The Parliament of Ghosts

I haven’t updated in a while, I know. I want to, but every time I start trying to write something, I get depressed. I mean, come on, the only thing inaccurate about my Presidential Negotiation Flowchart was that it wasn’t pessimistic enough. I literally can’t find anything interesting or clever to say about the current political climate and how fucked we are. I can’t even get overly sober about the whole thing to highlight its importance via a contrast to my usual tone. So I’m just giving up. Time to make my way in the world some other way.

That way? Pandering to nerds. If a racist hack like Jim Butcher can do it, why can’t a slightly less racist hack like myself do the same? So I have. Prepare yourself for the steampunk horror fantasy action cop noir opus of the century: the Iron Heart Cyclex. It’s a tale of a man coming to terms with what it means to be human…with a Lovecraftian twist! So enjoy, or don’t, I really don’t care anymore.

THE IRON HEART CYCLEX, BOOK 1: CYBER SECURITY

Chapter 1

I knew it was going to be a tough day when the chief called me into his office; he had that tone, the one where he’s got to deliver some bad news, but it’s the bad news he really likes to deliver, the news that’s bad for somebody he hates.  And that’s me.  He hates me so much. He didn’t like me when I was back on the force in the Steampunk Crime Division, and he didn’t even have to command me then.

The chief’s office was filled with memorabilia from his heyday: a framed photograph of him receiving a commendation from the Wuxia Kung Fu City Council for helping to bust the Steambot Unions in the 60′s, a letter of appreciation from the first Dragon-American mayor of Los Angeles, and his most prized possession of all, a signed baseball card of his favorite player, Werewolf Ty Cobb. As I entered the room, he turned his ruddy face from the steam-powered computer he was filing reports on by adjusting an oscilloscope or something.  Seeing me, he leaned back in his chair and picked up the cigar smoldering in his desktop ashtray, idly pulling his frosted green aviator goggles over his eyes.

“Took you long enough, tin man,” he said.

“Dammit chief, I’ve told you to watch it with the slurs,” I said in response.

“So write me up,” he said around his cigar, which reminded me of one of the big smokestacks that used to be on the south side of West Hollywood during the golden age of the studio system, before the formation of the steam actor’s guild. “You might not have the time, though.  The inquiry’s results are in.”

He waved a manila envelope in front of me. It bore several cogs that indicate it’s source, the Internal Affairs Bureau.

“They can’t have suspended me, right?” I asked with a hint of desperation. “I mean, it was dark, but almost daybreak, and I had been following a perp in Englewood and, next thing I know, I was in Compton, and you know how scary things are there, so of course when a kid jumps out with a water pistol I–”

“Look,” said the chief, gesticulating wildly with the brown envelope as if it were a wizard’s wand, which it couldn’t be since the last wizards were killed during the Trail of Wizard Tears during the reign of the Cleric Andrew Jackson, “I hate you, and even I’ll admit no one could blame you for being nervous in Compton.”

“On account of all the black people,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, nodding soberly, “because of the black people.”

“So what did they say?” I asked.

The chief made a circle with his jaw, like a cow chewing cud, causing his cigar to waggle at me like a disapproving mummy finger. He was clearly enjoying this. “Why don’t we open this up, and find out? Is there still a place on this force for a steampunk vampire robocop?”

His lackadasiacal attitude was steaming me, and he could tell, because the steam pressure guage on my chest was no doubt creeping into the yellow.  ”Dammit, chief, you–”

He cut me off.  ”You’re still on the force, tin man.” He tossed the envelope over to me as a low whistle from my pressure regulator united indicated my relief.  I quickly opened the envelope, slicing it with my steam-powered utility blade, and began reading. I got about two paragraphs in before my non-beating heart fell right into the pit of my iron stomach, which was actually a furnace that generated the steam needed to keep me undead. “What’s the meaning of this?” I asked. “You know I’m working the Zombie case alone.”

“Not anymore, he said, grinning widely. “Why don’t I go fetch your new partner.”

As he walked to the door, I asked, “Chief, why do you hate me so much?”

The chief paused for a second, his hand on the shiny brass doorknob.  ”The reason I don’t like you?  You know my wife died in the steambot strikes of 1975!”

“But chief, I suffered in those strikes too. I got my arms and legs blow off by a roving gang of dark elf vampire hunters.”

“And instead of having the decency to dissolve into dust, you turned yourself into one of THEM!” he snarled. The cigar dropped from his mouth to the floor. He looked at it, then crushed it beneath his foot and walked out the door.

I sat in silence, thinking, as my thoughts were displayed on a readout projected on my aviator goggles by a steam laser. The three blue LEDs situated on the inside of frame of the goggles by my nose began lighting in sequence, indicating I was crying. I read a readout of my thoughts. Maybe I never should have become a steam-powered robocop, maybe I should have just been a limbless vampire. Was it wrong for me to accept the artificial robocop soul I had been offered? Was it worse to be soulless, or have an artificial soul made of steam and valves and cogs? These questions had trouble me time and time again, and would continue to thematically arise throughout the rest of the story and whatever sequels may be written. As I thought about this important moral conundrum that was in no way ridiculous, I heard the door open behind me. My targeting lenses refocused, presenting to me an image of my worst nightmares coming true.

“Meet your new partner,” said the chief, grinning sadistically.

Great. Just what I needed. A time traveling sexy cthulhu from an alternate World War II that had vikings in it for a partner. Could this day get any worse?

TO BE CONTINUED…