Author: C.J. Henderson; Bernie Mozjes; James Daniel Ross; James Chambers; N.R. Brown; Angel Leigh McCoy; Patrick Thomas; Jeff Young
Date: 2014-02-05 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: science fiction anthology; Steampunk; Robots
Description: History, invention, the power of deduction…Clockwork Chaos is more than goggles and gears. It is about order and structure and timing striving for mechanical perfection. But in an era where mass production does not yet exist, the unique machinery brought forth into the world is at times bound to fall short of the goal. This chaos turns the science into mayhem and when the gears spring forth this mechanical viscera is indicative of a world turned inside out. Join us in our journey through the shine of society to the dark steamy underbelly of grit and crime. Twelve stories of steam-driven genius
Publisher: Dark Quest

Clockwork Chaos

Table of Contents

Title Page
edited by Neal Levin | and Danielle Ackley-McPhail

Ambergris on Ice

King and Country

The Last Yong-Shi

The Power of Her Position

Bell, Cog, and Scandal

Deadly Imitation

Miss Winterdove and the Erupting Eulogist

The Foxglove Broadsides

The Curious Tale of Elizabeth Nigel

A Cat’s Cry in Pluto’s Kitchen

Deception

The Ghost of Løve VanMeek

edited by Neal Levin
and Danielle Ackley-McPhail

Sparkito Press

Howell, NJ

Dark Quest Books Novels
by Clockwork Chaos Authors

James Chambers

The Dead Bear Witness

Tears of Blood

The Dead in Their Masses

The Word of the Dead

Three Chords of Chaos: A Bad-Ass Faerie Tale

C.J. Henderson

Where Angels Fear

The Best of Rocky and Noodles

A Bright and Shining World

Masters of Tarot

Patrick Thomas

Mystic Investigators

Bullets and Brimstone

Once More Upon a Time

From the Shadows

Dear Cthulhu: Have a Dark Day

Dear Cthulhu: Good Advice for Bad People

Dear Cthulhu: Cthulhu Knows Best

Dark Quest Books
featuring Clockwork Chaos Authors

Breach the Hull

So It Begins

By Other Means

Best Laid Plans

Dogs of War

In an Iron Cage:

The Magic of Steampunk

Gaslight and Grimm:

Steampunk Faerie Tales

Dragon’s Lure

PUBLISHED BY

Sparkito Pressan imprint of Dark Quest, LLC

Neal Levin, Publisher

23 Alec Drive, Howell, New Jersey 07731
www.darkquestbooks.com

Copyright ©2013 by Dark Quest Books.

Individual stories Copyright ©2013 by their respective authors.

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ISBN (trade paper): 978-1-937051-56-3

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All rights reserved. No part of the contents of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publisher.

All persons, places, and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, places, or events is purely coincidental.

Cover Art: Chaz Kemp, www.ChazKemp.com

Interior Art: www.fotolia.com

Violet © Atelier Sommerland
steampunk installation © jro-grafik

Schmuckrahmen Steampunk2 © annekarenrasch
black cogwheel © Dasha Yurk

Vintage Skull background © lynea

Victorian workout (3) © Anja Kaiser

Early Submarine - Sous-Marin - U-Boot - 19th century, Aerostat - 18th century (1784 - Paris), Technician at Work - 19th century, Carridge - Fiacre - Motordroschke - end 19th century, Diver - Plongeur - Taucher - 19th century © Erica Guilane-Nachez

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Interior Design: Danielle McPhail, Sidhe na Daire Multimedia
www.sidhenadaire.com

Contents

Ambergris on Ice / Jeff Young

King and Country / Richard Marsden

The Last Yong-Shi / Matt Dinniman

The Power of Her Position / Bernie Mojzes

Bell, Cog, and Scandal /R. Rozakis

Deadly Imitation / Patrick Thomas

Miss Winterdove and the Erupting Eulogist / Angel Leigh McCoy

The Foxglove Broadsides / Gail Gray

The Curious Tale of Elizabeth Nigel / Patricia Puckett

A Cat’s Cry in Pluto’s Kitchen /James Chambers

The Gilded Wing / N.R. Brown

Deception / C.J. Henderson

The Ghost of Løve VanMeek / James Daniel Ross

AUTHOR BIOS

Ambergris on Ice

Jeff Young

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The incessant cold was almost worse than their descent to the wreckage of the dirigible. Whipping gusts in the early light of the dawn spun Constable Cobham Peckwith and the others about as they dangled over the ocean in the cargo drop. They struck the surface of the iceberg a solid blow tumbling Airman Sparrowknife and Madame Leyden against the lines. Cobham reached out a hand to the lady and Kassandra grasped at his thick gloves. Her deep blue eyes peered out from under the hood of her parka. She seemed out of place here in jodhpurs and thick mukluk boots having eschewed her perennial dress. But there was something in her gaze, a brightness that assured Cobham she was enjoying the adventure. He wished he could say the same for himself. As a constable, Cobham had had every expectation of pounding the streets of his home port city of Amphyra, keeping order and maintaining the safety of the inhabitants of His Majesty’s lands in the New World. But ever since he’d met the medium with her unusual talent for communing with the dead, his life became anything but typical.

The wind brought tiny shards of ice flying along the surface of the berg into any unguarded face. But that wasn’t the worst of it; Bornesun, the captain of their airship, had neglected to mention the way the iceberg would move. When Cobham peered out into the morning, he could watch the horizon tip back and forth. What looked like an island was a cork afloat on a frigid sea. We don’t belong here, he thought. Kassandra moved a few steps forward beside him and another thought crossed his mind, Do I really want to keep doing this? Working with her challenged what he accepted as real, everyday. Sure he’d seen plenty of the odd and strange out in the streets. In most cases though he’d found a sad, tawdry explanation more often than not linked to human stupidity or depravity. But there were always those circumstances that made no sense. Cobham waited for the airman to approach them, looking at Kassandra as she stared at the shifting horizon. As a medium who spoke to the dearly departed, Kassandra knew a great deal about those oddities, in fact she made it her business.

When Sparrowknife passed them, Cobham followed Kassandra toward the remains of the dirigible. A discovery such as this must have given the commanders of His Majesty’s Aerofleet the fits, he mused. After all, only New Britain, the South Islanders, and the Mexateca were capable of building such a vehicle. Cobham couldn’t quite fathom the arcane series of connections that the Directorate of Security followed to ascertain that he and Madam Leyden were the best suited to delve into this mystery, but it wasn’t his place to question. Perhaps if he had they would not now be drifting toward the arctic.

A tug on the line at his waist brought him from the brief reverie. The Sharpshin’s first mate Wil Sparrowknife strode ahead of them and was the anchor to the rope tied about their middles. Curving metal spars arched over their heads. The vehicle’s remnants were deceptive when seen from above. With its bulk strewn along the rugged, bluish-white surface of the iceberg, the dirigible stretched out longer than two of Amphyra’s city blocks. Sparrowknife had stopped to stare as well. With the wind the only sound, it came to Cobham just how removed from the world they were. The airman gestured them closer and they huddled together to talk.

“There’s something quite wrong here,” Sparrowknife started and then hesitated.

“Yes, I’d expected a great deal more wreckage,” Cobham said.

“No, what I mean is there something missing.” The airman turned once again to look at the wreckage.

“The bodies are gone.”

Cobham turned sharply to Kassandra. What she said was true. Where was the crew of at least forty needed to man such a dirigible? Cobham pondered.

“With all of this wind the remains might have been scoured off of the berg into the ocean,” Sparrowknife answered. “What I mean is, there’s no cladding on the structure. Even if the dirigible exploded, there should still be some of the exterior sheeting someplace attached to the framework. But everywhere I look I can’t see a shred.”

Cobham turned on his heel. The first mate was correct and so was Kassandra. “What’s so important about the cladding?”

“Well it would have had a huge blazon on it of the owner of the aircraft at least. Also each nation makes theirs a bit different, even the paint on the outside could tell me whose this is,” Sparrowknife responded crouching down to scuff at the snow in the hopes of finding anything more.

It almost felt to Cobham as if the clues to the cause had vanished. “Well, guess we won’t be asking any of the dead fellows anything then, Kassandra, will we?” he commented.

“Look over here,” Sparrowknife interrupted. He’d stepped under the arching support structure of the dirigible.

On the far side, in amongst the spans of the frame, was a large, gaping hole. As Cobham stared in the direction the airman indicated a pattern began to emerge. The supports were all bent and twisted away from the gap. Something had struck the dirigible a killing blow.

