Novels by niskala

"Don't touch the fibers!" Mavrik warned, his face pale as salt. He grabbed Harlan’s collar with a desperate, two-handed grip, hauling the boy upward with enough force to make his own shoulder pop."They're inside me!" Harlan shrieked, the sound tearing through the cramped corridor like a jagged blade. "They're burrowing into the bone!"Varkelion didn't hesitate. He swung his heavy, brass-bound revolver, but he didn't aim for the floor. He aimed for the boot. A single, thunderous roar erupted from the barrel. The percussion shattered the silence and sent a shockwave of sound vibrating through the bulkhead. The heel of Harlan’s boot disintegrated into a spray of shredded leather and grey, twitching dust."Move!" Varkelion roared, dragging both men back into the central junction.They slammed the reinforced bulkhead hatch shut, the iron groaning as it sealed. The screech of metal against metal echoed long after the locking wheel spun to a stop. Inside, the sound of rhythmic, wet thudding

"Get away from the bulkhead, Harlan! Now!"Varkelion’s voice sliced through the steam-choked corridor, but the young deck-guard was already too slow.Harlan slipped on the greasy residue coating the deckplates. He fell hard, his knee striking the iron floor with a dull crack. Before he could scramble up, the metal beneath him did something impossible. It buckled upward. Not like exploding steam pipes, but like skin swelling over an abscess."The plates!" Harlan shrieked, clawing at the wall. "They’re pinching! They’re holding my boot!""Mavrik, grab his arms!" Varkelion lunged forward, his heavy boots skidding on the slime.Through the seams of the floorboards, thick, ash-grey fibers—coarse as horsehair but metallic to the touch—were weaving themselves through the eyelets of Harlan’s leather boots. They didn't just snag him; they were drilling into the leather, seeking the warm flesh beneath."Don't touch the fibers!" Mavrik warned, his face pale as salt. He grabbed Harlan’s collar in

"Stand back!" Mavrik hissed, dragging Varkelion by his leather collar just as a hot jet of black, greasy bile sprayed from the structural pillar.The liquid hissed on the deckplates, eating through the iron with a wet, bubbling growl. The smell of burning hair and hot copper filled the narrow maintenance corridor."That’s not hydraulic fluid," Varkelion said, his hand already on his revolver."It’s not," Mavrik panted. He wiped grease from his forehead, his hand shaking so hard he dropped his wrench. "It’s blood, Varkelion. Or whatever this thing uses to keep its bones together.""The train is steel, Mavrik. It doesn't have bones.""Look at the weld!" Mavrik pointed a trembling finger at the support beam.The patch-plate they had welded over the hull breach three hours ago was warping. The cold-rolled steel wasn't just cracking; it was being pushed outward, peeling away like dead skin. Beneath the metal, thick, fibrous grey threads were pulsing, knotting themselves into tight, muscle-

"If those boilers cool by even ten degrees, the vacuum-friction on the outer hull will shred us like paper," Varkelion growled, his boots slamming down the iron stairs. "Tell me you have a backup plan, Mavrik.""My backup plan was you not letting the crew find out about the Fifth Carriage!" Mavrik yelled back, his voice competing with the deafening, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the undercarriage. "They know, Varkelion. They know what’s inside it. Or at least, they think they do. And rumors down here spread faster than coal-fire.""I don't care what they think," Varkelion said, his hand resting on the heavy brass grip of his revolver. "I care about pressure. If the dials drop, we drop."They rounded the final landing. The air here was different—thicker, smelling of wet rust, boiled grease, and the sharp, chemical tang of ozone. The usual roar of the primary combustion chamber was muted, replaced by a low, ominous hiss that sounded like a dying beast drawing its last shallow breaths.A

"They’ve what, Mavrik? Spit it out before I throw you down the intake shaft myself.""They’ve dropped their shovels, Varkelion. They’ve formed a union. They’ve welded the boiler hatch shut."Varkelion didn’t waste breath on a curse. He lunged past Mavrik, his heavy leather coat snapping against the narrow metal frame of the bulkhead door. The smell of cold ash and wet rust hit him instantly, overriding the usual comforting stench of sulfur and coal smoke."Welded?" Varkelion’s hand flew to the heavy iron-plated revolver at his hip. "With what thermal-rig? They don't have the clearance.""They don't need clearance when they have three hundred pounds of pressure-torch and nothing left to lose," Mavrik panted, scrambling to keep pace down the spiraling iron stairs. "Griss is leading them. He’s got the whole shift. Thirty-two men, all armed with slag-irons and heavy wrenches. They’ve blocked the lower gangway.""If those boilers cool by even ten degrees, the vacuum-friction on the outer h

"Fuel," Varkelion growled, shoving Mavrik toward the bulkhead door. "That is the only history that matters. If they want to listen to ghosts, tell them to listen to the fire. It’s the loudest ghost of all."Mavrik stumbled, his boots sliding on a slick patch of translucent, vibrating amber that had begun to coat the floor plates. He caught himself on the brass railing, his knuckles white. "You think you’re in control because you hold the throttle, but look at the walls, Varkelion! The ship isn't just rusting; it’s digesting. Every time you push the engines, the metal cries out. The stokers hear the agony, and they’ve started weeping along with it.""Then let them weep," Varkelion retorted, his hand resting on the holster at his hip. "So long as they keep the pressure gauges in the red, they can compose a symphony of sorrow for all I care. Just keep them in the furnace room.""They aren't shoveling coal anymore," Mavrik whispered, his voice dropping to a jagged, frantic pitch. "They’re