Lady Dru | CW Hawes

8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #10

The zeppelin Argo is on the last leg of its journey to the country of Georgia, known in ancient times as Colchis. The land of the Golden Fleece. Lady Dru and company will land in Georgia and attempt to find and retrieve the Golden Fleece for Mr Walter Ramsey Hall.

However, the fun is only just beginning. In today’s snippet, the Argo is flying over Turkey and is attacked by two Soviet built biplanes. Dru and her friend Dunyasha run to their cabin to retrieve their pistols. While getting them we hear their conversation. Here is today’s snippet:

We heard more machine guns firing.
“Is this gas bag armed?” Dunyasha asked. “Because that wasn’t only the planes shooting.”
“Knowing Mr Hall, as I do, I’d say Argo is armed.”
“I love that man,” Dunyasha said with a huge smile on her face. “And those bastards better not hurt my champagne.”
We ran back to the lounge, opened a window on the starboard and looked out. Argo’s engines were roaring and she was on a steep climb.

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Out of Thin Air

It’s probably an occupational hazard. Every now and again I’m asked, “Where do you get your ideas?” I usually reply, “From life” or “Out of thin air”. Truth be told, I don’t know where my ideas come from really. Like manna, they fall out of the sky and I just pick them up.

In 1982, I read a story in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine introducing a female cozy sleuth. The editor complained about the lack of female sleuths. There just weren’t enough of them. The story was “Meet Athalia Goode” by Raleigh Bond. The editor hoped we’d see more of Ms Goode. Unfortunately, I don’t think Mr Bond chronicled any further adventures. At least a Google search produced none.

What immediately popped into my mind was the name Athalia came from the Greek meaning “truth”. My mind drifted to Latin and in a flash Justinia Wright was born. Truth and Goodness. Justice and Right. One Greek. One Latin. For seven years I did nothing with Justinia Wright. Then one day I learned there were caves under Minneapolis. In a flash, that manna falling from heaven, I picked up a mystery involving my job at the welfare office, caves under Minneapolis, and my interest in Aztecs. I wrote the mystery and set it aside. Twenty-five years later, I rewrote the novel and published it last year as Festival of Death. Unlike Mr Bond, I wrote three more novellas featuring Miss Wright (Trio in Death-Sharp Minor) and have a second novel in progress.

The Rocheport Saga, my post-apocalyptic, libertarian, retro-futuristic quasi-steampunk series (Book Three coming out soon), began with a single sentence and eventually ended up over 2200 manuscript pages in length. That sentence? “Today I killed a man and a woman.” Where the heck that came from I don’t know. Out of thin air most likely.

Lady Drusilla Drummond Hurley-Drummond was inspired by the very real Lady Grace Hay Drummond-Hay, who wrote for the Hearst papers in the ‘20s and 30s. Why feminists haven’t written a biography of Lady Grace is beyond me. She was a truly remarkable and very modern woman.

Information is rather scarce about Lady Grace and I don’t pretend Lady Dru is anything like her inspiration. Lady Dru is more a superheroine figure, set in a dieselpunk alternative 1950s.

The Moscow Affair, her initial adventure, began life as a simple what if. Out of thin air I thought, what if World War 2 had never happened, and the Czarists tried to retake Russia upon Stalin’s death? And a novel was born.

All of these ideas just appeared. What’s more, they appear to everyone. Some of us just happen to see them as story ideas. Each of us has a talent. Some of us, can tell stories. Some of us can fix things. Others of us can sell, or do complex mathematics, or figure out problems. We need handymen, plumbers, electricians, mathematicians, engineers, and the like. The world would be a boring place with just storytellers. The handyman who fixed my broken chair looked at it and figured out how to fix it. Did the solution come to him out of thin air? Maybe. Sure seemed like it to me.

Each of us is unique and in our own ways, weave magic out of thin air. I’m glad we’re not all storytellers.

