Steemjammer: The Deeper Truth

Steemjammer

The Deeper Truth

John Eubank

Copyright © 2014 John Eubank

PREFACE Copyright © 2014 by John T. Eubank

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form.

Interior illustrations© by Kyle Owens

Cover Art by Jessie Buchanan

Edited by Ilona C. Eubank

A Steam World Press Book

Published by Steam World Press

P
reface

Not long ago I realized that after years of screenwriting, I'd been treating my daughters and son like the proverbial shoemaker, who made his own children go barefoot. I'd never written a story for them. The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was something I had to change. Picking our family's favorite genre, steampunk, I got to work creating characters inspired by my children, Ilona, Thomas, and Nancy.

The transition from screenplay to novel was not an easy one, but when I showed a few hundred pages of an early draft to Nancy, my youngest, she seemed to inhale it, reading it all in one afternoon. "Dad," she said excitedly, "you've got to finish it! I want to keep reading and reading!" Reinvigorated, I continued working on the project and finished a first draft.

Thomas read it and kept up with the novel through its various drafts, adding comments and making sure I kept the original draft's feel, which he liked. Ilona, who's been studying language arts in college and has a natural flair for language (much better than my own), agreed to edit it, and it was much improved. I want to thank my children for being my inspiration and for helping me finish this project. Without you, it wouldn't exist.

I also want to thank my wife, Ingrid, who kept up with all the drafts and pushed me to finish this, for all her love and support. Special thanks to my parents and Ingrid's mother, who have always been there for us when we needed them.

Steemjammer Through The Verltgaat is a work of love written for those nearest to my heart. A sequel, Steemjammer, The Deeper Truth, is already finished and up for sale, and it answers questions left open at the end of the first book. I hope you enjoy adventuring with Will, Angelica and Giselle Steemjammer as much as I have.

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

The Dutch spoken in this story may seem intimidating at first glance, but it’s easy to pronounce. Unlike modern Dutch spoken in the Netherlands, the Dutch used in this story is pronounced by the same basic rules for English. Steemjammer, which would be pronounced “stame-yammer” in the Netherlands, is pronounced “steam-jammer” here. "Groes" is exactly like the English word "gross," with a long o sound. The letter w can be pronounced either with a w or v sound (there’s regional variation), and if the reader chooses to stick with the English system (w for w), that’s perfectly acceptable. The Dutch in this story has no silent e, so a word like "Tante" (aunt) is pronounced “Tan-tuh,” with a schwa e sound at the end. The letters ee make a long e sound like in “screen,” ae makes a long a sound like in “say,” and oo makes the same sound you hear in “broom” or “doom.” Single vowels are usually used like short vowels in English, and aa is a more exaggerated short a sound, like we hear in “ah” or “alm” (not like the a in “and”). Dutch is very close to English, anyway, so a lot of Dutch words will seem familiar.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Special thanks to my friend, Todd Axworthy, who invented a science fiction themed board game involving vehicles and a heavy ball. I enjoyed playing it immensely. Todd was kind enough to let me adapt it for use in this series as Steemball.

CONTENTS

Steemjammer is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

A Steam World Press Book

Copyright © by John Eubank

Cover Art by Jessie Buchanan

Eubank, John

Steemjammer / John Eubank

ASIN: B00REKMJ1C

ISBN-13:

978-0692378779 (Steam World Press)

ISBN-10:
0692378774

First Steam World Press Edition: January 2015

Chapter
1

PERPETUAL MOTION

“Yongeman, oo goot?” a male voice said.
Young man, are you okay
?

Thinking he was back in the cold, damp cell, Will Steemjammer tensed. He forced himself to wakefulness and realized he’d fallen asleep on a park bench somewhere in New Amsterdam. A pleasant, round-faced man with wispy yellow hair had just spoken to him in Beverkenverltish Dutch.

“Ya,” Will said. He only understood about half that language, so he switched to English. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look zo goot,” the man said, speaking with a Dutch accent and holding out a wicker basket full of pastries. “Take one.”

Will sat up and looked the man over. He wore a ridiculously tall, pale-green top hat and a frock coat to match. Though he was thin in his arms, legs and chest, he carried a substantial amount of weight around his middle section, which made him distinctly pear-shaped. He must have just come out of a bakery, because the pastries smelled fresh.

“Thank you,” Will said, taking a warm pofferjee from the basket.

