exists contemporaneously with the cell phone, tablet or computer you’re reading this on. But this is less about ornate and antiquated machinery clashing with its smooth and tastefully understated contemporary counterparts.
Rather, it’s about us meeting this retro mindset. It’s about a people with the same confident eyes as I saw in those history book photos from decades ago, locking with our own modern, less certain gaze.
This isn’t steampunk as the 19th century set to safe mode. It’s steampunk setting the 21st century to “armed”.
I hope you like it.
S.G. Schvercraft
Wilmington, Delaware
February 2016
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1
Coming to Steam Pointe
It felt less like looking out an airplane window than staring through a time warp into 1890. The flight attendant saw the look on my face. “ First time to Steam Pointe, miss? ” he asked.
“ Yeah, ” I said. “ It ’ s one thing looking down on it with Google Earth. Quite another in real life. ”
Even at this height, I could see great, gilded smokestacks stabbing into the sky, their dyed plumes painting the horizon surprisingly pleasing shades of violet, orange and red. Dirigible airships hovered here and there like storm clouds.
The flight attendant shook his head, his perfectly gelled, frosted-tipped hair never moving. “ I can ’ t understand a country where you have to check your laptop, cell phone, and iPod upon entry. I take it you ’ re here on business? Not many people would consider it a fun escape spot. ”
I certainly didn ’ t, not that the FBI cared. Who ’ d want to be someplace that practiced technological apartheid? Where you couldn ’ t get something as simple as, say, a hairdryer, instead having to rely on some coal-fired, magnetic, or gear-grinding contraption.
“ Have you explored the island much? I wouldn ’ t mind some advice on dealing with the natives. ”
“ They don ’ t particularly care for my kind, so I usually stay at the airport guesthouse during layovers, ” he said. I ’ d been given a hurried briefing on island culture by the State Department: traditional as Steamies were, having a gay flight attendant flitting up-and-down their cobblestone streets would have gone over like a pregnant pole-vaulter.
“ Of course, ” he continued, as if we were sorority sisters getting our nails done, “ they may not like you either. ”
“ Because I ’ m a woman? ” I asked.
“ It ’ s not women they dislike. It ’ s just that they expect them to be ladies , ” he said, rolling his eyes. Then he continued down the aisle, checking for seats that hadn ’ t been returned to their upright positions.
The island —“ Pointe Island ” on the maps — rose from the ocean on sheer cliffs that could have been castle walls. Probably why it wasn ’ t successfully settled until the 1800 ’ s. Mountains peeked over the horizon, and even at this distance I could see the mining scaffolding that completely encased some of them. There were patchworks of farm fields like you ’ d see in flyover country back home, but these were intermingled with perfectly square forests. Trees here were just another crop. Railroad lines, some of them raised and as wide as an interstate highway, crisscrossed the countryside. Cargo ships came and went from the man-made barrier islands that ringed the coast.
I could make out distant cities, some of them darkly brooding masses as though every building were part of a single, massive factory. Others gleamed whitely in the sun, the Potemkin utopias of 19th century World ’ s Fairs finally made real.
Somewhere between these extremes was Boothcross, Steam Pointe ’ s largest city. Its skyscrapers were laced together with a spider ’ s web of elevated tramlines. Great Tesla coils were worked into some buildings ’ designs, and arc
Rather, it’s about us meeting this retro mindset. It’s about a people with the same confident eyes as I saw in those history book photos from decades ago, locking with our own modern, less certain gaze.
This isn’t steampunk as the 19th century set to safe mode. It’s steampunk setting the 21st century to “armed”.
I hope you like it.
S.G. Schvercraft
Wilmington, Delaware
February 2016
Sign up for our newsletter and get a free copy of Going Dark , the first installment of our NIGHTFALLEN horror series.
Click Here to Get Started.
1
Coming to Steam Pointe
It felt less like looking out an airplane window than staring through a time warp into 1890. The flight attendant saw the look on my face. “ First time to Steam Pointe, miss? ” he asked.
“ Yeah, ” I said. “ It ’ s one thing looking down on it with Google Earth. Quite another in real life. ”
Even at this height, I could see great, gilded smokestacks stabbing into the sky, their dyed plumes painting the horizon surprisingly pleasing shades of violet, orange and red. Dirigible airships hovered here and there like storm clouds.
The flight attendant shook his head, his perfectly gelled, frosted-tipped hair never moving. “ I can ’ t understand a country where you have to check your laptop, cell phone, and iPod upon entry. I take it you ’ re here on business? Not many people would consider it a fun escape spot. ”
I certainly didn ’ t, not that the FBI cared. Who ’ d want to be someplace that practiced technological apartheid? Where you couldn ’ t get something as simple as, say, a hairdryer, instead having to rely on some coal-fired, magnetic, or gear-grinding contraption.
“ Have you explored the island much? I wouldn ’ t mind some advice on dealing with the natives. ”
“ They don ’ t particularly care for my kind, so I usually stay at the airport guesthouse during layovers, ” he said. I ’ d been given a hurried briefing on island culture by the State Department: traditional as Steamies were, having a gay flight attendant flitting up-and-down their cobblestone streets would have gone over like a pregnant pole-vaulter.
“ Of course, ” he continued, as if we were sorority sisters getting our nails done, “ they may not like you either. ”
“ Because I ’ m a woman? ” I asked.
“ It ’ s not women they dislike. It ’ s just that they expect them to be ladies , ” he said, rolling his eyes. Then he continued down the aisle, checking for seats that hadn ’ t been returned to their upright positions.
The island —“ Pointe Island ” on the maps — rose from the ocean on sheer cliffs that could have been castle walls. Probably why it wasn ’ t successfully settled until the 1800 ’ s. Mountains peeked over the horizon, and even at this distance I could see the mining scaffolding that completely encased some of them. There were patchworks of farm fields like you ’ d see in flyover country back home, but these were intermingled with perfectly square forests. Trees here were just another crop. Railroad lines, some of them raised and as wide as an interstate highway, crisscrossed the countryside. Cargo ships came and went from the man-made barrier islands that ringed the coast.
I could make out distant cities, some of them darkly brooding masses as though every building were part of a single, massive factory. Others gleamed whitely in the sun, the Potemkin utopias of 19th century World ’ s Fairs finally made real.
Somewhere between these extremes was Boothcross, Steam Pointe ’ s largest city. Its skyscrapers were laced together with a spider ’ s web of elevated tramlines. Great Tesla coils were worked into some buildings ’ designs, and arc
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