The year was 2274 when humanity’s first tentacles of steam-driven starships reached Xylaris—a world of violet deserts and phosphorescent lagoons. Captain Elias “Lockjaw” Thatcher stood rigid at the gangway of the HSS Brassbird, polished brass gleaming beneath twin suns. Lockjaw fancied himself a paragon of order and precision—every bolt torqued to his exacting spec. Yet nothing in his military career had prepared him for the mad menagerie waiting at Lake Vortex.
Landing in Brass and Velvet
The Brassbird hissed her boilers to a halt on cracked shale. Brass-riveted pods hissed steam as cargo doors creaked open. Lockjaw’s crew disembarked in a rampage of goggles, leather dusters, and toolbelts:
• Dr. Aurelia “Rell” Finch, xenobiologist and protocol-shredder, whose wild curls peeked from under a bowler hat.
• Percival “Pip” Gadget, clockwork engineer with a penchant for impromptu explosions and sarcastic quips.
• Juniper “June” O’Malley, scout-cartographer, ex-sky-pirate turned cartographer, sporting prism-lensed goggles and a wry grin.
• Professor Barnaby Fizzwick, a social scientist chasing cultural—and culinary—anomalies, forever fiddling with his steam-powered teapot.
Lockjaw barked orders: “Survey grid. Zero tolerance for improvisation.” Rell suppressed a grin and saluted with a flourish.
First Glimpse of the Lagoon
Lake Vortex lay before them like molten glass. At its shore bobbed creatures conjured from feverish dreams:
– A giraffe-fish hybrid, neck ringed in neon spots, wings fluttering like clipped banners.
– Polka-dotted snails whose jeweled shells winked in the sunlight.
– Starfish-tentacled beings that glided above the water like inverted dancers.
– Spherical “thought-orbs” that blinked multidirectional eyes.
“Fascinating,” murmured Rell, pulling out a brass eyepiece that transcribed their calls into tinny melodies. Pip cranked open his volute-gear recorder; June sketched every flourish in her leathered notebook. Lockjaw frowned. “Proceed with caution—no direct contact.”
Protocol vs. Curiosity
As Rell edged forward, the giraffe-fish yawned a cloud of iridescent spores. The team inhaled a snifter of scented steam from Fizzwick’s teapot—his attempt at alien antihistamine. Instead, the spores tickled their synapses, inspiring bodily twitches and uncanny clarity. Pip’s mechanical leg whirred uncontrollably; his voice adopted a melodic trill.
Lockjaw snapped, “Report!”
Fizzwick hiccupped tea. “It’s… enlightening?”
June laughed, “We’re dancing.”
Rell sighed, “The lagoon tunes neuro-chemistry. Imagine harnessing this for,,,”
Lockjaw cut her off. “Shut it down!”
He stomped on a pressure valve. Steam roared into copper coils, blanketing the shore. The snail-shells clattered free and rolled into the water, leaving behind slime etched with fractal runes.
Into the Brass Leviathan
Lockjaw insisted on a methodical survey. They boarded the Brass Leviathan—a submersible of polished steel, steam pistons, and portholes rimmed with blinking gauges. Pip’s latest invention, the “Clockwork Bathysphere,” promised safe exploration.
Inside, Rell calibrated a spore-scanner. June mapped the route; Fizzwick recited etiquette manuals in case they met aquatic diplomats. Lockjaw stood at the helm, fists clenched around a brass steering yoke. “Maintain station two hundred meters above the lakebed. No deviations.”
Guardians of the Deep
As the Leviathan descended, the world outside shifted to pastel gloom. Alien flora drifted in slow eddies. Then they beheld the guardians:
Rell tapped the glass. The willow-beast’s tendrils waved gently. Pip whispered, “It’s… asking for tea.”
Lockjaw blinked. “Tea?”
Fizzwick, ever the diplomat, offered a cup of steaming brew. To everyone’s astonishment, the tendrils accepted it. The creature exhaled phosphorescent puffs. The orbs blinked in delight.
Rift in Ranks
Back in the cabin, Lockjaw declared, “We negotiate resources. Extract samples. Return.” Rell slammed her scanner shut. “We just shared tea with a living forest—it deserves protection, not plunder.”
Lockjaw’s rigid profile flickered with anger. “Orders, Finch. We’re here to catalog, then leave.”
June chimed in, “What if cataloging kills it?”
Pip added, “I fixed the grabber arms, but they chew flesh like gears off a lathe.”
Tempers flared like ignited charcoal. Lockjaw paced. “This is a military-sponsored mission. We follow protocol.”
Rell folded her arms. “Ethics over orders.”
Their argument cut short by an ominous tremor. The Leviathan’s lights flickered; gauges danced into the red. Outside, the great willow-beast shuddered—its obsidian roots cracking.
Shadows Beneath the Surface
The holoscreen glowed: dark shapes slithered from under the willow’s vaulting canopy. Uninvited predators—serpentine creatures with crystalline fins and razor-toothed beaks—moved with silent hunger.
“The Shadowlurks,” Rell whispered, recalling local myth.
Lockjaw barked, “Evasive maneuvers!” He spun the yoke. Steam pistons groaned. The Bathysphere shuddered. Outside, the guardians formed a protective ring, star-tentacles lashing away the invaders.
Pip scrambled to divert power from the espresso boiler to the new steam thrusters. June jammed her maps into a utility rack. Fizzwick fiddled with his teapot, ready to broker another infusion.
The Spores of Memory
In the chaos, one Shadowlurk slipped past. It sprayed spore-clouds that seeped into the cabin vents. The crew inhaled again—and visions bloomed: Rell saw her long-lost sister dancing as a starfish spirit; Pip relived the warfront’s metal-shrapnel rain; June saw smoke-ghosts of pirate ships; Fizzwick tasted betrayal in every sip of tea; even Lockjaw glimpsed himself—unmasked as a cowering child.
They gasped, stifling sobs. The spores peeled back their bravado. Arguments hushed. Unity bloomed.
Outside, the guardians vanquished the Shadowlurks and guided the Leviathan upward.
The Reluctant Retreat
Surfacing, Lockjaw pushed past battered protocols. “We…we withdraw.” Rell placed a cordial hand on his stiff shoulder. “You did well, Captain. Sometimes precision means knowing when to stop.”
They salvaged only shell samples (carefully numbered) and a vial of phosphorescent sap. The snail-shells they returned to the lake, each plunking home with a soft plink.
As they limped back to the Brassbird, engines wheezing, the lagoon’s glow receded. The guardians and shadows melted into rippling dusk.
Aftermath and Unsettled Ends
Weeks later, in the Brassbird’s log, Lockjaw typed a single entry:
“Lake Vortex expedition: objectives incomplete. Moral opposition prevailed. Sample inventory: snail shells (n=4), sap (n=1). Crew psychologically altered. Recommend no repeat until better antihistamines.”
Rell added a footnote:
“Tea diplomacy effective.”
Back in the goggles-lit deck, June sketched the willow-beast’s silhouette in her journal. Pip tinkered with a gear-driven teapot that now hummed mysteriously. Fizzwick served one final cup—this time spiked with sap, chalking up a euphoric haze. Lockjaw stared at the swirling liquid, unmoved.
He raised his spoon, paused, then set it down. “Next mission,” he muttered, “strictly orbital.” No brass-ribbon fanfare. No triumphant psalms. Just the hum of steam, the hiss of escaping air, and the faint echo of distant laughter from a lake that guarded its own secrets.