Tapping glove tips to his lip, Sparrowknife pondered. “It’s almost as if something exploded on contact with the surface of the craft.”

“Do you have a weapon like that, airman?” Kassandra asked.

“Not that I know of. Sharpshin is armed with two repeating cylinder guns. Larger military-class dirigibles will have mounted cannon which can be used to fire grapeshot or chain loads. But we have nothing that explodes on impact.”

“What could bring down an aircraft of this size?” Kassandra continued.

Sparrowknife hesitated a moment, thinking. “Fire, lightning strike, a tornado, and our mysterious explosion, too.” The airman’s words trailed off. He stopped and turned about in a circle.

Cobham felt the man’s unease as well, an animal instinct reacting to unknown danger. When he glanced at Kassandra, she’d crossed her arms, shoving her gloves under them. In her eyes he saw that she felt the same.

“I don’t know how much more we’re going to find here,” she offered in a grim tone.

At a loud crack of gunfire, they all turned back toward the airship. High above them the captain was waving his arms over his head. Sparrowknife didn’t hesitate, “All right, let’s get back to the ship. The captain wouldn’t signal us unless it was urgent.”

As the cargo lift swung back and forth, Cobham saw at the edge of his visibility a grey haze hanging over the waterline. After a moment he realized what he was seeing. They were approaching the northern shore of Aurora. The massive island lay close to the Arctic Circle and in the gap between the Old World and the New. Cobham shivered at the thought of the Old World. The abandoned seat of Edward’s empire lay there in ruins along with an entire series of lands long overgrown and filled with the bones of the victims of the ancient Black Death. A few brave traders pillaged the forgotten lands for treasure and paid the price in plague. This was the closest he’d ever been. Cobham hoped to never come nearer. Now he could even see the enormous pieces of ice as they calved away from a glacier on the shoreline and cascaded into the freezing water below. The iceberg carrying the remains of the dirigible was several leagues away from the shore. Their evidence was about to be lost, perhaps for forever.

“What’s that, Airman?” Kassandra asked, pointed farther along the shoreline at single flicker of reflection.

“I have no idea,” Sparrowknife responded staring at the spark along the shoreline at the edge of their vision. The cargo lift swung back and forth, causing them all to reach for the netting. “Seems like the captain’s noticed it as well. We’ll know soon enough.”

The closer they approached, the more trouble Cobham had discerning what lay below them. After turning the airship away from the iceberg, the captain was unable to reacquire the location of the mysterious flashes of light. Captain Bornesun brought the airship down the coastline, beyond the glacier to a large circular bay. All along the rubble lined beach were immense white cylinders with tapered ends. Cobham counted more than twenty before stopping. Whatever the objects were, they lay on the shoreline with their anteriors in the splashing surf.

“They’re leviathans,” Sparrowknife said in a quiet tone.

Cobham found that if he stared long enough he could see the fins on the sides of the carcasses. Here and there conjoined flippers of the beast’s tails bobbed in the surf.

“I’ve heard of them beaching themselves but I’ve never seen anything like this,” Bornesun added. “Look at that beast. It’s more than twice the size of our downed dirigible.” Bornesun’s words trailed off as he brought the spyglass to his eye once more. Wrinkles spread across his forehead. “Well that explains the flash. There’s a settlement inland from the beach. All the buildings are covered in ice rime, makes them hard to pick out, but for the glint of the sun. They appear to have some sort of balloon on a tether.”

He handed the spyglass to Kassandra who stood next to him. Cobham watched her stare intently for a moment or two. Then she inhaled; her breath catching.

“If I’m correct, the man walking down the beach toward the leviathans is Sir Sante Moore. He’s well known as an oceanographic biologist, historical chemist, and a Renaissance man of the sciences. He’s also waving us in. Looks as if we’ve been seen.”

When she handed the glass back to the captain, Kassandra walked behind him to come up next to Cobham. Leaning close she whispered, “He’s also a pompous ass as well.” Then she hesitated and added, “And a friend of my father’s,” as her eyes drifted away from his gaze.

The twitchy sensation in his nerves wouldn’t abate, so Cobham took a moment to retrieve his three-barrel revolver from his travel case tucking it into one of the deep pockets of his parka. He felt a slight bit guilty doing it out of Kassandra’s view, but it calmed his nerves. At the edge of the cargo area Cobham confronted Kassandra. “This is no place for a lady.”

“Be that as it may, I am here and I will go where I please. Besides Moore’s familiarity with my father may serve our purpose.”

“Kassandra, be reasonable.”

“Constable, my father did all of his adventuring from an armchair with a glass of sherry in a half-drunken stupor. He was one of the brightest lights in the scientific pantheon. When he stopped ‘doing’ he became trapped in his brick manse. All of his brilliance spilled out into lax dreaming. I’ll do my work on my feet if you please.”

Cobham stared at her back as Kassandra moved away to converse with the captain. In a mere moment he’d learned more about what drove her than in all of their acquaintance.

Once again they descended in the cargo lift.

“I’m surprised the captain isn’t joining us,” Kassandra said, watching the ground approach.

“Don’t be,” was Sparrowknife’s answer. He looked up at the airship above them, shading grey eyes with a hand. “He doesn’t leave the ship.”

Cobham turned to the first mate, “Ever?”

“Not unless ordered to. The Sharpshin is a ship in His Majesty’s Aerofleet. As Captain, he can do as he likes.” Sparrowknife hesitated, “Bornesun says the ground doesn’t feel right anymore.”

Not finding any adequate response, Cobham considered their destination. There were a number of long buildings with rounded roofs. He could count more than a dozen men walking about the complex. A well-worn path led down to the beach below and its unusual contents. He watched four men carrying a crate each to the farthest building, moving along at a steady pace. Suddenly, the lead man pitched forward, missing his footing. This fellow’s crate flew from his hands, landing in the snow next to the path. The reactions of the men were what caught Cobham’s attention. Each turned away from the impact, crouching over their own crate. They all froze in place. As the ground grew closer, Cobham watched the three men with the crates edge their way around their fallen comrade, hurrying toward the out building. Only when they were gone did the remaining bearer regain his burden and walk slowly off. Turning to his companions, Cobham realized he was the sole witness of the incident. Grasping his chin, Cobham wondered, just what was that about?

Learning from last time, Cobham took the impact of landing by flexing his knees. He offered Kassandra an arm as Sparrowknife led them off of the cargo lift. As Sir Sante Moore hustled up to them, the lift began its return to the airship. Cobham looked up at it a moment. Even though they were on solid ground, he still had the feeling that things were moving out of his control.

“Welcome to my little corner of the world,” bellowed Moore, smiling expansively. Moore was a big man and the fur of the bear skin parka he wore rustled in the wind as it tore sparks from the edge of the pipe in his outstretched hand. He flipped the silver damper down, settling it once more between large, yellowed teeth as he leaned forward to greet each one of them. Sparrowknife and Cobham each received a wringing handshake and Kassandra a bow over her proffered hand.

As Kassandra made their introductions, Cobham took the moment to review Moore’s companions. There were several British fellows present in the front ranks, one even carrying the perennial tri-lion banner. Of course, thought Cobham, glancing at the sight of the Sharpshin hanging overhead. With its blazons as one of His Majesty’s Airships, there was little doubt as to from whence Moore’s visitors hailed. He wasn’t surprised that Moore was flying the colors as well. But behind these good fellows were several others whose darker complexions and beetling black brows belied a different lineage.

Sparrowknife caught his glance, stepping closer whispering, “Antelaunders, they live close to the arctic to the west of New Britain and hunt the seal and white bears. As to why they’re here, besides their familiarity with this cold, that’s a fine question.”

Cobham caught Moore’s eyes turning toward them. He clapped a hand to Sparrowknife’s back and led the airman forward. He gave the airman a sharp look and pasted a false smile on his face. “You’ll have to forgive us, Sir Moore; we’re still not quite as used to the rigors of this land as you are. Is there somewhere out of the weather where we might converse?”

“Weather? My dear sir, this is a fine and pleasant day. You should see it when Mother Nature becomes unruly. In reality, you can’t. Everything becomes as white and as thick as cream.” Moore laughed, a hand over his heart. “First I would like to show you our fabulous discovery, the leviathan graveyard.”

Their host turned back to Kassandra, “So you father was Casimir Leyden? He would have loved this expedition, and he would have been astounded by what we’ve found. Please come with me, my dear. As his daughter you will have special insight into the wonders we’ve discovered.”

