Deep under the ocean, Simeon Escher, protégé to the leader of the order of Loth Lörion, finds himself an unexpected guest aboard the submersible, Narwhal. Home to a crew of humans, and strange mer-folk few people are aware exist, Simeon is swept up in their quest to find a world within a world, a possible safe haven from the insidious reach of the Kabbalah. Yet how can he think about his mission when the captain's niece fills his every thought, distracting him from all that’s important to him, including his own fiancée.

 

Today I am throwing the spotlight on Encante, a steampunk novella from the pen of Aiyana Jackson.

Encante is the first in a new Steampunk series, set in a multiverse known as The Fifteen Solars. For those of you who don’t know what a multiverse is, put simply it is a Universe in which there are several worlds existing in the same point in space and time, but they run parallel to each other. Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy is probably the most well recognised example. The Fifteen Solars is so named due to the fact there are fifteen planets existing in parallel, each very different from the next, but all connected. The inhabitants of these worlds have not yet mastered space travel, and so for the most part the adventure is contained to their own respective worlds. They do however have the means to travel from one parallel world to the next and, consequently, the events and politics of all fifteen planets have become intertwined. As the series unfolds however it will become clear that there is far more at work, and the reasons for these worlds existing as they do is much more complex than simple happenstance.

Encante serves as an introduction to one of these parallel worlds, as well as offering more than a few hints as to what is happening in the wider multiverse, and how the series will unfold. It is a self-contained story in the most traditional Steampunk style, heavily inspired by Jules Vernes’ 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea, it is a blending of mermaid folk-lore, Victorian-esque costume values, and the technological quirks that make the Steampunk genre so beloved. It is a tale of romance, of adventure, and of prejudicial values in a seemingly idyllic society. Some of the characters will recur in later books in the series.

There are currently three additional novellas planned to follow Encante, two to be released in 2014, the final to follow in 2015. There will also be at least one full length novel following these. The second novella, Honour, is currently slated for release at the end of March next year, and while the additional two novellas are as yet untitled, I can reveal that the novel shall be titled Soul of Avarice.

Excerpt:

‘“I have trouble sleeping,” he told me, as if by way of explanation. If he was in any way drunk, his words showed no sign of it. “I come here for the ambiance.”

I glanced around us. “I can well understand why. I’m afraid I was having a similar problem. Forgive me; I should not be wandering the ship alone.”

“And why not?” he asked. “You are our guest; if you see fit to wander the ship alone at night, I say let you. Wander wherever you choose.” He laughed as if something were painfully amusing, and I wondered if perhaps he was a little tipsy after all. “I’ll say nothing to stop you,” he assured me. “Hell, I’ll encourage you.” He leant closer to me. “I’d even suggest you try the places I couldn’t show you earlier.”

“So there were areas you kept hidden.”

Axel snorted. “Areas? People more like. My uncle is concerned you will not understand the . . . racial demographics of our society.”

“You mean the encante?” He nodded. “There is more to your relationship with them than Everett would have me believe, that much is plain. It has been obvious since I arrived, if for no other reason than this is my fourth visit to Idele, and I have never before seen one of them. I have never even heard mention of their race, on this world or any other. They are of a lower class?”

“Class?” Axel exclaimed. “Franklin Garrett is of a lower class; Bridger Quinn, is of a lower class. Even Reuben Williams, our third mate, the man in whose bed you should even now be sleeping, is of a lower class.” Axel shook his head. “The encante are not separated from us by class, Mister Escher, but freedom.”

“You mean to say they are slaves?”

“Of course they’re slaves. You think they wear those god forsaken machines of their own volition?”

It took me a moment to catch up. “The tails?” I considered the implications of a species who could breathe underwater and swim at great depths, living in a submersible with ready access to open water. “They keep them from escaping somehow?”

“Yes, one of Amos Newton’s finest inventions, don’t you think? A device which allows its occupant to swim outside the ship enough to remain healthy, perform maintenance and other duties, but which incapacitates them should they try to stray too far.”

“Amos Newton?”

“Newt, as my uncle calls him. He finds it humorous, what with the majority of Newton’s research having to do with our amphibious cousins.”

“That is truly abominable.” I caught myself. “My apologies, it is not for me to criticise your—”

“No, sir, you’re quite correct, it is abominable.”’

 

You can find Aiyana on Facebook

Buy the book on Amazon US

                           Amazon UK

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because sometimes life can be really shit.