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #9

Today’s snippet is from my Lady Dru WIP. Our intrepid heroine, her companion, Karl, and Mr Hall’s Man Friday have boarded the airship and are waiting for takeoff. They meet the two ancient history professors who are accompanying them. Here is today’s snippet:

Karl and I joined the professors at their table. Franzen had his pipe in hand, unlit.

“Rather uncivilized not being able to smoke,” Franzen said.

“Better that then risking us all burning to death,” Doctor Rodman replied.

“Even with the German advancements in sealants and hydrogen purity, better safe than sorry,” I said.

“I suppose,” Franzen admitted.

“What do you make of the discovery?” Karl asked.

“Of course, we’ve only seen photographs and read a description,” Doctor Rodman said, “but we’re hopeful it is the genuine article.”

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #8

Today’s snippet comes from an early chapter in my forthcoming novel The Golden Fleece Affair. Here we see a little different side of Lady Dru. Having learned how to shoot a submachine gun when in the Soviet Union on her previous adventure, told in The Moscow Affair, she has occasion early on in her new adventure to use one again.

She, her partner, Karl, and Jake Branson, Mr Hall’s Man Friday, are being pursued by a mysterious black Hudson Hornet. Now, on a narrow and winding road, sandwiched between a semi and the Hornet, the big black mystery car tries to run them off the road. But Dru is ready. She cocks the submachine and sticks it out the window. Then the fun begins:

The Hudson hit us and kept accelerating. The jolt caused me to hit my head and see stars for a moment. Branson was struggling to keep us on the road. I saw a man lean out the passenger side of the Hornet. He had a gun. I pulled the trigger on the submachine gun.

The windscreen on the black sedan shattered and the wind blew the glass back into the car. The behemoth drifted over to the side of the road, up onto the angled cut through the earth, hit a boulder, flipped end over end, came back down onto the road, rolled over onto its roof, and burst into flames.

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #7

Today’s snippet is from The Moscow Affair, my published Lady Dru novel, and gives a little picture of Karl, who is Dru’s soulmate. Because he’s married, he is usually very reserved when in public with Dru; something she complains about, but is resigned to.

They are at Cardington waiting to board the airship Deutschland for Moscow and decide to eat lunch before boarding. At the restaurant, Dru orders stout and a Ploughman’s Lunch, while Karl orders ale and Bangers and Mash.

“What,” I said, “no elaborate French dish with Bordeaux?”

“Ja,” he replied, “Ich bin eine Hessisches heute.”

I gave him a smile. “And all the other times you eat, you’re from Paris?”

“Oui.”

He reached across the table and ran a finger over the back of my hand.

“I wish we were staying longer,” I said. “I’d love to hear the swing band and dance.”

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #6

In today’s snippet, we find Lady Dru, Dunyasha, and Kit Somers (our intrepid Graham auto salesman turned secret agent) having been captured by the evil Count Neratoff and SS-Sturmbannführer Leiprecht. They are being held captive in a room deep underground beneath an old, abandoned church. Together, with Kit’s two knives hidden in his boot soles, they have cobbled together a desperate array of “weapons” to help them escape: a bucket, serving as a chamber pot, a couple handfuls of dirt scrapped from the dirt floor, and the length of electric cord for the light bulb. Now they need to figure out what to do. Kit has just said, “Our only chance will be when they open that door.” Here is the snippet:

“Yes,” Dunyasha agreed and added, “It would be be nice to know how many are out there.”

“When you roll the dice,” I said, “you have to play the numbers you get.”

“This isn’t backgammon, Dru,” Dunyasha replied.

“Close enough,” was my response.

We talked it over and concocted a plan. Probably half baked at best. But half baked was better than not baked at all. So we sat and waited; waited with our half baked plan of escape.