Kassandra’s eyes sparkled with interest as she took Moore’s proffered arm. Wheeling about, the large man led the party down the pathway toward the beach. As a constable, Cobham was comfortable asking questions of others and himself until he had a clear view of the circumstances. He wasn’t about to stop now. “It’s a bit odd given our destination that we weren’t told of your expedition before we left, Sir Moore.”

“I do believe you are mistaking the nature of our venture, good sir,” Moore tossed over his shoulder as they walked on. “We are a private expedition, not one of His Majesty’s. Funded by a concerned group of dedicated individuals, we are able to practice pure scientific investigation. We can explore without proving that there are practical applications to our discoveries or being hedged by puritanical views.”

Cobham turned back for a moment, looking at the rest of the group. Now that they were on the decline toward the beach, he could see more of the rest of their contingent. His suspicions were confirmed. The men in the rear had small blunderbusses strapped to their backs, their brass bells glinting in the harsh arctic light. Were they for the white bears or the visitors? he mused.

As they approached the leviathans, the reality of the beast’s size was brought home. In cross section the creatures were as tall as the first story of a building. Their bulk stretched away in either direction. There was a faint, unusual musk in the air. Cobham’s lips pursed. He’d been expected something more pungent perhaps. Then the obvious struck him. The leviathans must have frozen the whole way through. That was when Moore led them up to the side of the nearest cetacean. Grasping at a cord, he drew up the oilskin door flap which concealed a tunnel running into the purplish marbled interior of the beast. Kassandra stood there a moment, her eyes wide like a child’s, full of wonder. She stepped forward into the golden light of a hanging lantern. Cobham spared a glance backward, then followed Moore and Sparrowknife into the belly of the beast.

Surrounded by layers of blubber and muscle, Cobham did have to admit that the shelter from the perpetual wind was better than before. However, the small lanterns did nothing for the chill. Rather their flickering light cast a haze of smoke and pungent musk. Cobham looked down discovering the walkway was covered in a layer of gravel from the beach tinted crimson by leviathan blood. His introspection cost him a moment and it allowed the others to continue further along the tunnel. Taking advantage of the opportunity and giving in to his curious nature, he looked about further.

A few steps forward found another tunnel opening on the right that led toward the leviathan’s head. Stepping inside, Cobham walked along until he found another canvas flap door covering the entrance to a wide room carved into the beast’s flesh. There was something different about the floor here. While still bearing some of the gravel, it was smooth with a metallic sheen in that flickered in the light. Cobham stepped close to the wall to pry at the edge of the odd material. It bent and flexed in his hand. Finding a corner, he worked it back and forth until a piece broke off.

The dim lighting gave him a poor view of the mysterious substance, so he placed it into his side pocket for further investigation. Standing up, Cobham noticed stacks of material projecting from the sides of the room. These were so coated in ice; he couldn’t discern their contents. He brushed off some of the rime, finding a projection. Cobham struck the piece a quick blow and it fell to the ground. Stooping down to pick up his discovery, he heard approaching footsteps. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he quickly wrapped up the second piece of evidence stowing it in his breast pocket. Two of the Antelaunders stood in the doorway. This time the blunderbusses were no longer shouldered, but pointed in his direction.

Cobham raised his hands, pasting a smile on his face. Their dark eyes searched both him and the room until Sante Moore shouldered his way between them, putting a hand on each of the brass bells of the guns to tip their aim toward the floor.

“Constable, we lost you. I understand that it maybe in your nature to investigate, but perhaps you should stay with us. My associates here have some odd beliefs. Since they’ve been subsisting on leviathan meat since our arrival, they can be somewhat protective of their victuals.” Moore gestured Cobham forward, taking his arm to lead him between the Antelaunders. Cobham hadn’t missed the furtive glance the man made about the room to see if its contents were disturbed.

Cobham was led off to rejoin the others. He noticed that none of the British had joined their party. Rather there were two more Antelaunders in addition to the ones following Moore and himself. A glance over his shoulder found their guards once more shouldering the blunderbusses. Moore led them into what Cobham imagined was the leviathan’s stomach. Kassandra and Sparrowknife were clustered around a piece of canvas tacked to a wall. The top half was a series of inked in lines that must represent the tunnels carved through the beast. Down below there were sketches of the leviathan’s internal organs. Kassandra drew her fingers back and forth across the image, her lips pursed in thought. For a moment Cobham could imagine a younger version of her, fascinated by one of her father’s experiments.

Moore shattered Cobham’s reverie by clapping his gloved hands together. “So what do you think of my discovery so far?”

When Sparrowknife cast Cobham a guarded glance, Kassandra stepped into the conversational void, “What you’ve accomplished here is truly amazing, Sir Moore. You’ve laid out more about the physiology of these nearly mythical beasts than anyone before. You methods are very inventive, crossing mining with dissection to deal with such a large subject.” She hesitated a moment, then turned and continued with a tilt of her head, “What surprises me is with all of the leviathan blubber here, you’ve chosen something else to fuel your lamps.”

Moore’s head jerked slightly. He broke into a laugh, “I should have known that Casmir’s daughter would notice the subtleties. It is true we could burn leviathan oil, but why go through the trouble of rendering that when we discovered a tar pit a short distance in land? With less work we are able to treat the oil there so that it burns for our purposes. Now I think I’ve subjected you to enough of the chill, let us retire to somewhere warmer.” The large man spun on his heel, leading them out of the frozen tunnels into the wan sunlight.

Their exit was on the opposite side of the leviathan. Cobham spotted another flap door on the next remains in line. Moore’s party must be exploring several of the beast’s innards. Sparrowknife stopped, looking about in the open, his nose wrinkling. “Storm’s coming,” he stated, settling his parka’s hood about his head.

“That’s very perceptive of you, Airman. We’ll probably have to reel in the weather balloon soon so it doesn’t get damaged.” Turning to the others he continued, “The storms here are abrupt and always dangerous. It would be best for us to retire to the main camp as soon as possible.”

The skyline behind them had grown hazy and vague. Cobham thought back to stories of cold so bad that spittle froze before hitting the ground. Now he really wanted to be inside. As they turned back toward the buildings, Cobham noticed a repetitive thumping sound that he’s missed before. Perhaps between the leviathans, with the wind damped down it was more audible. As they trudged up from the beach, the noise grew closer.

Suddenly, a group of four men came scrambling down the path. This time two of them were carrying their blunderbusses in hand. Cobham felt little doubt as to the direction of their aim. The others carried between them the remains of the aforementioned weather balloon. Cobham cast a quick glance about; the Sharpshin was nowhere to be seen. Sparrowknife gave him a pointed look, having just come to the same conclusion.

“I’m worried Mr. Cobham. The Captain wouldn’t just leave us behind. He’d have a solid reason to go. We just don’t know what it is. “ Sparrowknife said quietly.

As the men drew nearer, Cobham could see a long line of holes in the balloon. Something that one of the repeaters mentioned by Sparrowknife would be capable accomplishing. He also noted that along with an aerometer and barometer, the balloon’s payload included a heliograph. Just who was the expedition signaling? he wondered.

Sante Moore let out a long sigh, turning back to his guests, the expression on his features rearranging into annoyance. “I had hoped it would not come to this. But it can’t be helped. Your airship captain has taken things into his own hands. He was a bit more resourceful than I expected and escaped leaving you behind. Gentlemen, hand over your weapons please. Come let’s not make this any more disagreeable than it need be. I’m afraid my associates are not fluent in British. They may simply fire first since their only regard is for my safety.”

Cobham assessed their situation as he reached for the revolver. There were just too many. While he suspected that Sparrowknife would be a good man to have in a scuffle, he wanted Kassandra involved in none of this. He handed over his bone-handled knife as well. Sparrowknife proffered up a small pistol and several knives. The armed Antelaunders marched behind the party now as Sante Moore led the group in the direction of the odd thumping noise.

After passing through the buildings, they turned a corner to discover the originator of the sound. Inside a hollow carved out from the surrounding snow lay a large iron machine. The dull brown color of it was tinged with spangles of orange rust. Chuffing steam, one giant lever arm thrust out over and over sideways. The resultant clang of its extension echoed throughout the encampment. This must be some sort of pump, Cobham thought. Beyond the device, the ground sloped downward into the tar pit that Moore had mentioned.

“So is that where we’re going to end up? Sunk in the tar?” Sparrowknife snarled, taking a step toward Moore. The bell of a blunderbuss swung around to thump against the airman’s chest. He never took his eyes from Moore’s. Cobham’s appreciation of the young man went up a notch.

