The Steampunk Daleks of Ballykillduff
Prologue: A Strange Copper Glow
On most Tuesdays in Ballykillduff, nothing more dramatic happens than the post landing in the wrong cottage and the weather deciding to be three kinds of rain at once. Mrs. O’Toole hangs out washing and scolds the sky. Old Seamus McGroggan studies his pipe as if it might tell him who ate the last custard cream. And young Mick—ambitious, daft, and acrobatic—tries to cycle backwards down the main street while balancing a loaf on his head. (It is, he insists, “training for the circus.”)
But on this particular Tuesday, at precisely half past eleven, a copper light spread over the village like someone had polished the clouds. The hens went quiet. The sheep froze mid-chew. Father O’Malley paused with the parish bell rope in his hand and whispered, “Saints preserve us.”
Then came the sounds:
HSSSSSS… CLANK-CLONK! WHOOOOMP-TCHAK! TOOT-TOOT!
Gears rattled. Pipes sighed. Something big exhaled steam with the weary dignity of a very old kettle.
Mrs. Byrne put down her shopping basket. “That’ll be the weather packing in for the year,” she said.
“Or the circus,” said Mick hopefully, wobbling.
A shadow rippled across the crossroads. And through the copper-coloured sky, down they came: brass-plated, rivet-studded, monocle-winked, stovepipe-hatted… Daleks.
“Ah,” said Seamus softly to his pipe, “we’re doomed so.”
The first of the strange machines landed with a THOONK that made the turf stacks shiver and the pub sign spin half a turn. Its dome lifted a fraction; a curl of steam puffed out like a sigh of satisfaction.
“ATTEND!” wheezed a crisp, Victorian voice through a whistling grille. “THE AGE OF STEAM COMMENCES.”
“Will it take cash,” Mrs. Byrne whispered, “or does it run on scones?”
The brass teapot-on-wheels swivelled its monocled eyestalk. “WE REQUIRE… TEA.”
“Right,” said Mrs. O’Toole, squaring up. “That we can manage.”
And Ballykillduff held its breath.
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