Gertrude & Grace

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

GERTRUDE & GRACE. © 2014 Zoltan Entertainment. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of Zoltan Entertainment. For information address www.ZoltanEntertainment.com

All illustrations by Ana Cruz. Model for the character of Gertrude: Mélanie Wallísdóttir. Model for the character of Grace: Ida Mary Walker Larsen. Illustrations © 2014 Zoltan Entertainment. All rights reserved.

All lyrics by T. Libertiny © 2014 Zoltan Entertainment. All rights reserved.

This book is a part of the Null Paradox series of books, music, and live shows. Null Paradox and the Null Paradox logo are trademarks of Zoltan Entertainment. Used by permission.

FIRST EDITION

Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

Libertiny, Thomas and Koontz, Rachel--1st ed.

ISBN 978-0-9779598-2-2 (ebook)

1. Victorian--Fiction. 2. Steampunk--Fiction. I. Title.

To all the Gertrudes and Graces:

make your choice and thrive.

And to my coauthor:

thank you for bringing this story to life.

Chapter 1

Before

Before we reach the end

Will you shred or mend

Help finding you

Makes me blue

—From the song Before by Null Paradox

Hot steam whistled out of the typewriter’s overpressure vent, creating a swirling grey haze in Grace’s bedroom. She felt uncomfortable, trying to wish away the chill of the evening as she curled up in her chair.

We used to talk. I used to be able to relate to you.

As usual, Grace had typed too fast for the powered machine to keep up with her. The canvas-covered rubber pipes groaned to match her pace as the steam caused them to swell. And with her speed came numerous errors in spelling, grammar, and all of the other conventional nonsense she wanted to ignore.

The machine wasn’t capable of matching the speed of her thoughts.

Sometimes we must make difficult choices that

require being apart from those we love.

She didn’t type the thought, but couldn’t push it out of her mind.

Sipping on the warm cup of coffee she had bought at the Charm Store, Grace would take the time to correct the more egregious mistakes later, in the final version of the letter. She couldn’t worry about that at this moment; right now, the focus had to be on the message she was trying to get across.

And the messages she would be forced to leave out.

She doubted that Gertrude would understand, but she felt she owed it to her best friend to at least try to communicate. Lately, their written correspondence had been more productive than any in-person discussion. She had a pile of torn-open envelopes on the floor, the letters strewn about, all of them from Gertrude.

Part of her wanted to burn all of that paper, just watch it turn to ash.

Grace tried to remember the last time they had an easy conversation in person.

Since when can’t we just talk? she wondered aloud, almost letting out a little scream. Her fists tightened. She couldn’t trace it back to a particular day.

Gertrude had been falling down for a while now.

What does it matter anyway? Grace thought, typing out a few more lines. If I can’t change her, I can’t change her.

I at least know this: I’m sixteen and I’ve spent every year since I’ve moved here to the town of Charm being Gertrude’s best friend. Growing up with her. Twelve years! And talking with Gertrude hasn’t become any easier. It seems like Gertrude just needs her distance now more than ever. For the moment, I’m just fine giving it to her.

The words on the page felt like fire growing inside her:

I wish, I wish, I wish. That’s all I seem to hear from you these days. But wishing doesn’t change the present.

She wondered how her friend would absorb the words. Too exhausted to edit the work, Grace decided this would have to do. She kept going, letting the steam blow out.

I’m losing you, Gertrude. I’m tired of hearing it.

Outside, the cold was settling in. It was getting late but Grace hardly noticed the time.

Suddenly the machine let out a loud whirring sound. Grace groaned, pausing her frantic typing on the keyboard.

This derelict thing, she thought. Every time I’m close to getting the words down, something breaks.

She waited, giving it a few more minutes to cool down. Grace watched the typewriter’s large brass overpressure gauge begin to creep back to a normal level. Pushing her sweaty operating goggles up on her forehead while being careful that they didn’t catch on her antenna, she used one of her other appendages to dab at her clothes with a silk embroidered kerchief.

The perturbed thoughts crept in, and she couldn’t hold them back. I’m so tired of having this conversation with her. Why won’t Gertrude grasp the obvious?