But Sparrowknife wasn’t done, “Miss Kassandra, don’t be fooled by him. There’s plenty of dirty work afoot here. If he hasn’t done it himself, then he’s seen fit to approve of it. Those leviathans didn’t die by themselves.”

“Oh, I am certain that I question our host’s qualities but whatever do you mean by that, Airman?”

While answering her, Sparrowknife still glared at Moore. “I may not have ever seen a beaching before, but it would be a true oddity if all of the poor creatures were to drag themselves into a nice regular row where their heads were in a line despite how large they were. Besides that, why would they all end up on their backs? I suspect that it’s because if we saw their tops we’d find a hole very similar to that on the wrecked dirigible. Isn’t that right, Sir Moore?”

Cobham watched Sante Moore unclasp the pipe from his lips to tap out its contents into the snow. The big man put it away, each one of his moments stiff with restraint as the scientist struggled to hold his tongue. “Well, young man, before we had an instance where I could have told you that the Sharpshin disappeared mysteriously. Now that’s no longer the case.”

“So what’s he doing digging in all of the leviathans?” Cobham asked.

Moore was silent, his face now twisted into a scowl.

“Ambergris,” Kassandra answered, “Leviathans are known to produce ambergris in a regular fashion whereas in their whale relatives it is somewhat rare. Ambergris is worth quite a bit of money—money that could be used to continue to fund such a project.” She watched their captor intently, “But that’s not it, is it, Sante? You’ve found another use for the ambergris haven’t you?”

“It is a very unique substance, given its volatility.” Moore said with a smile. “In fact, mixing it with certain elements taken from ancient Greek alchemical texts makes it an excellent catalyst.”

“Let me have a guess, one that could be used as weapon?” interjected Kassandra.

Moore continued without acknowledging her outburst. “The catalyst mixed with the refined oil from the tar pit makes quite an explosive. Apply sufficient force to start a reaction and the mixture becomes quite destructive. That my dear is the weapon.”

Another sound intruded on Cobham’s hearing, just below the omnipresent pump. This was a drone of sorts. Sparrowknife noticed it as well. The airman’s eyes flickered away from Moore to look upward. Out of the clouds came an immense dirigible, its prow low over the encampment. The long, grey cylinder of its bulk stretched into the distance.

“The Windram is quite an aeronaught isn’t she?” Moore asked, his voice filled with pride.

“There’s no such thing as an aeronaught,” Sparrowknife spat.

Looking at the massive machine drifting by overhead, Cobham felt that he might just have to disagree. It was armored along the sides and bottom. Two sets of spars jutted outward at a swept-back angle bearing immense rotary fan blades that spun in a blur. Round barnacle-like protrusions harbored the barrels of cannons. The massive tail fins cut through the low-hanging clouds. He couldn’t blame Bornesun for lighting out with the Sharpshin. The airship couldn’t stand a chance against this behemoth.

Kassandra, as always, went straight to the point, “Why, Sante? Why do all of this?”

Moore responded after a moment’s thought. “The King’s empire in the New World is dying. Dying because he refuses to let us grow and learn.”

“That is treason,” Sparrowknife said in a clipped tone.

“Spoken just like a King’s man. But in consideration of your loyalty, do you know the history that your monarch’s dynasty is based upon?

“When Edward the Third and the Black Prince led the court out of the Old World establishing New Britain in the New World it was a time of great opportunity. We left behind the old ideas with the plague-ridden continent. We conquered a whole new land. We opened our arms to the survivors that made it to our shores because we’d realized it didn’t matter where one grew up. We were human and alive, that was enough. Our nation grew from the strengths of its many cultures. We experienced a renaissance, much like the old Greeks. Our scientists, artists, and philosophers all came together to create something greater than the sum of the whole.”

“That’s true,” interjected Kassandra, “It was an age of adventure and growth.”

Moore’s countenance darkened as he swung towards her. “Then we conquered the entirety of the southern continent using what we’d discovered of the Black Plague as a weapon. We pushed all of the native peoples out of our new land into the Southern Islands off of our coast. We gave them indentured servitude that might as well have been slavery.”

Shaking his head, Moore pointed a finger at their party. “But we’d reached too far. Our grasp couldn’t contain all of the lands we’d conquered. Now we had to try to hold onto what we’d conquered. We couldn’t even do that. We gave the southern continent to the Mexateca and the Southern Islands back to their inhabitants. We also left them all of our machinery and knowledge as well. Is it any wonder they harbor resentment of us? Our proud Monarchy bred generation after generation of Edwards until our present incarnation who can barely see beyond what his fingers can grasp on a map. New Britain is waning. Our once great country has no future.”

Moore’s sudden silence after such a long diabtribe caught Cobham by surprise, but he could see the tension still working in the man as he strode back and forth. This time when Moore turned back to the group of captives, his attention was focused on Cobham and Sparrowknife and as he spoke each word grew louder in volume until he was shouting.

“Because I am a man of science I cannot be restrained by hidebound ideals and a lack of vision. Your tottering empire, ruled by aged, senile fools trapped in the dark bunkers of their fear is trembling on its very last legs. The future will leave His Majesty behind. I don’t intend to be left with him.”

Shaking with anger, Moore addressed the Antelaunders, “Take them to the outbuilding by the pump and secure them there. We’ll decide what needs to be done after the Windram comes to tether.”

“My father used to speak of you as a true visionary, Sante. I wonder if he couldn’t see past that to the madness,” Kassandra stated as one of their guards grasped her shoulder to spin her about.

Moore turned his back on their party starting to walk off. “You father used to be part of my coterie. He used to be a believer, one of many. Disabuse yourself of the notion that I am doing this on my own, dear Kassandra. But your father, he never had the stamina to keep up with us. He was weak,” their captor threw over his shoulder and then marched off.

The dilapidated shed was a poor windbreak and Cobham could feel the incessant gusts and hear them whistling through the cracks in the building. The three prisoners huddled about the small coal brazier in the shack’s center.

“This morning I walked though the wreckage of an aircraft. Now I’m in the clutches of a mad man. I really can’t tell you how much I enjoy being along for the adventure, Kassandra. In the future can we possibly consider something a little bit less life-threatening?” Cobham said shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his parka, leaning closer to the brazier.

“But isn’t it exciting?” she responded with a sly smile.

Before he could frame a suitable response, Cobham found the items that he’d discovered inside the leviathan. He pulled the metal from his pocket, holding it up before the feeble light from the fire.

“Can I see that, constable?” Sparrowknife asked. The airman turned the fragment over in his hands. “Well, there is the cladding we were looking for earlier. Where did you find it?”

“Moore’s using it to line some of the rooms inside the leviathans.”

“That is odd, but it does prove that Moore went back and removed the cladding and everything else from the iceberg,” Sparrowknife mused. He took the metal and tossed it into the brazier. Immediately, the small fire blazed up in a puff of flame. “Must be the paint. Southern Islanders and Mexateca sometimes use inferior paints on the exterior of their dirigibles.”

“What I don’t understand is the whole reason for their involvement with the wreckage,” Kassandra said.

“I think we can call it an experiment,” Cobham offered. “If I was to guess I would say that Sante made the discovery of the ambergris bomb some time ago. Once he was able to perfect it, he and his allies used it to kill all of the leviathans we’ve seen on the beach to acquire more ambergris. From there they needed to prove that it could be used as a weapon against aircraft.”

“So the wreckage was from a test,” Sparrowknife interjected.

“Yes, they tethered the dirigible to the iceberg. Then they dropped the bomb on it. That might be why there was nothing but the framework, they wouldn’t have wasted anything else. I suppose that since he is familiar with this area that Sante knew the iceberg would drift back toward Aurora. The Windram could be here to salvage the framework,” Cobham continued.

“So now they have something with which to destroy dirigibles and airships, how perfectly awful,” Kassandra said shaking her head.

Reaching for the other item, Cobham found that the ice covering the piece had melted soaking his handkerchief. Cobham thrust his hand closer to the fire and stared at what lay in his palm.

Kassandra’s brow wrinkled as she poked at his hand. “Constable, wherever did you find a severed finger inside the leviathan?”

Cobham was silent a moment considering the stacks that the finger had come from. “There were bodies inside the leviathan so frozen together I couldn’t tell what they were. I broke off a piece before Sante and his men found me. I wonder how many there are in there.”

“Well that explains something,” Sparrowknife offered. “I know how he convinced the Antelaunders to work for him. Some of them developed a taste for human flesh. Moore must be paying the cannibals that way.”

“So he’s got a larder full of corpses stored inside a dead leviathan. This just gets better with every passing moment. Who are they, I wonder?” Cobham asked.

