it a try.

  My duty done, I wander back to our wagons, a vantage point that makes the lights and sounds of the carnival seem magical when really they’re just harsh. I take out Izaly’s mouse again, carefully sculpting the tail into a curlicue, but I’m thinking about Jewel. That’s the name Clem gave the beast Dr. Fish picked up last month from a junker. Prettiest little thing you ever saw with its glossy paint and bejeweled exterior, but it won’t run. Clem, Leroy, and I cleaned her inside and out, but the key mechanism has flummoxed us all, and none of the spare keys in Clem’s enormous stash will wind it. Clem says he’ll have to replace the whole gear drive when he gets the chance, but in the meantime it’s become Leroy’s and my personal challenge to fix it. Leroy likes to talk big, but it’s me who has the plan.

  I put Izaly’s mouse back in my pocket and fish in another pocket for my invention. It’s been slow going, but I’m pretty sure it’ll work once I finish it—a “key” made of clockwork that will act as an intermediary, slotting into Jewel’s keyhole and using its own mechanisms to wind the beast up. I’d tried to explain it to old Clem when I’d first had the idea. He’d shaken his head, said it sounded impossible to create. So I’ve gone about creating it to show him it could be done.

  I work for awhile, using all sorts of bits and bobs Clem keeps in the mechanic’s wagon. Before I know it, the guests are leaving and I go to help corral the beasts. Then I wander, too keye
d up to think of sleep yet, and wind up at the edge of the fairground where Travis is deflating the balloon. The goldy-glow of the fabric folding in on itself as it collapses against the dark sky is the prettiest thing I’ve seen in ages.

  When the balloon is just a golden puddle on the ground, Travis notices me. “My fearless flyer. Name’s Laraby, right?”

  I nod.

  “Help me fold this up?”

  I’m surprised by how heavy the fabric is in my arms, but I follow Travis’s directions and we soon have it folded neatly and stowed in the basket.

  Travis sits down in the basket and I sit with him. Not because he invites me to, but because he didn’t tell me I couldn’t. In the light of the single kerosene lantern I see a look of surprise on his face. He doesn’t seem to mind, though, so I stay.

  “You work here long?” I ask.

  He traces one gloved finger along the edge of the basket’s rim, looking at some distant point on the dark horizon. “Over a year.”

  “You like it?”

  He shrugs. “I like flying.”

  “Is it hard? Piloting?” In the sky, floating along, it seemed so effortless.

  “Not really. My brother taught me when I was twelve. Said I was a natural.”

  His voice is calm, but I detect a faint tinge of something I recognize. Not sadness, exactly, but a kind of wistfulness I’m all too familiar with. “He’s dead, your brother,” I say, halfway between a statement and a question.

  Travis’s eyebrows climb. “How’d you know?”

  “The way you said it. My own brother died, a couple months back.”

  He nods. He doesn’t say, “I’m sorry,” like most people do, which always seems stupid to me because it’s not like it’s their fault. Travis just sits real quiet, and I find myself telling him about Jackson. About how hard he worked to please our Pa, and then how after Pa died he worked even harder to take care of Carsten and me, the only ones left, and to make sure we kept the farm, except there’s no one to live there because Jackson got bad sick in his lungs, and Carsten ran off (I reckon because he couldn’t bear to see Jackson so sick, though I don’t rightly know because he didn’t say). When Jackson died, I came here to earn some money so I’d have enough to take care of everyone and the farm someday, because I promised Jackson I’d get us all back together. Well, not Delancy, of course, since she’s married, but Seb and Tucker and Izaly, and Carsten—if I can find him.