Grace imagined her friend tearing at the page as she read these words. Could Gertrude handle this? She let her mind entertain the thought for a brief second, but it wasn’t enough to stop her.

With the pressure now normal, Grace lowered her goggles into place, reengaged the gear and set the typewriter back into drive, no longer caring if the damn thing exploded. Grace immersed herself in writing and was completely unaware of the world around her.

Just as she had done on so many other nights after finishing a long letter, Grace wished again that there was a faster way to communicate with Gertrude than the postal service. She pulled the thick parchment from the machine, looking it over. Here goes nothing, Grace thought.

***

In the dream, she was flying.

Gertrude awoke to the pattering of light rain on the branches of the fern. Grey mist hung around her, cooling the heat of the noon sun.

Madness coming for me. The thought popped into her head, and she tried to trace it to the source. In the dream, was I flying, or falling?

Gertrude became acutely aware of the sun on her exoskeleton.

The middle of the day! Her mind screamed it at her. She had meant to take a brief nap, curled in the shade of a fern at the edge of the community farm near her home. But here it was, middle of the day, half of it gone. Her only chance to get the work done, slipping right out from under her.

Gertrude jumped up, shaking off a few clods of dirt. She began the journey home, her feet heavy.

As she trudged home, Gertrude stared at the ground, watching her feet take each step. As she neared The Onion, her home, she could hear the sound of her mother’s voice in a heated argument.

Father was upset again.

Gertrude froze, refusing to step an inch closer to them. She didn’t want this. Not now.

She tried to ignore the words that her ears couldn’t help but hear.

…in order for production to meet the needs of the masses, we must sacrifice…

Her father’s low, booming speech sounded almost like a song. She couldn’t handle this now, but she had to walk by them. This was the only path back. The only way was through.

The drawn-out, sorrowful replies of her mother weighed on her.

… deserving of serenity… Where else do you expect? My composure, my composure, the sacrifices I have already made, how can you—

Gertrude pictured the words as stones rolling off a cliff.

"The sacrifices we have all made."

Father stared through her.

Gertrude felt the heat of him, even from her distance.

It had been the same for months: her father demanded more from all of them in the family; her mother begged for balance. Gertrude had heard this argument more times than she could remember.

Not that it mattered. What would Father say if he knew the words actually hurt more every time, not less?

Gertrude inhaled a deep breath and held it in. She stepped squeamishly toward the entrance of her home. Gertrude placed her feet on the ground, counting the steps. She felt the sun. She heard the far-off buzzing of a factory.

He saw her. Nowhere to go but forward.

Gertrude! her father bellowed from the entrance to the community farm.

Usually she loved that her home was adjacent to the farm; this wasn’t one of those times.

The voice made her heart leap into her throat.

Take your place among the rest of them. The sound of his voice made her feel ashamed.

She scuttled into the crowd of other young ants, knowing where she was needed, silent.

Gertrude usually felt small, but she felt smaller near Father when he was in one of these moods. This was no exception. Agonizing though it was, she listened closely. She dissected every word. She tucked every utterance into her memory as though it were a treasure meant to be saved.

We’re not producing enough food, Father bellowed, his voice reaching the mass of ants gathered at the farm. "The Charm Ministry, our Ministry, is far from pleased!" The group shifted, tension invading the ranks.

If we are serious about the ongoing survival of our community, Father went on, then we must increase production. This is our only hope for surviving the annual flood.

The expectation is thus: you will pitch in. You will work more hours. You will give up your after-school activities. Your personal desires will fall second to the good of the community, he said, peering out at them with a stern expression.

Gertrude watched her mother shift her weight from one foot to the other. The darkness in her eyes. The exhaustion held in her body.

"You will move wherever you are needed on time," Father said. Punctuality will remain a high priority. I need every one of you alert and on task. Your focus is on execution of the goal. Adherence to the protocol, Father said. These were familiar words.

The Charm Ministry will be keeping watch more fervently than in the past. Meals will be efficient. Farm work will be unified, streamlined. Once night falls, school work will be effectual, proficient. You will not loiter.

That last word hung in the air, and on Gertrude’s heart.

She watched her mother’s mouth open, as if to speak a word, and then close gently.

Father gave her a quick glance, and stood up a little taller.