“From the looks of things, I would say anyone who doesn’t agree with that madman,” Kassandra offered. She reached out to Cobham for the finger. He happily surrendered it to her. “Your question constable has another meaning. Who are the people supporting Moore? I think I may have a way to find out.”

Kassandra pulled back her hood. Shrugging out of her gloves, she reached up to free the long ringlets of her red hair. Her tresses were bound up on her head in a bun transfixed by two amber-colored rods. She pulled the rods out, sparing a moment to twist her hair out of the way. Setting the rods aside near the severed digit, she reached for one of her gloves. Working the liner out, she was able to get at the woolen interior. Regaining the rods, she lay them in the liner. Then she began rub the shafts back and forth. After a few moments, Cobham could see the fibers of the wool starting to stand up as well as the loose hairs on top of Kassandra’s head.

“Constable, make me some room on the floor please. I’ll need a smooth area in the dirt close enough to the brazier that we’ll be able to see.” Cobham took off his gloves and set about scraping the detritus on the floor away from the desired area. She nodded at him when he was done, then said, “Please place the finger at the bottom closest to me.” As soon as he’d dropped the severed finger on the ground, she leaned forward touching it on either end with one of the rods. A fat blue spark jumped from each rod and the finger shimmered with a slick coating of something that looked like mercury. Cobham had seen Kassandra call spirits before and knew that what he was seeing was ectoplasm, but what she intended next, he had no idea.

She held out the rods to the two men. “Airman, please write in the dirt on the left here the numbers from one to ten then the words ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Constable, I need you to write out the letters of the alphabet here on your side.” Then she leaned forward to pick up the finger. Holding it in her hands, she squeezed her eyes closed, took a breath and held it. When she breathed out, silvery ectoplasm coated her lips. It wafted out in gossamer strands in the air as if she were spewing out spider’s silk. Drifting downward, the mercurial matter collected on the finger.

Both men sat back, having finished writing. Cobham found himself staring as Kassandra lay the silvery digit on the floor. He spared a glance at Sparrowknife. The airman seemed to be taking the oddity of the situation fairly well. Sparrowknife caught the look and commented, “Not to worry, constable, my auntie was well known for making simples and small tellings.”

“Well, you’re handling it better than I did the first time. Kassandra made everything in the room float including me and brought everything back to earth with a crash,” Cobham said.

“It was someone else’s equipment with inferior quality at that. As you see, gentlemen, quite a good deal can be accomplished with a small amount. But to business, let us see if we can establish a rapport.”

The finger slide across the ground as if the surface were ice, coming to rest on Sparrowknife’s scrawl for ‘yes’.

“Kassandra who are we talking to?” Cobham asked.

She turned to him for a moment ignoring the finger that was speeding across the floor once again. “Constable this is a ghost. Unlike a spirit whom I would commune with across the divide that separates the living world from those that passed on, ghosts are still anchored here by a need to achieve closure. I would guess that an untimely death at the hands of a man like Moore might qualify.”

“Cyrus,” Sparrowknife interjected.

Kassandra gave Cobham a brief smile returning to the matter at hand, “So, Cyrus, can you tell us who Moore’s allies are?”

Once the finger completed its macabre skating again, Cobham felt the chill in the small building increase. Southern Islanders still maintained a simmering hatred for their former masters, he thought. Moore had chosen dangerous allies. Ones who were eager for such weapons and the opportunities they offered. Now they had another reason to escape. His Majesty must be warned of this new threat. Cobham turned over thoughts and plans in his mind. Time for another question, “Where are the bombs stored at?” One of the primed bombs placed under the reciprocating arm of the oil pump could set the whole pit on fire destroying the pump. A bomb could even disable the massive Windram as well. The finger skidded aside from the letters and numbers and proceeded to scratch a map into the floor indicating a long building not far from where they were held. But first they needed to escape.

“So how do we get out?” Cobham asked the obvious. The finger slid across the floor to the word “no”. “Sorry, Cyrus, I suspect that’s up to us. But thank you for your help so far.” Now I’m talking to a disembodied digit, Cobham thought, stopping himself before he could wonder if the day would get any stranger.

Kassandra grinned at him a moment then slid a hand into her left mukluk pulling out a long thin knife.

Sparrowknife chuckled when she handed it to him. “Lady I do like your surprises.” Standing, he made his way to the door. Taking advantage of the gaps in the walls, the airman circled the interior of the shed staring out where he could. Then he returned to the brazier. “There’s only one guard. He has his back to the door. There is a simple latch I can flip open with the knife. But we’ll need a distraction. Cyrus, can we prevail upon you?”

A moment later, Sparrowknife was crouched by the door, knife at the level of the latch. Cobham stood beside him ready to pull the door open and deal with their guard. The disembodied finger of their ghostly ally was sliding under the gap of the door. Cobham spared a moment to imagine what it might be like to see the silvery digit sliding between ones legs like a hyperactive slug. Then he heard a spate of unintelligible words. Sparrowknife flipped the knife and the door slid open enough for Cobham to force his fingers into the gap. Pulling backward, Cobham felt the door give as the guard lost his feet.

The Antelaunder fell back over Sparrowknife’s crouched form, his head striking the brazier, sending coals flying. Sparrowknife leapt to his feet, scrambling for the man’s blunderbuss. Cobham, his instincts coming into play, pulled the guard to his feet, swung back and roundhoused the Antelaunder hard enough that the man bounced off of the rear wall of the shed to fall motionless to the floor. Stepping on a coal as she fitted the rods back into her hair once more, Kassandra looked at the men, “Are we ready to go now?”

In the short, but harrowing run to the storage building, Cobham saw that the gigantic Windram was now tied to a makeshift platform lashed to the backs of two of the leviathans. The men of the encampment were all focused on securing the dirigible but soon they would want to load it with the deadly cargo. Cobham knew they had little time and set to work on the latch with Kassandra’s knife.

“Look,” he whispered pointing upward. There dipping in and out among the massing storm clouds was the brassy form of the Sharpshin. Now they had a chance, Cobham thought. If they could destroy the bombs and escape, then His Majesty’s Aerofleet could deal with the Windram. The lock gave way under his hands and the door opened inward.

When Cobham glanced up again the Sharpshin was much closer. He could just make out the dangling form of the cargo lift. Their rescuers were on the way. Stepping into the dim interior he found himself standing among crates that filled the building up to the rafters. He missed a breath, stunned.

“They’re coming,” Kassandra cried.

Cobham forced himself into motion. He grabbed the closest crate handing it to Sparrowknife, then turned back to chose one from the floor. Hefting it to his shoulder he stepped outside of the storage building. A shot rang out and a fist-sized hole appeared in the icy exterior of the building next to him. “Run!” he cried, pushing Kassandra ahead of him toward the lowering cargo lift of the airship. Shots chuffed into the snow about them as they raced past their former prison and into the open. Cobham saw a streak of red in the snow. He breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Sparrowknife stumble onto the cargo lift. A stray gust lifted the edge of the platform and Cobham slid the crate from his shoulder to send it skittering across the wood floor. Then he reached back to lift Kassandra up to Sparrowknife who caught her. The cargo lift swayed as Cobham launched himself at it. The edge caught him in the stomach driving the air from him as he scrabbled for purchase. The ropes sang, the whole lift shaking as the Sharpshin lifted away.

Pellets shot from a blunderbuss scattered across the interior of the lift pinging like hail with most of its momentum spent. Sparrowknife, his left arm streaming with blood, elbow-walked his way across the platform until he could grasp Cobham with his good hand. Behind him, Kassandra clung to the airman’s ankles. It took two tries but Cobham was able to swing his legs up over the siding of the lift. He lay there a moment gasping. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see the ground racing away from them. The Sharpshin was growing closer as the winch brought up the cargo lift. Small forms raced toward the Windram. Already Cobham could see the gigantic dirigible turning as it was freed from its tie downs.

Could the airship outrun the dirigible? he wondered. More importantly, could they still destroy the stockpile of bombs and escape? As Kassandra stripped apart her gloves to create a makeshift bandage for Sparrowknife, Cobham crawled to the crate he’d brought aboard. When he threw open its latches, he let out an involuntary grunt of despair. Inside laid a weather balloon, packaged with a large coil of rope. Turning back to Sparrowknife he cried, “Dear Lord, I hope you have bombs in your crate.” The airman pushed the other crate across the floor to Cobham. This time when the latches popped open there were three dark metal spheres nestled in wood shavings.