A cross between a pancake and a donut dusted with powdered sugar, it was delicious. Then, he remembered how much his little sister liked them, which reminded him that he shouldn’t be sleeping on a bench, even if he was bone tired. He needed to find her and the others.

“Sir?” he said. “Could you please tell me how to get to the Steem Museum?”

“Of course,” the man said, pointing. “Take Nassau Boulevard until seeing you are the big plaza. Then, go right on Watergoyzen Avenue. Look for the big smokestacks. Oo kant de neet missen.”
You can’t miss it
.

“Thanks.”

Will took another bite. The man started to leave but turned back, reached into his pocket, and offered Will something. In his hand were some copper and silver coins – some round and some triangular.

“This, I think you’re needing,” he said.

“I’ll be all right,” Will politely refused, “once I get to the Museum. I know people there.”

“Very well.” The man tipped his hat and left, saying, “Doo voerszichtik.”
Take care
.

After finishing the pofferjee, Will felt energized enough to get to his feet, though he was still wobbly. Glancing in the large window of a nearby shop, his reflection startled him. His light brown hair, which normally stood up in several places from strong cowlicks, was oily and matted. Stains marked his wrinkled, homespun clothing, but it was his face that alarmed him.

Fifteen years of age, he was used to seeing a healthy, vigorous version of himself starting back from a mirror. Instead, he looked noticeably thinner and gaunt in the cheeks. His eyes were slightly sunken with dark circles.
What day was it? How much time had he been in that Rasmussen dungeon?
No wonder that nice man had offered him food and money. He looked awful and smelled even worse.

Forcing himself to start walking, he found that if he kept a slow pace, he could trudge along without exhausting himself. Where was he supposed to turn again? He looked around, but the man was gone.

He noticed a low hedge in front of a restaurant with perfectly rectangular, dark green leaves. Trees in the esplanade had hexagonal or octagonal trunks and squared-off foliage. Delicate yellow flowers growing in a nearby window box had petals shaped like windmill blades. When they
spun
in the breeze, he assumed they were artificial until he realized they were real – that this was another exotic Beverkenvertish plant.

Old Earth plants grew here, too; especially brightly colored tulips, which seemed to occupy most of New Amsterdam’s flower beds. Will had been in this strange world less than a week and still tended to gawk at every new site. On the next block, he found himself doing just that – staring in awe – as he came upon the most amazing toy store he’d ever seen.

The front was a giant and probably functionless machine with a series of huge, multi-colored gears set in motion by water that cascaded from a pipe onto a paddlewheel. The water flowed down an artificial stream, under a small bridge, and into a goldfish pond, where the other end of the gear system turned a pump that sent the water back up to the pipe.

“Perpetual motion!” Will said aloud, wondering if it actually worked in this crazy world. If the sky really was a physical blue dome with the sun and moon zooming across on a track, anything was possible.

“Exactly,” said a tall, thin man doing lazy circles on a preposterous-looking steam-powered unicycle.

He had an English accent, which didn’t surprise Will, because a fair number of people from that country had moved to this world long ago, along with Dutch, French, Scottish, Germans and many others. Most English had settled on an island to the west, where they had a city called New London, but like on Old Earth, people moved around.

The man wore a leather vest over his white dress shirt. Instead of trousers, he had on a pair of bright orange shorts. His waxed moustache and goatee were lime green, and though Will had seen all sorts of strange hair here, he felt sure these had been dyed.

The man putted around on his powered unicycle, wobbling erratically but never falling. It was an act, Will decided, to get attention. Although there were no peddles, he made his legs turn as if they were peddling – only in reverse. On his head sat a metal helmet with brass-edged goggles and a whirling propeller blade on top.

“It’s only for fun,” the man told Will. “The propeller. I noticed you were staring at it. Of course, perpetual motion can’t work, either. That would violate – oh, I forget which – probably several laws of nature.”

“The first or second laws of thermodynamics,” Will said automatically, “or both, depending on the setup.”

The man gave him a stare and nearly went into the goldfish pond. He swerved at the last moment, struggling to keep from tipping over. Will had a moment to study the tiny engine mounted under the seat. No smoke came out of it, and the little boiler and pistons emitted no vapor. He wondered how it stopped, because it seemed not to have brakes.