Some of us may have forgotten the priorities that our colony requires, he bellowed. "But this is for our own good.

This is my decision. It is final.

Silence. A stiffness in the air.

The claws of one young ant shuffling in the dirt.

Gertrude swallowed, feeling a shadow pass over her as the sun escaped behind a cloud.

Now, get moving, all of you!

Father waved a claw at his captive audience. The mass disseminated into the sectors of the farm, pressure settling out evenly over the entire space, the burden settling in the bodies as they moved.

Gertrude walked, half panicked and half relaxed, to the edge of the farm. She let her eyes trace the outline of the sturdy fence, pausing at every knot of rusted barbwire.

The smell of the earth surrounded her. The rich texture of the soil, the openness of the vaulted sky overhead: they spoke to her.

Sweet spring air mixed with the traces of moisture of the still-damp soil. All was quiet. The rain had not yet dried from the dirt.

Gertrude set to work, digging one claw into the mild ground. She felt the particles, every speck its own paradise. Here, she could witness the beauty. She could be safe, even if for only a short while.

On the farm, she could give the community what it needed. She could fulfill her duty.

Isn’t that enough? she wondered, watching the sky change. Deep down, she knew it wasn’t.

***

Father was still raw with anger as Gertrude’s mother finally cajoled him to sit with her under the towering ornamental grass. She knew he was dangerous like this. Not in a physical sense, but one wrong word from her would bring a crushing lecture from him.

She nervously adjusted her corset as they sat together on the iron bench, the blue sky greying in the distance.

She remembered that Gertrude’s father had not always been like this. Granted, he had always had an explosive temper, but the explosions had been rare and they were more than offset by his worldview and his ability to convince himself and all around him that everything was going to be better in the future. #F was an optimist at heart, despite his years of work with their local Ministry as their community farm’s representative. But, he had to admit, the grinding politics of it all had gradually worn him down. Interaction with his family was now rare and, when it came, it was usually in the form of a lecture on why they needed to do more for their Ministry. The system.

In a brief moment of clarity through his anger he thought, How ironic. Here I am yelling at my family to work harder for the very institution that I despise.

Then he easily lapsed back into his anger. #F’s Victorian standards were now so high that thanking his family for their hard work was out of the question.

Gertrude’s mother tested, feeling around for the right thing to say at the right moment; it was a precarious balancing act.

After their work is done and we’ve had dinner, #F, perhaps we could play a family board game? she asked.

After dinner, Gertrude needs to spend time on her homework, Father replied. Her performance on her last history exam was less than flawless.

Must everything she does be flawless? Mother’s question hung in the air like a cavern between them. She felt weary. She saw the scowl on Father’s face and knew that she had once again pushed too far at the wrong time.

A zeppelin thrummed overhead, its steam powered driving blades churning through the heavy air. It made a careful arc over their home.

From under the grass, Gertrude’s father glanced at his pocket watch. He stared up at the slow-moving machine, knowing it carried Ministry officials inside.

They’re late. As usual.

***

Dearest Gertrude,

I can only hope that when you read this letter, you continue to assume that we’re best friends. And please, please do not get bogged down again in the triviality of my punctuation and grammar; I freely admit that I’m not nearly as adept at following the rules of proper writing as you are. Maybe I’m just not as adept at following the rules of society, either. But what we’ve been discussing is far more important.

I recognize that you find it hard to talk about our mutual situation when we see each other at school. After all these years, I no longer expect you to become comfortable discussing our personal issues while we’re surrounded by our friends. What I do find troubling is that it’s becoming more and more awkward to talk with you at all. But that’s an issue for another letter.

Do you remember when we had our first real fight in elementary school? After that, it was like our hearts were exposed, broken. Vulnerable. I feel like we’ve returned to that place, Gertrude. And our friendship isn’t enough to make up for the hurt between us.

How I wish we had known to just walk away and come back another day. I don’t think we’ve ever gotten over it. It was you who suggested that we start writing letters so that we had more time to think about what we’re going to say to each other, with no regrets about what we forgot to say. And now we’ve been writing weekly letters to each other for years.

And yet, they are never enough. Even after I’ve sent mail to you, the story is always the same