In a world of steamships and Progress, no one who sails due south across the Wild Sea ever returns.
No one knows why.
Dale Mortensen intends to solve the mystery. With the help of an old sailor and a reformed playboy searching for his missing sweetheart, he locates a captain and crew ambitious—not to mention crazy—enough to undertake the journey across the Wild Sea.
The Infinity and her crew sail south, but the truth of what really lies on the other side of the horizon is more amazing—and terrifying—than anything they can imagine.
It’s the adventure of a lifetime—and it may just get Dale and his friends killed.
Find out how this Young Adult steampunk adventure unfolds chapter-by-chapter every Thursday! Click here to start from the beginning. Or if you want to read it at your own pace, buy the ebook for $6.99 from Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Smashwords or Sony, or get it as a trade paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Book Depository.
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HORIZON
E. R. PASKEY
TWENTY-FOUR
BY THE TIME DALE ARRIVED BACK AT his new home, he found Mrs. Yunker had already set out dinner and his fellow boarders were gathered around the table. She had clearly informed them of his impending arrival; when he darkened the dining room doorway, every eye turned in his direction.
He nodded to the tired group of men all staring at him. “Evening. I’m Dale Mortensen.”
“Another New Arrival?” A sour-faced young man with a thick brown beard scowled at Dale over his plate. “They’re popping out of the woodwork these days.”
“Knock it off, Reese.” Another man, probably a decade or so older than Dale, cuffed the speaker in the back of the head. “No need to be rude. You were new here not so long ago yourself.” Bright green eyes fixed on Dale. “You are a New Arrival, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Just got out of the Hospital this morning and met with the Committee.”
Snorts came from some of the men ringing the table. “Aren’t they a helpful bunch?” muttered a man on the end.
“Well, come in, lad.” The green-eyed man motioned to the empty seat beside him and held out a work-roughened hand. “Sam Withers.”
They shook and Dale gratefully sank into the chair. Bowls of food were passed in his direction and he piled his plate high. A few of the other men introduced themselves, and then they all fell to the serious business of filling their stomachs.
After ten minutes or so, Dale sat back in his chair and looked around; Reese’s earlier words had come back to him. “Is a man named Belly Skoog staying here too?” Belly wasn’t at the table, but he supposed it was possible that he had found a pub he liked better.
Silence descended on the table; Dale found all eyes on him again. He fought the urge to shift under their combined scrutiny. “He’s part of my crew.”
“He’s here sometimes,” said Withers at last, “but he isn’t here now.”
“Do you know where he is?” pressed Dale. “I haven’t seen him since Dr. Carthage released him from the Hospital.”
“He’s in hell,” came a low, sing-song voice from the other side of the table.
“Here now,” said Withers sharply. “None of that.”
Confounded, Dale looked at him, and then around the table. They’re not making any sense at all. “Someone mind telling me what’s going on?”
Withers shook his head. “Your friend’s been sent to a place none of us speak of.”
“Bad luck, y’see,” chimed in an older man across the table.
Right. Dale glanced around the table again, but he knew better than to press further. They won’t be telling me anything else tonight.
Withers did not stop speaking to Dale, but he did do everything in his power to change the subject. “Where is the Committee sending you, Mortensen?” he asked, reaching for another roll.
Dale swallowed a mouthful of something that tasted like potato. “The Mining District.”
“Ah. Reporting to Sivak?”
“You know him?”
A grim little chuckle ran around the table. “Oh, aye,” said Reese flatly. “We know him.”
“You don’t want to get on his bad side,” added another man.
Dale nodded slowly. “Good to know.” He filed that tidbit away for future reference. He hesitated, and then addressed the table. “How long have you been here?”
He received varying answers. Some had been here twenty years, others only ten or fifteen. Some, like Reese, had been stranded in Rift City less than five years.
Finally, Dale looked at Withers.
“Twelve years for me,” the older man said. “My ship came through the Rift about a month before the Corona incident.” The skin around his eyes tightened. “Only four of us survived the wreck—and I was the only one who lived through the incident.”
Dale’s ears perked up. “Corona incident?”
Withers froze along with the rest of the table, but they all tried to pass it off as nothing. “Old history,” he said, though the blood had drained from his face at the memory.
Nodding, Dale let it drop, but he filed that away for future reference as well. I’ll have to look into the Corona incident when I have the chance.
~oOo~
A bright, tinkling sound roused Dale early the next morning, carrying above the noise of water rushing through the gutters on the roof above him. For a moment, he lay in bed blinking at the wall opposite him. He had been dreaming he was back aboard the Infinity, except the ship’s bell had sounded wrong. Now he knew why.
Memory followed fast on the heels of awareness. Thrusting a hand out from under his blanket, Dale fumbled on the nightstand beside his bed for the little wind-up alarm clock he had bought from a junk dealer on his way home the day before. Considering how little light Rift City had compared to his own world, he thought the alarm clock might come in handy.
Especially on his first day of work.
Yawning, Dale slung his feet out of bed. His knee gave only a slight wince of protest as he set about dressing for the day. He visited the water closet down the hall and splashed cold water on his face. It helped revive him, which in turn made him realize he was a little nervous about today.