 

 

I write fantasy, horror, even steampunk. A lot of stuff to escape the harsh realities of life. Well sometimes even the most fantastical escapism is not enough, because, very often, life can be really shit.

Despair

 

 “Hey! Wake up, you can’t sleep here.”

“Huh?”

“Come on, up!”

“Okay, okay, give us a sec’,” he said, wiping sleep from his eye.

“I’ve told you before you can’t sleep here. If I catch you again I’ll arrest you. Understand?”

He pulled himself up into a sitting position and nodded. He glanced up quickly at the uniformed police officer and looked away quickly, unwilling to make eye-contact. It was not just the uniform, he rarely made eye-contact with anyone anymore.

“This is a public park not a doss house, how do you think it looks to a young mother with little kiddies coming for a play in the park, only to find you sprawled all over a bench?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled an apology.

“Look at the state of you, I could smell your stink before I saw you.”

“Sorry.”

“Five minutes… if you’re still here when I get back I’ll have your sorry arse before a judge.”

He nodded once, but the policeman had already turned on his heel and moved on. His head throbbed, his throat was parched, his stomach felt queasy. It was a warm summers day and yet, despite wearing a heavy winter coat, he shivered from the cold. He brought a hand up to his temple, it came away sticky with blood. How had that happened? he wondered. A fuzzy image came to mind of being heckled and pushed around by a gang of faceless youths, dressed in hoodies and tracksuits.

His arms, legs and back ached, a cramp knotted in his stomach and lower abdomen, he wasn’t sure if he needed to eat or shit, or both. He reached for the bottle beside him, cooking sherry, he held it by the neck and tipped it back, he wretched and then drank some more, draining the bottle.

“Eww! Mummy, that man is so smelly.”

He no longer flinched with shame when young mothers pulled their children out of his way. It hurt at first, cutting him to his very core, especially the little ones, the fear and disgust in their eyes. Blocking out the memories was the first thing he had to do, the booze helped with that.

“Keep walking, you’re scaring the kiddies.”  The policeman was back. He nodded and shuffled on his way, keeping his eyes low. He wondered where he would sleep tonight, best not come back for a day or two.

He walked on, leaving the calm and peace of the park behind. All around him the sounds and smells of the city assaulted his senses, buses and trucks belched out noxious fumes, people hurried past all giving him a wide berth. A car screeched to a halt, the driver shouting and gesticulating at him, before he realised he was in the middle of the road. He shuffled on, not answering, not looking back.

“Oi, you, fuck off!”

He looked up from the skip, a man dressed in a chef’s aprons had come out of a doorway into the alleyway and was shouting at him, he dropped the leftover food back into the bin and moved on.

He rummaged through the on-street bins for whatever he could find, scavenging whatever food he could get his hands on or anything he could use. A piece of cardboard he dragged from one bin would make sleeping on the cold streets a bit more bearable.

Dizzy and disorientated most of the time now, his body ached for food and sleep, his mind craved drink. Drink to take him away, drink to help him find the oblivion he constantly sought.

“Malone?” He looked up from the bin. “Jesus, Malone, is that you?” A man dressed in suit and tie addressed him.

Malone? That was his name once. Not anymore. He shrugged off the man and shuffled on. The man followed.

“It is you, Malone. What the hell happened to you?”

He pushed him away and tried to move on, but the well dressed man was persistent.

“This used to be my boss,” he laughed, turning to his friends.

“Come on, Freddie, leave him alone, he stinks,” a woman’s voice said.

“Seriously, this was my manager at the bank. He got fired when he came into work drunk one day and told all the customers to go fuck themselves. Apparently his wife had taken the kids and buggered off with another man.”

“Please, Freddie, I want to go.” He could hear the fear in her voice.

“Jesus, Malone. Here,” the man said and shoved a tenner into his hand.

He looked up when the couple walked away, tears blurred his vision. He looked down at the ten pound note, he wanted to run after them and tell them to keep their bloody money, tell them he didn’t need it, or them and tell them to go fuck themselves. He scrunched the note up tightly in his fist, his knuckles turned white. A sob escaped from his throat, a harsh guttural noise, a mournful wail of despair.

He wiped away the tears and snot and unfolded the note, calculating how much booze he could get with it.

He wanted to forget.

 

 

Photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/simon_ingram/5406257798/">SPIngram</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc</a>