Steampunk Laboratory Novels & Stories

Well, he could try to kill me but I doubt this would be his lucky day. But he led me to the actual lab at the back of the house where the stench of chemicals combined with immortal blood was so strong that it was making my stomach churn. I kept my face expressionless despite the situation. This was probably the place where the experiments were being conducted because I think I saw several jars at the back of the lab with body parts suspended in formaldehyde. I followed him through another set of doors with more chemical bottles and even more body parts held in formaldehyde, including an entire head of a vampire which had been skinned.

The rogue repellent I’d been perfecting might have been our only chance at buying time. When we finally pushed the heavy door open, the familiar sterile scent of my small makeshift laboratory hit me. The shelves rattled faintly from the vibrations of the ongoing battle outside, announcing the level of power involved in the battle. Bottles clinked together as if the room itself was tense. “There,” I pointed to a steel cabinet I kept separate from others, rushing forward. My hands shook as I pulled out the carefully sealed vials filled with the bluish liquid that shimmered under the dim lamplight.

For thirty-six hours, the subterranean laboratory became a pressure cooker of high-tech alchemy and raw, grinding exhaustion. The air was thick with the bitter, sharp scent of vaporized silver and scorched ozone. Agnes’s fingers were raw, the delicate tips stained a deep, permanent cobalt from handling the volatile liquid moonstone primer. On the central workbench, under the magnifying gaze of a holographic projector, lay the skeletal chassis of Rhys’s new combat wraps.

I promise as I turn to Shawna and ask her to show me the way to the grand hall. Brent, Tor, and I come to a screeching halt in the laboratory. It’s an absolute horror show. There’s blood and various bodily fluids everywhere. Heads preserved in jars, little floating balls of light, spirit energy I assume, trapped in test tubes. Not enough to kill a spirit, but enough to weaken them significantly for a long time.

We descended past the basement, past the old tunnels Richard knew, and into a floor that didn't exist on any blueprint of the Harrington estate. The doors slid open. "Holy shit," Richard whispered. The space was a cathedral of glass and steel. Rows of humming vats filled the room, containing a glowing, viscous fluid. Technicians in white hazmat suits moved between the stations, their movements precise. It smelled like ozone and sterile salt. "This is my shadow lab," I said, walking toward the central console. "I’ve had this running since the month after I came back from the human city. Before you and I were even speaking again."

A faint, flickering amber light spilled through the gap. Marcus didn't knock. He pushed the panel open, and stepped inside. The room looked more like a laboratory than a chamber. Long stone tables were covered in blown-glass vials, rusted steel calipers, and heavy parchment rolls fixed with wax seals. In the center of the space, hunched over a brass brazier, was an old man. His hair was thin, spun out like white cobwebs, and his fingers were stained a dark, chemical purple from decades of handling active reagents.

Meanwhile, [Omniscient P.O.V] The alchemy lab hissed with incompetence. Copper spoons clattered against glass. Cauldrons bubbled over, spewing green smoke that smelled of sulfur and panic. Students shouted, cursed, scrambled for dampening cloths. The air was a thick soup of mountain mint, burnt hair, and desperation.

I left the lab, almost bumping a few shoulders on my way. I had to get out of there, I had to get some air. All the air on the planet maybe. Liam Anderson was my biggest nightmare. My biggest headache. The thought of having to spend the next six months of my life looking at his face every single day, or well, almost every single day, made me nauseous in ways I couldn't describe. His arrogance was unbearable. Ok, he was the best in robotics, but that didn't give him the right to stick his nose into other people's projects and…my phone bipped. Message. I came to a halt. It was from an unknown number.

He was known only as the Artisan, a man who spoke more in the language of spanners and oil than words, and his universe was a cathedral of ticking blackness. His workshop was a labyrinth of half-made things: brass limbs suspended from copper threads, glass eyes staring blankly from velvet trays, and the constant, muttering hiss of steam from a dozen soft engines. And in the center, on an obsidian pedestal, stood his creation, his secret shame, his passion.

The Architect tumbled into the dark. Maya blinked—and found herself somewhere new. No screens, no sterile lab. She was deep underground, in a sprawling city built from steam pipes and huge metal gears. Steampunk. She peered at her hand. The tablet was gone—the iron key was back. Sitting on a mound of gears lay a single lemon flower, fresh and bright. She picked it up, took a slow breath. It smelled like Julian. Like hope. “He did it,” she murmured. Heavy footsteps echoed in the tunnels.