“By the Maker,” the man said, regaining his balance and starting to juggle four toy orbs that resembled eyeballs, “you’re more educated than your, er, attire would suggest, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

For a moment Will worried that he’d made a mistake. He and his sister and cousins had been hiding their identities. His second cousin, Cobee, had warned him that revealing his deep knowledge of how things work was dangerous because it was a Steemjammer family trait and might give him away. The man on the unicycle, however, seemed unconcerned.

“You’re very good at that,” Will said.

He flashed a big-toothed smile. “Thank you.”

Glancing at the store, Will could see all sorts of amazing gizmos and gadgets through the windows that rested on the other side of the gears. Toy airships sailed around the ceiling powered by tiny steam engines. One had a gear system that alternated its rudder, making it do figure eights. A large tabletop surrounded by children was made to resemble this world’s major sport, Steemball, where two teams of armed and armored steam-powered vehicles went out into a field to find and fight over a one-ton bronze ball.

On the diorama, miniature wind-up destroyers went this way and that. Made to resemble the tank-like, steam-powered vehicles from the game, they randomly shot a fist-like “crusher” out the front, retracted it, and shot it off again. A toy ball carrier blindly reached around with its crane until it found and picked up a little ball.

As much as Will wanted to go inside and explore, he knew he had to get back. His family, he’d recently learned, had enemies – a family of experts in medicine and poison called the Rasmussens. Having grown up in Ohio on Old Earth in exile, his parents had shielded him from that and many things.

He’d just escaped from a Rasmussen or Raz base located on an island outside the city. Not only that, he’d learned a significant piece of information about an object that his father had been trying to find before his mysterious disappearance. The Raz were looking for it, too, and they had to be stopped by all means. If they got to it first, they could use it to open verltgaats or world holes, which would give them the power to attack anyone at their most vulnerable moments.

“Where are you going?” the man on the unicycle said as Will started to leave. “My name’s Whitfield, by the way. Oliver Whitfield.”

Will noticed a rotating sign above the gears that read “WHITFIELD & SONS.”

“I don’t have any money,” Will said, “and I’m guessing your toys are either alcohol or Incendium powered.”

Incendium was a rare element that only existed in Beverkenverlt. A type of solid lava that could give off an enormous amount of heat, it was extremely valuable and dangerous. That children would be allowed to play with the stuff made Will wonder.

“Right you are,” said Oliver, “but not everything in the shop is expensive, my lad. We cater to everyone.”

“But I’m completely broke,” Will said.

“Nonsense! You look right as rain.”

Wincing, Will realized he’d used an Old Earth term that he’d heard other kids in his neighborhood say.

“How about I earn some money and come back?” he said brightly.

A toothy grin appeared on Oliver’s face. “Splendid idea, dear boy. Catch!”

He tossed Will a little copper whistle that had
Whitfield Toys
printed on it.

“Free,” the man added. “Well, go on. Give it a try.”

Will put it to his mouth and blew. To his surprise, it sounded like the high-pitched noise of an excited horse.

“Whitfield whistles whinny like whirring whirlwinds!” Oliver said. “Bring your friends. You can stay as long as you like, and you don’t have to buy anything.”

Dragging himself away from the shop, Will continued down the cobblestone sidewalk. He didn’t feel well, and recalling his recent ordeal brought another issue to his mind. He’d been poisoned. Although his Rasmussen captors had cured him so they could question him, he wondered if the toxin had damaged his insides.

Even worse, he’d been warned against lying, which used to be easy to avoid, because he’d found it almost impossible to do so. But he’d had to lie about his name to get out of that Rasmussen base, and now he worried about his so-called goot steem. What exactly this was, he had no idea, save that it involved seeing deeper truth and allowed members of his family to do amazing things, such as using highly specialized machines to open world holes between Old Earth and this place.

His aunt, whom he called Tante Stefana, had warned him that saying anything other than the truth could erode or eliminate his goot steem. Even more alarming, telling lies could harm him or possibly cause death.

His legs felt heavy. There was a sharp pain in his temples, and his whole body felt hollowed out. Not only had he completely forgotten where the man in pale green had told him to turn, he needed to rest, but there were no benches in sight. Anyway, he feared if he so much as sat down that he’d end up falling asleep.

He had to continue on, but tiredness spread throughout him, and he felt light-headed. A lady with curly mauve hair piled high shouted at him in Dutch. Looking up, he realized he’d come to a stop while crossing a wide city street. Some sort of large locomobile or steam car was speeding right at him, blowing a loud steam whistle. He tried to run but he stumbled. As he fell, the vehicle’s large iron grill filled his vision.