The light changed and Cobham looked up realizing that the Sharpshin’s cargo bay was right above them. Their swaying decreased as the platform was swung to one side and the cargo bay doors began to close. Looking at Sparrowknife, Cobham cried out, “Don’t let them close the doors. We have to drop the bombs on the store house.”

“The captain will want to get out of here,” Sparrowknife replied getting to his feet with Kassandra’s help.

“Well you’ve got to convince him differently. If those bombs are used on the Aerofleet we don’t stand a chance. Just imagine what a few of those could do dropped on the His Majesty’s Palace while you’re at it. Just get Bornesun to make a pass low over the storage shed.”

Sparrowknife looked grim but he stumbled off toward the bridge. Already Cobham could see the Sharpshin was rising, attempting to gain altitude and the higher winds to try to out run the Windram.

Kassandra stepped up next to Cobham, “What can I do?” she asked.

“Moore said that the catalyst becomes active after an applied force. I assume he meant being fired from a cannon. Let’s hope that force doesn’t have to be very specific. Find me a bar, a hammer, any tool. I think its time to apply some blunt force and hope we are very lucky.”

They both looked about the interior of the cargo bay until Cobham found a large wrench. He reached into the crate to pull out one of the cannonball sized spheres. Placing the bomb against the lip running about the edge of the cargo area, he rested his foot against its side. He swung the wrench over his head.

At the top of his arc, Kassandra asked, “Do you really think that is safe?”

Ignoring the question, Cobham brought the wrench down in a ringing blow on top of the iron sphere. They both turned and looked at each other for a second and then Cobham answered, “Has any of this been safe so far?” Setting down the wrench, he reached for the bomb. Lifting it with great care, he stepped up to the open maw of the cargo bay. Chilling wind blew his hair about. The Sharpshin was veering back. Something occurred to him so he turned back to the crate. Barely breathing, he restored the activated bomb to its nesting. Then in the remaining moments he struck each of the other spheres as well. Holding the third bomb in his hands, he leaned out over the opening. Behind him Kassandra knotted a hand through his braces planting a foot against the back of each of his, leaning backward to anchor him in place. The ground came racing up as he dropped the heavy sphere over the side. Reaching for the second one, Cobham heaved it over as well.

The Sharpshin spun and they tumbled to the deck. The airship’s nose tipped up as the craft raced for the heavens. As Cobham disentangled himself from Kassandra, he saw the crate bearing the remaining bomb sliding across the floor. Quick thinking as always, Kassandra shot out an arm catching it before it could strike the lip at the edge of the cargo bay. Breathing a sigh of relief, Cobham crab-walked over to the crate. Taking a free length of rope, he lashed it to a tie-down near the open maw of the bay. Then Cobham turned and helped Kassandra to her feet. A flash lit up the sky behind them. Seconds later a rumble filled the enclosed space of the bay. Together they rushed to the edge of the opening to see the entire northern end of the encampment engulfed in flames. The roof of the storage shed fell downward in shards of metallic shrapnel. Continuing thumps sounded as the remaining bombs exploded. A final ear-shattering explosion followed, signaling the destruction of the oil reserve and the pump.

Turning back, Cobham found their view was occluded. He blinked and when his eyes focused he realized he was looking at the broad nose of the Windram as it ascended toward them. Along its sides, he could see the blisters of the cannons swinging round to take aim. Sparrowknife came running into the bay skidding to a stop next to them, his eyes wide with horror at the sight coming toward them. Cobham reached down for the final sphere. As large as the aeronaught was, could he miss? he wondered. Taking the bomb in both hands, he leaned forward once more. This time both of his compatriots braced him. When the dirigible filled the whole of the bay, he let the bomb drop. As the sphere descended, two of the Windram’s cannons fired, puffs of smoke drifting from the gunnery blisters. It almost felt like a race. Would the bomb strike first or the cannon shot? Cobham mused. Cannon shots streaked by the Sharpshin. The bomb on the other hand struck the aeronaught square on. Unfortunately, it merely dented the metallic skin of the dirigible and rolled off.

Cobham staggered back into his companions. He stumbled away from them to lean against the nearby steam harpoon gun. For a moment he weighed the possibility of firing the weapon at the aeronaught, but what would one bolt do against the massive engine of destruction below them? It would be like pricking an elephant with a pin. What could they do now? Perhaps he hadn’t struck the first bomb hard enough to prime it?

Sparrowknife leaned over him shaking Cobham’s shoulder with his good arm. “Don’t give up, old man. The captain’s got more than a few tricks in him. Do you know why they have airships run guard duty on dirigibles? We’re much more maneuverable and can take more hits than a rigid aircraft. If we lose a few cells, we shift them to regain balance. On the other hand, if the dirigible loses any cells it’s no longer stable and becomes difficult to handle. Once its hull fails, it fails catastrophically.”

“No, Airman, the only hand that counts right now is that the thing below is armored like a medieval castle.”

“Not on top though,” Kassandra offered.

“Doesn’t matter...we’ve lost the only weapon any good against it,” snapped Cobham.

A loud crack of thunder interrupted their argument as the Sharpshin altered course once again. “Well there’s another alternative. The captain is taking us up into the storm,” Sparrowknife said, stepping closer to the bay. Behind the bulk of the Windram the horizon was now churning an ominous bluish black. The light was fading from the sky.

Turning away from the image, Cobham caught sight of Kassandra’s face. Her eyes were intent, focused on the aeronaught below. Her brow furrowed in thought. Just audible above the thunder she asked Sparrowknife, “Does the Windram look to you to have the same cladding as the downed dirigible?”

At first the airman was taken aback. Then he nodded. “If I had to guess then, yes. I would say it looks the same. It would make sense since the wreck was one of the Southern’s.”

“Then we have a chance. Constable get the other crate and bring it here. Airman is there any access to the gas cells here? We need to fill the weather balloon as quick as possible.”

Not sure what Kassandra had in mind, Cobham pulled the lid off of the crate. He handed the folded package of the balloon to Sparrowknife. Taking out the rope Cobham swung back to Kassandra.

“We’re going to need every length of rope here, Constable. Start tying them together.” She reached out taking the end of the first coil of line from him. Then she stepped up to the steam harpoon. There she joined the length coiled at its base to the other, continuing to tie on each length of rope he found for her, pulling each knot tight. Finally, Kassandra tied the rope to the end of the harpoon load. She stepped back a moment surveying their work as Sparrowknife and several other airmen drug the large weather balloon into the bay.

“What are we doing, Kassandra?” Cobham asked now completely confused.

She looked past him through the open bay doors. The Windram rose below them once more. “Sparrowknife,” she called, “how much do you think the captain trusts me? I need him to bring us close enough to the Windram that we can hit it with the harpoon gun.”

“Why?”

“You gave me the answer earlier in the day. What can destroy a ship this size?”

The airman’s eyes lit up with comprehension, “A lightning strike. A strike with the same cladding as the other ship had....” He took a deep breath, “Ye gods it could work. But we would have to be well away from the resulting explosion.”

“That’s why I’m thinking of something else you told me. We wait until they fire again. Then set loose a few of our gas cells to make them think we’re hit. We can plunge past the Windram, fire the harpoon, play out the balloon and then get as far away as possible.”

Sparrowknife called the other airmen over as he and Cobham took hold of the balloon. He gave them terse orders sending them off to the bridge and the upper tiers, respectively. “This crazy idea better work or I’m going to be grounded for good.”

From the other side of the balloon, Cobham replied, “I think we’ll all be under the ground in a permanent fashion if this doesn’t work.

Kassandra joined them taking hold of the balloon. She tied the rope to its bottom and then tied the wrench that Cobham had used earlier several feet below the balloon. She grasped two fistfuls of the balloon fabric saying, “You’ll need to make the shot Sparrowknife. You’re the expert here.”

“I’m no expert at this craziness but at least you’ve given me a target that will be difficult to miss.” The airman spun the locks open on the harpoon gun opening the steam valve to let the pressure build. Once again the Sharpshin bucked and spun. “That would be the cells away.” The thunder was so loud now that they couldn’t even hear their pursuer firing its guns.

Cobham and Kassandra struggled to maintain their grip on the weather balloon as it rippled and flexed under their hands. The surface of the Windram spun closer and closer. Cobham thought he could see the individual panels that made up the skin of the aeronaught. “Take the shot,” he cried.

“Not yet,” Sparrowknife screamed back over the rushing wind.

Now Cobham could see the rivets holding the cladding down. Surely, the cannons had a bead on them by now, he thought. As he was waiting for the inevitable shudder from the impact, Kassandra cried, “Let go!”

