Dieselpunk ePulp Showcase (Anthology)

A Tale of the Aether Age: That Sort of World

A Tale of the Aether Age:

That Sort of World

Created by Grant Gardiner

THE 1920s.

MID-WESTERN COMMONWEALTH, CHICAGO.

“Well if it ain’t that then what was it?”

“It was all those damn fool bankers in New York.”

“Bankers?”

“Yeah, bankers. They’re the ones who caused everything that’s happened. A huge pack of New York bankers got greedy. And the country was the one to cop it in the teeth when it all headed south.”

“Nah. It weren’t that.”

“It was too. And everyone knows it. Bankers got greedy, they sold Louisiana back to the French and that’s why the Grand Dream of the United States of America is now just a footnote in history.”

Mickey thought about this for some time before shaking his head. “Nah, that ain’t it. That don’t explain half the crazy things that have happened.”

Mack growled. “Jus’ listen.” He began checking points off on his fingers. “New York sold Louisiana to the French. Which made everyone else really mad. Which made Chicago form the Mid-West militia. Which meant New York had to stop pretending and actually get serious about The Prohibition act. This made the North West secede to Canadia, which made California blame New York and change their name, which made Texas want nothing to do with no one no more, which made everyone else agree that Texas had the right idea.” He emphatically flicked his glowing cigarette butt into the cold, dark shadows. “From there it was all downhill. No more Union. No more United States of America.” He grinned. “And plenty more space ‘round the edges for young upstanding ‘entrepreneurs’ like ourselves. So we can make a little dosh on the side when we ain’t running booze for the gin joints.”

Mickey clutched himself tighter against the cold. “I’m sure that ain’t it. Me old man explained it diff’rent. A lot diff’rent. It had something to do with the Great War and zeppelins and aether and... stuff.”

“Well your old man don’t know his head from his toes. And that’s when he’s sober.” Mack stamped his feet in the sludge left over from the previous night’s snow. Then he started fishing inside his coat for his cigarette case. “Speaking of which – where the hell’s your hat? You look like a bum, huddled out here with no hood for your head.” He found the case and flipped it open. “You look like someone rolled you and left you wanting.”

Mickey replied with a glare but didn’t do nothing about it. Instead he just turned his sullen gaze from the shadows of the alley to the dimly lit street beyond. “Bessie been complainin’ that I don’t dress to the nines. So I’m tryin’ somethin’ new. I’m goin’ hatless from now on.”

Mack stopped. Slack jawed, he stared at Mickey, cigarette left hanging unlit from his lower lip. There was a stretch of silence between them but Mickey refused to make eye contact.

Eventually Mack finished digging the book of matches from his pocket and stopped shaking his head long enough to light up. A bright flare cast orange light across his face, vanished instantly, and he sucked back his first lungful of smoke. He pocketed the matches and resumed his head shake. “You said some crazy things in the past, Mickey, but that one takes the cake.” He exhaled. “You gotta be all outta crazy ideas now.”

“What? I been speakin’ to a Sicilian guy. Out at the zeppelin docks. Smart Import/Export fella who’s into all that French coo-chorr stuff that Bessie makes me buy for her. He reckons no one will wear hats in future. That was his hot tip for the Wall Street bucket shops – he reckons that hat makers are on the slide and that I should go short on ‘em for the long haul. He said I’ll get at least 10 points.”