He was not afraid of hard work—growing up in Falconcrest would have cured him of that malady had he ever suffered from it—but frankly the idea of spending his days underground wielding a pickax did not thrill him. Not when the sea ran through his veins and he had spent his whole life in the open air.
Please, he prayed silently, please let this be a job I can live with.
When he entered the dining room, Mrs. Yunker was busy setting out a cold breakfast. A few of Dale’s fellow boarders were already at the table, sipping from mugs of what passed for coffee here. They nodded to Dale as he entered; he was struck by how fatigued they still looked even after a full night’s rest.
That does not exactly bode well for the future, he thought grimly.
Withers arrived a moment later and nodded to the breakfast table. “You’ll want to take a sandwich with you for lunch.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Once he finished eating, Dale wrapped two pieces of bread and a few cold cuts of something that resembled ham in a clean napkin and pocketed the sandwich. If Mrs. Yunker frowned on this policy, no one mentioned it.
His fellow boarders departed for the Mining District en masse. At the door, Reese rudely shouldered past Dale—though Dale was a full head a half taller and considerably broader.
“Don’t mind him,” said Withers bracingly. “He’s got an ax handle permanently shoved up his rear.”
They made their way to the closest Lift and took it down to Level 3, where they proceeded to queue up for the Rail line that would take them to the Mining District.
As they climbed into a car with two other men—which made for a rather tight fit, in Dale’s opinion—Withers gave him a wry look. “Enjoy the trip. We’ll be walking home tonight.”
Dale frowned. That makes no sense. “Why?”
In answer, Withers spread his hands to indicate the Rail car around them. “The Rail doesn’t want the likes of us getting dirt and grime over everything after we leave the Mining District at night.”
The other two men, both rather slight and scrawny, nodded their agreement.
Dale gaped at the older man. “You can’t be serious. They don’t have anything in place for miners?”
“Not a thing.” Shrugging, Withers leaned back against his seat.
“Miners don’t matter,” said one of the other men. He was in his early forties, but looked much older. “Never have.”
Struck by a sudden, niggling suspicion, Dale looked around the car. “Do they always put sailors in the Mining District?”
He received three rather somber looks and various shrugs. “Depends on whether or not they have any other skills,” said Withers.
“Or how many openings there are in other positions,” added the older man.
“Or who you piss off,” said the last man quietly. He was Withers’ age, with red-hued brown skin and long black hair pulled back in a braid. He had spoken little thus far; he seemed content to sit in his corner and twist the gold band on his left ring finger.
“That’s true,” conceded Withers. “Men have been demoted to the Mining District.”
“Oh, there’s worse,” said the older man, swallowing as though his throat had gone dry. “The Platform’s worse than that, but even then at least you’re still alive.”
The Platform? “Worse? What’s worse than the Mining District?” Dale turned questioning eyes on Withers, who only shrugged and averted his gaze. Once again, he realized he had put his foot into something, but he had no idea what. Nor did he understand the thick undercurrent of fear that suddenly swirled around them inside the Rail car.
It was the man with the braid and wedding ring who finally answered. “Sometimes people in Rift City Disappear.”
“That’s enough, St. John,” said Withers sharply, though he tried to temper his tone with a smile. “Don’t want to frighten the lad on his first day of work.”
St. John only shrugged and resumed twisting his ring.
By this time, they were pulling into a Station. Dale disembarked with the others and followed the crowd of men—and a few young boys, he was startled to see—out of the Station and into open air. A metal-and-stone contraption that looked like a cross between a ramp and a bridge snaked down to ground level, where a wide stone road led to a mine opening and several large sprawling structures nestled up against the steep rise of a craggy mountain.
Dale had not been entirely sure what to expect, but he still found himself surprised. As mountains went, he’d seen taller, but it seemed almost out of place amid the warren of buildings, walkways, and bridges comprising Rift City. Or at least what I’ve seen of it so far, he amended. A few scruffy, scraggly little trees dotted the area, but a series of pale tree stumps scattered around indicated most of the trees here had been chopped down.
The trees that remained were massive, easily the largest Dale had ever set eyes on in his entire life. Shelves had been cut into them to support large slabs of glitterglass, which protected the open areas of the Mining District from storms and the never-ending rain.
A tug on his sleeve drew him back to the present. He found Withers giving him a look of half-worry, half-exasperation.
“I know you’re new, Mortensen, but the first thing you should know is that in the Mining District you have to keep your wits about you at all times.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Sivak’s office is in those buildings. I’d take you there, but I’ll be late clocking in and they don’t take kindly to that.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Dale assured him. “I’ll find my way.”
With a nod and a word of encouragement, Withers melted into the crowd streaming toward the mine entrance.
Taking a deep breath, Dale set off for the office buildings the other man had indicated. Despite the heavy flow of men and children jostling one another to get to the mine faster, he had little trouble cutting across. His height ensured he kept his destination in view at all times.
As he neared the bottom of the ramp, Dale realized this mining complex was much bigger than it appeared at first glance. Several different railroad tracks led off into the distance, which he surmised meant either the mine had multiple openings, or else there were several different mines. From the amount of brass he’d seen everywhere, combined with Riley possessing gold currency, he was betting on the latter.