Confused, Cobham maintained his grip on the balloon as it surged, sucked downward as the Sharpshin rolled. He slid across the floor with the gas bag, letting go at the edge of the bay. For a moment, the balloon hung there in the opening. Then it was gone and the rope sang over the edge, coil after coil unfurling. With a chuff of steam that filled the bay for a second before being sucked out, the harpoon fired. The bolt arrowed downward to disappear into the skin of the Windram.

“Hold on,” Sparrowknife sang out as the Sharpshin dove toward its foe. The airship skimmed well between the outthrust spars of the aeronaught’s giant fans to continue its plunge toward the sea below. The cargo bay doors swung ponderously closed. As the airship picked up speed, Cobham heard the whine of the ship’s own fans cranking well past their safety limits. He could feel a slight change in their angle. The fans were going so fast now that the entirety of the Sharpshin shook in sympathetic vibration. As the airship leveled out, Sparrowknife gestured them all toward the bridge. They raced through the hallways being battered against the sides as the ship shuddered onward. Cobham burst out on the decking after the others as Captain Bornesun set the fans to freewheeling, letting them cycle down. As rough wind continued to buffet the airship, they all found themselves clutching the brass railing as the captain brought the Sharpshin around.

“What now, Captain?” asked Sparrowknife.

“If your crazy scheme doesn’t work we’re going to ram them. There is no way I am letting that ship back to its home port if I can stop it.”

There was a moment of quiet as they turned to watch the cloud deck above them. The Sharpshin had dropped low enough that the waters of the North Atlantic rippled beneath the ship. From the black cloud emerged the prow of the Windram. Their ploy was unsuccessful. The aeronaught pulled a full third of its length through the clouds angling toward them.

Bornesun levelled out their course aiming the Sharpshin’s prow at the Windram. The Captain reached down for the fan gear shaft, preparing to ram the aeronaught. A flash lit up the cloud deck as an immense arc of electricity flung itself from cloud to cloud. It branched like a fiery tree. The skin of the Windram glowed with blue luminosity for an instant. Then the entire front of the aeronaught dissolved into a billowing cascade of fire. Orange and reddish light lit up the horizon. As more and more of the dirigible fell below the layer of cloud, further explosions rocked the skies. Shredded wreckage drifted down over the ocean like charred snowfall. Still the immense ship fell. Gas cells burst from the frame work to detonate into incandescent flares. The prow was now reaching the water level as the entire pillar of radiance collapsed under its own weight. The sound wave struck the Sharpshin and the airship shuddered under the violence of the Windram’s passing. Bornesun silently crossed himself and set to turning the airship away.

“I wonder what happened to Cyrus the ghost,” Sparrowknife asked.

“I suspect that destroying the expedition and doing in Moore probably set things to right for him,” Kassandra said in a dull monotone.

Looking away from the wreck of the Windram, at Kassandra, Cobham found her lips set in a hard line. “We’ve done good today, Constable. Even though we had to fight them on their own terms,” she stated. The light of the burning pyre caught the glass pins in her hair, the shine in her eyes of unshed tears.

We’ve done good, he thought. Perhaps they had. Perhaps that was what he was meant to do. He could do it one person at a time on the streets of Amphyra or perhaps he was meant for more. Cobham was certain of one thing, he’d never felt as alive as he had in the last few hours. It could be that was one reward for doing the right thing. If that was the case, then sticking by Kassandra’s side was the right decision. “Thanks for the excitement,” he said quietly. She chuckled and laid a hand over his for a moment. Then she turned to walk down the stairs to the crew quarters.

Sparrowknife tipped his head to one side. “You know, I never saw Moore board the Windram.”

“I didn’t either. I’m certain she knows it as well, but we should let that be for the moment.”

Both men turned back to look at the fading light from the wreck of the aeronaught as it fell into the distance. The storm rolled over the blazing remains, obscuring them from view. For now Cobham was content to be headed home. He knew he’d chosen a dangerous path, but now there was a certainty that he’d often seemed to lack, a confirmation that he’d chosen the right one.

King and Country

Richard Marsden

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They said he followed his orders without question or hesitation. They were right, but that didn’t make Brian Willox feel any better about his situation. Patriotism tended to wither under the heavy automatic fire of a Kaiser-Guard, though he was sure it would return later. It always did. His teeth rattled as another spray of ammunition pelted the feeble cover he hid behind, sending bits of concrete past his face. He gripped his Webley revolver and laughed at how puny it seemed in his hand.

His squad was doing the same as he was; desperately hugging every bit of masonry or dirt they could find within the ruins of a building they had incorrectly thought was safe from prying eyes. The sky was overcast, giving everything a gray tinge to its appearance. In-between firing at the armored figures of Germany’s best, his men glared at him. Their uniforms were khaki and spattered in mud from the hours of nighttime crawling that had gotten them this far. They had made it beyond no-man’s land, through the Kraut trenches, and had managed to elude or stay hidden from enemy sentries and patrols for three solid days. It was just their rotten luck to stumble across the near-invulnerable soldiers of the Kaiser only an hour away from their objective.

“Sir, forget King n’ Country! We’re n’ Krautland as it is,” Sergeant Lemwill shouted over the roar of automatic fire. “Leg it fast n’ we’ll be sippin’ champ-e-anee n’ Paris n’ a few days time.” He popped up from the bullet-ridden wall he was using for cover and fired his trench-gun. The boom was deafening and in response Lemwill was forced to curl up tight as sprays of gunfire dashed about his position.

Brian was sorely tempted to take up his Sergeant on the offer, but he had a reputation to maintain and a career to build. While saying ‘yes’ to suicide missions had not exactly propelled him up the ranks, he was damn sure saying ‘no’ wouldn’t help much either. Besides, he could feel something within him twisting. Refusal to obey brought about an unexplainable pain to him that could override the worst of terrors. The rising agony increased as he pondered, if but for a moment, calling it quits.

He nodded his head in the direction of the enemy. “Sergeant, keep those Kaiser-Guard still. There are only three of them. I’ll close.” The pain fled as he voiced his plan. Brian glanced around the hunk of wall he was crouched behind. On the far side of the ruined building he could make out three lumbering shapes. The armored plates they wore were decorated liberally with rivets and their breastplates were marked with chipped, worn, but very evident iron crosses. Their faces were hidden behind armored gasmasks and they wore the distinct helmets the Germans were so fond of, proudly displaying the spike that most soldiers abandoned because it made hiding difficult. Kaiser-Guard didn’t need to hide. The three hand-picked warriors of the German Emperor moved confidently through the rubble, firing their multi-barrel chain-guns in destructive, swaying patterns.

“Only three, he says!” Sergeant Lemwill looked upon the five other men in the squad. “Mores, Bentlock,” he barked. “Grenades. Rest of you lot, covering fire for the officer.”

Mores and Bentlock licked their lips. They waited for the others to open up with their feeble bolt-actions before producing grenades. They pulled the pins and waited a moment, a dangerous maneuver if done improperly. Just before the explosives detonated in their hands they stood, tossed the primed weapons, and then ducked.

Brian waited until he heard the twin booms of the grenades. He then darted forward through raining bits of brick and earth and a cloud of debris. He severely doubted the grenades and small arms fire of his men would stop the trio of walking tanks, something more personal would be required for that. He dived behind the remains of a chimney and let out a shuddering breath. The chain-guns started up again. While the grenades hadn’t slowed them, it had provided him a shield of smoke to advance through.

He heard the heavy footfalls of the Kaiser-Guard. “Christ,” he whispered as he saw the skeletal walls rattle with their inevitable approach. The chimney was a tight fit, but with force, effort, and a sucking in of breath, Brian pushed himself into it. The chimney vibrated and a few bricks tumbled loose both from his desperate burrowing and that of the footsteps of the advancing soldiers.

The next burst of automatic fire deafened him as the sound echoed within the tight, sooty confines of the chimney. He could barely hear his men’s return fire. A few pops and the occasional plink of a round deflected by the German body-armor was hardly uplifting. Half the chimney collapsed and Brian stifled a cry as a few bricks bounced upon his helmet. They hadn’t fallen from too great a height, but a brick to the head was a brick to the head. His helmet crunched atop his skull and his teeth clamped shut. Through holes in the chimney he saw the three gargantuan soldiers stomp past, weapons blazing. He could hear their heavy intakes of air and see steam and exhaust belch from their over-sized backpacks. One paused, as if sensing an enemy to its rear.

Brian’s vision was still swimming from the bricks that had fallen, and yet remained, atop his helmeted head. He held his breath and closed his eyes. If the Kaiser-Guard saw his feet in the chimney, there was nowhere to run; he had sealed himself in his very own coffin. He tensed up, waiting for the roar of the chain-gun and prayed that his death would be at least quick, if not pleasant.

“Come on then, ye bastards!” Sergeant Lemwill howled. The distinct booming of his trench-gun thundered.

Brian popped an eye open. The three Kaiser-Guard were moving slowly, but unerringly, towards Lemwill. “Bless you, Sergeant,” Brian whispered before wriggling his way out of the chimney. Getting in was easier than out and he had to twist and wriggle to get free. He shook his head as the weight of the bricks left him and still had a hard time seeing clearly. However, it would be impossible to miss the giant forms of the enemy.

Sparks flew from their bulk and they answered each round fired their way with a buzz-saw chatter of their own and a cascade of glittering, brass shell-casings. From the front, they were as indestructible as tanks. They could stride across no-man’s land and were often at the fore of grand assaults. Brian had seen more than a few killed before, usually with a direct artillery strike or a blast from a flame-thrower. He currently lacked both of these. Grasping his revolver, he advanced.

The first of the armored soldiers was stepping over a pile of wood that once perhaps was a piece of furniture. Brian crept up behind him and saw a gap in the armored plates, revealing the man’s neck. Stuffing the muzzle of his gun in-between the gaps, Brian pulled the trigger and felt the recoil. The round sped through the German’s neck, then head, and burst through his skull and made a distinct metallic thunk as it imbedded inside the crown of the helmet. The German fell face first.

The deafening chatter of the chain-guns covered the sound of Brian’s shot and the collapse of their comrade. The two remaining Kaiser-Guard, oblivious to the danger behind them, sprayed a torrent of rounds into the ruins where Brian’s squad hunkered down and feebly returned fire.

Moving, Brian hopped over the dead Kaiser-Guard and closed on the rear of the next soldier. His men, only a few yards off, caught sight of him and ceased fire. The pair of Germans did the same and a sudden silence filled the air. The armored German leveled his smoking chain-gun preparing another burst, but before he could fire, Brian repeated the precise shot between gaps in the armor. He was already running towards the last soldier before the other had fallen over dead. The sound of the shot and the clattering of armor echoed loudly.

The exhaust pipes on the backpack of the remaining foe belched out a cloud of vapor. The hulking form half-turned and upon seeing two of his comrades dead and Brian rushing him, let out a bestial roar. The chain-gun sputtered to life.

Brian saw the spinning barrels and watched the glittering tracer-rounds spit past him. The animal inside him cried out for him to cower. To do so was to die. The pain inside him bubbled and boiled, as if the thought of retreat somehow made his own body reject him. Training, and the unnatural agony, shouted down instinct and Brian replied with his own roar, not nearly as menacing, but certainly primal. He leveled his pistol and squeezed the trigger again and again. The revolver bucked while he ducked under the climbing spray of rounds. He could feel the air displace just above his head as he rushed the German like a rugby player. Brian’s squad stood up, lending throaty cheers.

His two shots bounced harmlessly off the armored plates of the Kaiser-Guard. In desperation, Brian continued to rush the man, jamming the barrel of his weapon against the eye-piece. He pulled the trigger just as the heated barrels crashed into his side, flinging him away under its weight and the enhanced strength of the elite foe.

Brian rolled over rough earth, hissing as his leg went numb from the impact of the earth and several bits of concrete and splintered wood bit into his flesh. He glanced up, raised his pistol, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

It didn’t matter. Smoke ghosted up from the German’s shattered eye-piece. He waivered, took two blind steps, and collapsed heavily, causing his armor’s engine to sputter out with a rattling cough.

Panting, Brian curled up. He felt fear, worry, panic and rush back into his veins as the unexplained pain vanished the moment the crisis was over. While his men cheered his bravery and called him mad, Leftenant Brian Willox vomited. He had performed dozens of such ‘heroic’ acts and each time he felt sick afterwards. In a few days time the madness of it all would fade and he would accept the next assignment. Besides, saying ‘no’ tended to inexplicably hurt.

As if reading his thoughts, Sergeant Lemwill hauled him to his feet with a grimy hand. “You’ll be dead n’ no time, beggin’ your pardon, sir.” He gave Brian a long, solemn look that was contrasted sharply by the smiles of the others.

Brian nodded. He took in a great lungful of air, but found it tainted with the smoke of the endless Great War; thirty-eight years and no end in sight. “We’ll all be dead in no time, Sergeant. That’s how these things work.” Brian patted Lemwill on the arm. “Thank you, sergeant for the concern though. Wish I could stop!” He forced a smile.

Lemwill opened his mouth as if to say something, stammered and then nodded, though his expression was tight.

A war that started in the time of his grandfather was unlikely to be merciful to any of them, no matter how brash or conversely cautious they were. Brian looked upon the fallen Kaiser-Guard. They were Germany’s elite, equipped and armored to the highest standards. His eyes strayed over his squad. They were shrouded in dust, but otherwise unharmed. “We are fortunate none of us are dead right now. Good work!”

Lemwill walked over to one of the corpses and nudged it with his boot. The motor on the backpack grumbled and he racked his trench-gun, sneering. “Bad luck, blunderin’ into them, I still says, sir.”

Brian pursed his lips and swept a hand across his brow, tipping his bowl-shaped helmet back. “I do not think so, Sergeant. We’re an hour from our rendezvous with the spy and finding a trio of them this close is hardly coincidence.”

“Spy been found out, sir?” Private Mores asked. He rubbed his nose and peered around with narrowed eyes.

“Might be a good reason to call it off, sir. If our spy—”

“No.” Brian cut off any excuses they might have to return to their lines. He didn’t want his stomach rebelling, or his eyes pounding, or any other manner of pain that would wash over him at the thought of failure. He had his orders and he shared with his men only the basics; that they had to rendezvous with the spy in a hamlet just within Germany proper. He was not about to have crawled all the way into Germany, defeated three armored monstrosities with a pistol, only to turn back and suffer agony. He gaze the men a stern look and set his jaw. “King and Country.”

They were silent. Sergeant Lemwill lowered his gaze. “Right you are, sir. King n’ Country.”

The other men of the squad echoed him and bowed their heads in submission. It wasn’t too difficult to reassert control and remind them of their duty. They had accompanied him on plenty of missions that most soldiers would write-off as insane. What was one more? He had a career to think of and a nation to defend from the deprivations of the Central Powers. Still, he could sympathize with them in their desire to just go home.

“You all right, sir?” Lemwill asked, raising a brow.

Brian swallowed and nodded. “Yes, Sergeant.” He nodded more vigorously to convince himself. “Come on, the hamlet is this way.” He reloaded his pistol, snapping shut the chamber.

The gray skies continued to dominate and the hamlet looked sinister in Brian’s eyes. Every building could house a sniper; every alleyway could be shielding a German guard. He kept close to the line of hedges leading up the cobbled road to the seemingly quiet town. He heard his men shuffling behind him, their equipment rattling, their bodies brushing the foliage. He waved his hand for them to quiet down.

A small, flickering smile passed across Brian’s features. He whispered, “In the hamlet, Sergeant. You’ll know our man by the cane he uses to get around with.” He blinked. “He’s younger.”

Keeping his voice soft Lemwill said, “Young man with a cane. Right, sir. Plan?”

Brian examined the hamlet for a solid minute. His paranoia was telling him to be cautious, but as far as he could tell the town was undefended. He was about to order a general sweep of the area, when he saw a cherry-red glow in the window of a building overlooking the main road. Peering, Brian could just make out the muzzle of a machine-gun and the outline of a man smoking. He pointed and whispered, “Down the road, Sergeant. Top window, look for the glow.”

The Sergeant sucked in a breath between his yellowed teeth. “I sees ‘im, sir. Where there’s one...” he trailed off.

“There’s lots,” Private Lewis whispered from behind them.

A machine-gun covered the road and in all likelihood there were additional guards. Brian mentally weighed their options. “Sergeant, you’re with me. I’ll need your trench-gun when we sneak in there.” He looked back at his men crouching in the hedges. “The rest of you, do not fire until you are positive we have been detected.”

“Sir,” Private Corey said softly. “If you get captured, should we get back to our lines?”

Brian stifled a laugh. “No, Private. Should Sergeant Lemwill or myself end up in enemy hands, I’m leaving it up to you to personally risk your life and that of your squad in a daring rescue. I have no intention of spending the rest of my life in a work camp.”

“Worry not, sir,” