Like so many things do, it all started at a party where there were a lot of well-read people and way too much white wine for anyone to emerge unscathed.
My neighbor Lydia throws fantastic parties and this one, with its steampunk theme, was no exception. Ink-stained mad bombers rubbed elbows with scientists clad in long white coats and el-wire, and everyone ogled the Victorian dancehall entertainers with goggles resting coyly atop their bustiers. And as his was an LGBT-friendly party, the genders of those groups were mixed and fluid. :) My kind of gathering.
Anyway, my friend Stephen came dressed as a chimney sweep, complete with blackened hair and cheeks and a broom that lit up and chirped at intervals. It was perfect. Except -- the thing you should know about Stephen is that he has no less than four history degrees. Four! This makes him fantastic company on roadtrips, but it also means that at a steampunk-themed happy hour, when someone makes an offhand comment about the viability of creating believable steampunk stories in a Revolutionary War setting, it is *on*.
I forget the exact details of the conversation (did I mention the wine? I should mention the wine), but there was something about restructuring the government (somehow this always comes up at the parties I go to) and Elizabeth Bear and Cherie Priest and the fine line between alternate history and steampunk, and why does New Hampshire have all the best historical hotspots. Things went swiftly downhill from there, but I do remember confiscating Stephen's broom and retiring to a quiet corner to drink and light up and chirp.
So the next morning, after attempting to sleep off too much chardonnay, I took the dog for a walk, hoping some exercise would do what sleep did not. For me, exercise frees the little lizard portion of my brain in charge of story ideas, so as I walked along the tule-fogged back roads of the Central Valley (for it is here our story is set), I kept chewing on the night before, and the longer I chewed, the more the tule fog looked a bit like smoke hovering over a battlefield, and the furrows of the sleeping green fields resembled trenches where terrified young men prayed for a cease-fire. Between that misty morning and Lydia's party, the idea for Firebug was conceived.
Firebug is, as you might expect given its conception, a steampunk novel. Crimean war veteran turned newspaper editor Gareth Charles finds himself embroiled in the blackest side of the new Reform government when he investigates a string of arsons in the snowbound colonial outpost of New Eddington. After saving Firewalker Thomas Cole from the latest blaze, the two men find themselves in possession of a deadly secret -- and falling in love. Fugitives from justice, they must unravel the terrifying mystery before there's no New Eddington left to save. As the firebug's evil plan comes to fruition, the two veterans realize the only things worth saving might just be each other.
Blurb:
Crimean war veteran turned newspaper editor Gareth Charles finds himself embroiled in the blackest side of the new Reform government when he investigates a string of arsons in the snowbound colonial outpost of New Eddington. After saving Firewalker Thomas Cole from the latest blaze, the two men find themselves in possession of a deadly secret -- and falling in love. Fugitives from justice, they must unravel the terrifying mystery before there's no New Eddington left to save. As the firebug's evil plan comes to fruition, the two veterans realize the only things worth saving might just be each other.
---
Excerpt:
By the time Gareth made it back out through the Pourhouse kitchen, the streets were thronged with people surging toward the fire. Gareth swore. The infernal curiosity of the average bystander tended to get them killed. And he knew all too well the world was dangerous enough without seeking more out. Moving quickly, he searched the faces of those he passed.
Cole was not among them.
As soon as Cole had mentioned “mounting up,” Gareth had realized he was a firewalker, one of the brave, foolhardy men who strapped themselves into the insectoid firefighting machines, risking life and
limb getting close enough to the flames to cover them with the newly invented extinguishing foam. More often than not, they proved to be brave, foolhardy men with short life spans: the bugs had a tendency to
jam up at the worst possible times, stranding the occupants too close to the blaze, leaving them trapped, roasting alive inside the rigid metal shells. Other times the strange, cog-driven innards that gave the firebugs life turned on their riders, seemingly bent on taking life. Steel springs and levers shoved through soft skin, whiplike gear cables sliced limbs to the bone. It took a special type of man to become a firewalker. Usually one with a death wish.
Gareth thought again of Cole’s wide, vulnerable blue eyes and broke into a run.
By the time he reached the corner of Cherry and Bank Streets, the heat pressed against him like a blanket, smothering him with its hunger. Flames extended from every window of the old stone library, grasping at the orange, gas-lit clouds. A citizens’ bucket brigade was throwing dirty snow along a line toward the blaze, but each handful disappeared in midair with an angry hiss. This fire was far beyond buckets.
Nearby, a horse neighed in alarm before its hansom cab was pulled down the hill toward the lake and safety. Alarm bells mounted at the corner of each building and strung with wires rang urgently, a cacophony of tongues warning the night of a traitor in their midst.
Gareth spun, searching the assembled throng for Cole. The fire raged, and sparks jumped from the lost library to nearby roofs. People were already perched there, waiting with carpets and beaters to suffocate
the invaders, but the crowd’s mood was fearful, anticipating the spread of disaster.
And then a hydraulic gust rent the air, an unearthly blue cloud mingling with the thick black smoke. The crowd turned as one, and a huge, shining black bug crested the top of the street, antennae waving. It was shortly joined by two companions, surveying the scene with unblinking glass eyes.
The firewalkers had arrived.
No comments:
Post a Comment