He wondered which one he’d be working in, and suppressed a grumble at the complete lack of information available here. Trying to find anything out was like pulling teeth. Need to find some better sources of information as soon as I can, he thought as he approached what appeared to be the main door in the office building.
Inside the door, he found more brass and wood. He had half-expected a layer of grime to cover everything, but this part of the building, at least, was scrupulously clean.
A tall, wiry woman with a face like a horse and a hard edge about her peered down the end of her nose at Dale—an impressive feat, considering she was sitting down and he towered over her heavy desk. “Can I help you?” Her tone implied the answer warranted a ‘no’ and a hasty retreat.
Dale offered her a tentative smile. “Hello, ma’am. The Committee for New Arrivals told me to report to Mr. Sivak today.”
One dark eyebrow rose, as though the woman doubted this piece of information. “Name?” she asked crisply. He gave it to her and she produced a small red ledger, which she handled as though she expected it to disintegrate. Opening the ledger to a point somewhere in the middle, she ran a finger down the length of the page. “Mortensen… Mortensen…”
Her finger stopped and she looked up at him. Her expression implied she had somehow been cheated. “He’s expecting you.” She pulled out a little pocket-watch and flipped open the lid. “On time, I see. Good.” Snapping the lid shut, she pinned him with a calculating look and tipped her head toward two straight-back wooden chairs lined up against the opposite wall. “Have a seat.”
Uncertain about what he was supposed to be doing, but at the same time absolutely sure he did not want to upset this woman—he’d have to tell Raphael Mrs. Weatherby was nothing compared to this dragon—Dale took a seat. The chair creaked alarmingly under his weight, but it held. He made a mental note to refrain from any sudden movements while sitting on it.
The dragon lady—she had not mentioned her name and Dale had not spotted a name placard on her desk—pressed a button on a little black box mounted on her desk and spoke into it. She made no effort to lower her voice. “Obo, please inform Mr. Sivak that one of the New Arrivals the Committee promised him is here. Mortensen.”
A few tinny squeaks answered her, but even as quiet as this room was, Dale was too far away to hear the reply. He had to work to keep breathing evenly; his heart thumped wildly against his ribcage. Not down in the dark; please don’t send me down in the dark.
After a moment, a door at one end of the room opened to admit a pale, stony-faced man with short black hair and slanted eyes. Dale suspected he would have been average height if standing next to anyone else, but when he came up to Dale and motioned for him to stand, the top of his head was even with the middle of Dale’s bicep. The only surprise the man showed at Dale’s size was a faint widening of his eyes before shutters slammed closed on his face. He was probably a few years younger than the dragon lady. “I am Mr. Obo, Mr. Sivak’s secretary. Please follow me.”
The woman at the desk gave a disapproving sniff that carried in the still room.
“Thank you, Miss Underly,” said Mr. Obo, without looking at her.
She did not reply.
Dale had the distinct impression there was no love lost between these two. Mr. Obo led the way through the door and down a narrow, dim hall and Dale followed. Silence pressed in around them on all sides and Dale found himself missing Raphael. Where he, Dale, was hesitant to speak, preferring to use his eyes and ears to gather information, Raphael had no trouble asking all kinds of direct—and occasionally prying—questions. Sometimes the method backfired, but Dale had noticed it did procure faster results.
In the back of his mind, he could almost hear Raphael urging him to say something. He cleared his throat, but the words circling in his mind refused to come out. He had never been good at small talk. One of the reasons we get on so well is that Raph is perfectly happy to carry on a conversation all by himself.
He fancied Mr. Obo darted several glances at him out of the corner of his eye—no doubt curious as to the lack of questions—but he continued to say nothing. After all, I’ll be speaking with the source here in just a moment anyway.
“Through here, please.” Mr. Obo opened a door and motioned for Dale to precede him through it.
Dale stepped over the threshold and felt an immediate difference in the air. A small wood stove in a corner sent out a steady wave of heat, taking the edge off of the damp chill that permeated this portion of Rift City. The room itself was a strange combination of austere and luxurious—Mr. Sivak did not seem to collect things, but what things he did possess were top quality.
The man himself sat behind a large desk piled with stacks of ledgers. A smaller desk in a corner—no doubt belonging to Mr. Obo—held still more ledgers. A skylight cut into the ceiling filled the room with natural gray light, which boosted the light from a lamp set against a sconce on the wall. In this light, Dale saw a middle-aged man with keen dark eyes set in a puffy brown face. Mr. Sivak was a short man with broad shoulders, whose body had run slightly to fat.
“Mr. Mortensen.” Sivak had a raspy voice, with an accent Dale had never heard before. He looked Dale up and down, before inclining his head. “Welcome to the Mining District.”
Find out how this Young Adult steampunk adventure unfolds chapter-by-chapter every Thursday! Or if you want to keep reading right now, buy the ebook for $6.99 from Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, Smashwords or Sony, or get it as a trade paperback from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Book Depository.
Copyright © 2013 E. R. Paskey