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This is an excerpt from my YA steampunk manuscript, THE RED CROSSROADS. I had so much fun writing this book and performing the necessary research. This is a portion of the opening chapter. Thanks for reading!
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“Whatever you gave me isn’t working!”
From the slight slur of my brother Alvin’s voice, I suspected he might feel pain, but alcohol had dulled it enough to hold him at bay. “Be quiet and stop twitching.”
I adjusted my surgical glasses and plunged the needle into his flesh to close the opening where over a year ago I’d made repairs to the machinery within.
My brother quieted. Far too quiet for him. I reached for his wrist to check his pulse. The dull thumps created an irregular rhythm. As usual, Alvin had arrived home from the university’s winter recess even more broken than when he’d left.
And now I sit with my tools, scalpels, and suture—forced to patch him up again. My left hand trembled when I removed it from his wrist. Lively buggars. I watched the pale skin of my fingers as the digits twitched.
“Stop it.” I opened and closed my fist. My gloved right-hand always did the work. Much more steady and reliable with sharp objects like scalpels.
Once I closed the skin over the gear-driven machine that operated his thigh, I set about replacing the components in his left hand. During the initial examination, I’d heard a faint scraping sound. After a year away at medical school, I expected any machinery in his arms would’ve deteriorated a bit. It wasn’t as if Alvin tried to be careful with his condition.
From the far corner of my father’s dimly lit workshop a young man’s voice yelled, “Fiona, does he need another drink?”
“Not yet, Pax.” I used the scalpel to open the skin along a scar from a previous procedure. Alvin hissed as the skin parted like an open book.
“Hurts every time,” he muttered. “Give me another drink.”
A chuckle tickled the back of my throat as our best friend Pax lumbered over to us with a half-empty bottle of vodka. “My dear inebriated brother, if you allowed me to use my ventilator you wouldn’t be awake to experience this.”
Pax pushed the bottle to Alvin’s lips. The clear liquid missed his mouth a few times as Alvin sputtered. “I saw what happened to the dog—” He paused as his forehead scrunched to gather his thoughts. “—after you used it on him… Not happening.”
I adjusted my seat. “As you wish, but I’m not surprised you’d pick spirits over something logical like diethyl ether.” I turned to Pax. “Please fetch me another two-inch clamp from the cabinet.”
With a round belly and faded brown overalls which stretched to accommodate it, Pax towered over us. Even before my father passed away, Pax had worked in the Jacobs family repair shop. Pax passed along a clamp and then scratched his unruly blonde locks. “How does he look?”
“A horrible mess. At least everything is functional and only needs a few adjustments or new pieces. But I don’t want to think about the miniscule fractures or breaks in his bones he hasn’t told us about.”
“If he doesn’t tell you, he’ll learn soon enough,” replied Pax with a toothy grin.
“Are you done yet?” grumbled Alvin.
“Soon enough. I should’ve knocked you out so you’d be quiet.” Using the long sleeve of my blouse, I wiped my forehead. The overhead lamp was too hot, but it generated sufficient light for detail-related tasks.
“I’ve updated two gears that made the grinding noise. Now I need to test and then close you up.” I grinned. “We have to keep those hands fully functional so you can survive your anatomy course.”
“It doesn’t matter—I quit,” he blurted.
I nearly dropped my hook scissors as my mouth gaped. A sliver of anger pulsed through me. This had to be the alcohol speaking. Not the words of someone I worked day and night to support since I couldn’t attend medical school in a few years. Boys only. I bit the inside of my mouth before speaking. “Have you spoken to the school’s Dean regarding your decision?” He didn’t answer. Merely smacked his lips while his dulled brain cells attempted to form coherent words.
“Is he in pain? Does he need more?” asked Pax.
“To hell with the vodka. I’m almost done anyway.” From that point on, I fumed and tested the arm’s gears. I hated losing my temper. Especially when I reached the level of cursing. If my mother were alive, she’d say such language wasn’t becoming for a young lady of seventeen years.
When I was satisfied with my work, I closed the skin with fine stitches. Alvin jerked in pain. I couldn’t resist a slight smile as my anger eased.
“Serves you right for keeping secrets,” I grumbled.
He scrunched his nose from the strong minty scent of the healing salve I applied on the stitches. Thanks to the medicinal greasy slime, he’d heal in no time.
With the procedure done and my brother’s wounds wrapped tightly with gauze, I checked his pulse. Still not good. From the lessons my father taught me about irregular rhythms, I knew Alvin’s heart was diseased.
I’d never asked my father why Alvin didn’t receive medical attention from a hospital. I didn’t need to ask. All my life, the stringent rules of my homeland prevented me from receiving an advanced education. They also kept Alvin from the hospitals. Machinery within the holy vessel of the body is strictly forbidden.
I released Alvin’s wrist and ran my fingers along all of my tools: bone separators, the scalpel, and retractors of various sizes. When I needed heavy duty work, the steam-powered drill and bone mallets came into play. Not your average repair shop tools. I’d recalled only one other who used such things—my father. And with him gone, I couldn’t fathom building a replacement heart. Nor the dangerous intricacies of open-heart surgery.
By the time I stood to clean up, Alvin snored softly on the table. A tendril of chocolate brown hair had fallen over his eye. I pushed it out of the way and kissed his damp forehead. He might’ve been a fool, but he was the only family I had left.
I passed Pax as he sat on one of the stools next to a tool bench. He stretched out the newspaper in front of him.
From the workroom, I walked down a hallway to the connecting house. Sconces with tiny flames fed by gas lit the way. My leather boots scuffed against the worn wooden floors as I entered the kitchen.
I could almost imagine my mother cooking dinner while my father sat at worn kitchen table reading his scientific journals. She’d fuss over the bubbling pots and pans while our family dog kept his nose to the floor searching for scraps.
When I opened my eyes, the stark reality of my mother’s death three years ago hit my gut. The pain churned, increasing the urge to return to my sanctuary of my workshop. After Mother passed away from the Plague that went through town, my father went traveling again and returned home a broken, lonely man. As broken as his children who’d remained behind. A few months later we buried him next to our mother.
At least my brother was home. With resolve, I placed the pot on the stove, and then flicked the switch to channel the heat from the house furnace to the stove. I was about to add fresh vegetables for a stew when a chilly October draft blew down the hallway into the kitchen.
“Pax, shut the door!” I’d need a few shots of whiskey in my tea at the rate those boys tried my patience tonight. I continued cooking until I realized no one answered. Then another breeze blew in, causing the apron on the wall to flutter.
I turned off the stove, wiped my hands on a towel, and stormed down the hallway. I bet Pax let him get up and now he was drunk and roaming the streets.
But the workshop was empty. The only sound was from the open door flapping in the wind. Beyond the door lay darkness. The dirt road usually had oil lanterns lit. I took a single step forward toward the blackness that swallowed streets.
“This isn’t funny, Pax.” My gaze darted to the makeshift operating table where I’d strapped Alvin down. The leather straps had been ripped off.
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For the longest time since I've had a chance to find Maria's V. Snyder's books, I've wanted to read her first book, Poison Study. I learned about her work when I encountered Inside Out. Her style of writing is smooth, action packed, and easy to fall into for a great read.