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #5

In today’s snippet, Dru, her friend Dunyasha, and Branson (a member of the expedition) are making their way out of the wooded hills at night to Kutaisi, Georgia. They are armed in the event of trouble and, of course, trouble comes. Our party of three encounter men walking up the road from the opposite direction. The men have lanterns to light their way. Dru and her team take to the shallow ditch along side the road for cover. It’s touch and go if Dru and her companions will be discovered. Here’s the snippet:

… I saw the lanterns were very close and then I sneezed.

In a heart beat, four gun barrels were pointed at me. In the language I know best, English, I said, “I guess you boys found me.”

They said something in Georgian. I started to get up, when Dunyasha yelled, “Down!” The rapid fire “chu-chu-chu” of the suppressed Sten gun spoke. When the firing stopped, I waited for a moment before i looked up and saw Dunyasha looking at the bodies. Her figure was illumined by the light of the fallen lanterns.

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #4

What is science fiction, or even science fantasy, without a robot? In today’s snippet we meet “Ernest”. At this point in the novel (hot off my pencil as of last night), “Ernest” has just been uncrated. No one in Lady Dru’s party knew “he” even existed. Except the rather suspicious Mafeking Smith, who brought the machine along. A historical note here. Ernest Schiebold did indeed work on a particle beam weapon for the Germans in WW II and the company Richert and Seifert produced the parts. Weaving fact in with fiction, I think, helps to make the fiction more believable.

So here goes:

…before us was an odd looking machine. Mounted on caterpillar treads was a brushed steel cylinder, with a domed top. Attached to the sides were two mechanical arms. From the top came a rod and attached to the rod was a device that looked something like and electric torch. The entire machine was about seven feet tall. The width, from tread to tread, was also seven feet; the cylinder itself, five feet.

Pointing to the machine, Mafeking said, “Meet Ernest. He is a Class III Robotic Wonder Weapon Self-Propelled. Developed by Richert and Seifert, Ernest employs the latest in particle beam weaponry: the Schiebold Röntgenkanone IV-D.”

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #3

Thanks to the advice given previously by my friends on Dieselpunks.org, I’ve revised the first 8 sentences of my new Lady Dru novel. I’ve dumped the “info dump” in favor of showing Dru’s impish side. Let me know if this is an improvement, or if I need to go back to the drawing board. Here is the snippet:

I pushed the throttle and watched the speedo needle cross the one hundred miles per hour mark and pulled back on the stick. The nose of my Puss Moth rose and continued rising. Up, up, up we flew until we were upside down. I pushed the stick forward and down we came; pulled back and leveled off, completing the loop.

Karl started awake and I put my little baby into a displacement roll (something like a corkscrew); once, twice, thrice. Karl started screaming, “We’re going to crash!”

I brought the plane back to level just as Karl grabbed an airsick bag and threw up. I was laughing so hard, tears ran from my eyes.

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8 Sentence Sunday on Dieselpunks #2

Today’s snippet is from The Moscow Affair (published in November). In the novel the character Dunyasha is a Russian baroness, who has lived in America since a child to escape the Bolshevik Revolution. Now she is back in Russia trying to overthrow the Communists in the wake of Stalin’s death. Even though married to the Baron Bobrinsky, she and the Baron have a very open marriage and in fact don’t see much of each other. Dunyasha has fallen in love with Dru, but Dru doesn’t feel the same for Dunyasha. At this point in the novel, a young Czarist fighter, whom Dunyasha cares deeply about, died in a battle. He was a poet and the poem below is his last, which he had written for her but didn’t get the chance to give her:

Amongst the trees of this muddy spring
I sit foxhole deep and zeal fades away.
Again the rain so gently falls today
And to this gun, a babe to the breast, I cling.
We wait, listening for the word he brings
Which tells if we shall go or we shall stay.
And yet, it matters not. We just obey,
Day in, Day out, the orders of our King.
Foxhole deep in mud I sit thinking thoughts
Of her and all the choices wrong I made
Which put me here and left her, longing, there.
The things we do for love of king, I swear
We should think over again the things we were taught
And give our love to no one but a maid.

Tears were in my eyes by the time she finished the poem.

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