Read Online Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables by Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephen L. Antczak, James C. Bassett
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with which to straighten Broom’s staff. Noises continued to emerge from the open door to Baba Yaga’s workshop. Vasyl restarted the wheels, and Broom shuddered to life as Vasyl dug the can of paraffin oil from his pack.
“Maroushka,” he said, “you know how to open the front door, don’t you?”
Maroushka eyed the can. “…No.”
Vasyl waggled the can so it sloshed enticingly. “Come on. You’ve been here for decades, haven’t you? Alone and neglected. What do you owe her?”
Maroushka licked her chops. “Look, it’s not that simple. Once you get out, she’ll chase you until the sun burns out. Yeah, the tesseract closes at dawn, real time, and the cottage will go…elsewhere, but it comes back every year, and she’ll be royally pissed. At you.”
Vasyl leaned his fists on the table. His bloodied hand twinged inside its rough bandage. “How will she chase us? In that flying mortar of hers?”
“Duh.”
“Fine.” Vasyl went to the workshop door and peeped in. Baba Yaga was standing at a control panel amid a large group of sharp-legged spiders. She twisted dials, and most of the spiders turned left. About a quarter of them froze and flipped over. Baba Yaga cursed and fiddled with the panel again. Petya came up behind Vasyl and put a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, Vasyl felt the old forbidden yearning. Then he remembered how things had changed and he put his own hand over Petya’s. Despite the difficulty of their situation, Vasyl couldn’t hold back the smile.
“If either of you meat puppets sets foot in there, you’ll set off five kinds of alarms,” Maroushka warned from the table.
“Broom!” Vasyl said, and Broom scuttled forward. “Slip in there and bring me those kegs of fuel by the forge. Don’t let
her
see you.”
Broom saluted and skittered into the room. Vasyl held his breath, waiting for the alarm, but nothing happened. Broom wasn’t alive. His handle bobbed and wove among the tables, just another mechanical going about its business. Baba Yaga’s back was to him, and she didn’t notice when Broom snatched up the kegs, one under each arm, and scampered back to the door. There was another bad moment when Broom crossed the threshold and Vasyl expected an alarm, but everything remained silent.
“Good job, Broom,” Vasyl said. “Put them by the table.”
Broom obeyed, puffing and squeaking. Petya squeezed Vasyl’s hand. “What are they for?”
Vasyl cracked a lid, expecting paraffin oil but getting another, rather dizzying, smell. “Uh-oh. I don’t recognize this.”
“That’s a fractional distillate of petroleum. Makes paraffin oil look like seawater.” Maroushka’s tail scythed back and forth. “I think I have a hard-on.”
“A hard-on? Strange for a female,” Petya observed.
“Strange for a female,”
Maroushka echoed in Petya’s voice.
“You’re hardly one to judge, light-foot.”
Petya balled up massive fists. “Now, look, you rusty little—”
“Be quiet, the both of you.” Vasyl replaced the first keg’s lid. “Maroushka, are you sure Olena is still all right?”
“She’s moved eight inches since the last time you asked,” Maroushka said. “Twice the length of Petro’s—”
“Good, good.” Vasyl straightened. “Look, you
are
going to help us, right?”
Maroushka hesitated and shot a nervous look at the workroom. “I do like you, kid, but—”
“When was the last time she even gave you coal dust, let alone paraffin oil?” Vasyl said. “I’ll even fill you with some of this petrol. You’ll lick my earwax, right?”
Maroushka gave a long, long look at the open workshop door, clearly warring with herself. Thinking. Vasyl held his breath. After an aching moment, she said, “All right. But I was only kidding about the earwax.”
T he front door was locked with a series of dials and switches that had to be set to particular numbers in a particular order at a particular speed. According to Maroushka, a mistake would send a
“Maroushka,” he said, “you know how to open the front door, don’t you?”
Maroushka eyed the can. “…No.”
Vasyl waggled the can so it sloshed enticingly. “Come on. You’ve been here for decades, haven’t you? Alone and neglected. What do you owe her?”
Maroushka licked her chops. “Look, it’s not that simple. Once you get out, she’ll chase you until the sun burns out. Yeah, the tesseract closes at dawn, real time, and the cottage will go…elsewhere, but it comes back every year, and she’ll be royally pissed. At you.”
Vasyl leaned his fists on the table. His bloodied hand twinged inside its rough bandage. “How will she chase us? In that flying mortar of hers?”
“Duh.”
“Fine.” Vasyl went to the workshop door and peeped in. Baba Yaga was standing at a control panel amid a large group of sharp-legged spiders. She twisted dials, and most of the spiders turned left. About a quarter of them froze and flipped over. Baba Yaga cursed and fiddled with the panel again. Petya came up behind Vasyl and put a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, Vasyl felt the old forbidden yearning. Then he remembered how things had changed and he put his own hand over Petya’s. Despite the difficulty of their situation, Vasyl couldn’t hold back the smile.
“If either of you meat puppets sets foot in there, you’ll set off five kinds of alarms,” Maroushka warned from the table.
“Broom!” Vasyl said, and Broom scuttled forward. “Slip in there and bring me those kegs of fuel by the forge. Don’t let
her
see you.”
Broom saluted and skittered into the room. Vasyl held his breath, waiting for the alarm, but nothing happened. Broom wasn’t alive. His handle bobbed and wove among the tables, just another mechanical going about its business. Baba Yaga’s back was to him, and she didn’t notice when Broom snatched up the kegs, one under each arm, and scampered back to the door. There was another bad moment when Broom crossed the threshold and Vasyl expected an alarm, but everything remained silent.
“Good job, Broom,” Vasyl said. “Put them by the table.”
Broom obeyed, puffing and squeaking. Petya squeezed Vasyl’s hand. “What are they for?”
Vasyl cracked a lid, expecting paraffin oil but getting another, rather dizzying, smell. “Uh-oh. I don’t recognize this.”
“That’s a fractional distillate of petroleum. Makes paraffin oil look like seawater.” Maroushka’s tail scythed back and forth. “I think I have a hard-on.”
“A hard-on? Strange for a female,” Petya observed.
“Strange for a female,”
Maroushka echoed in Petya’s voice.
“You’re hardly one to judge, light-foot.”
Petya balled up massive fists. “Now, look, you rusty little—”
“Be quiet, the both of you.” Vasyl replaced the first keg’s lid. “Maroushka, are you sure Olena is still all right?”
“She’s moved eight inches since the last time you asked,” Maroushka said. “Twice the length of Petro’s—”
“Good, good.” Vasyl straightened. “Look, you
are
going to help us, right?”
Maroushka hesitated and shot a nervous look at the workroom. “I do like you, kid, but—”
“When was the last time she even gave you coal dust, let alone paraffin oil?” Vasyl said. “I’ll even fill you with some of this petrol. You’ll lick my earwax, right?”
Maroushka gave a long, long look at the open workshop door, clearly warring with herself. Thinking. Vasyl held his breath. After an aching moment, she said, “All right. But I was only kidding about the earwax.”
T he front door was locked with a series of dials and switches that had to be set to particular numbers in a particular order at a particular speed. According to Maroushka, a mistake would send a
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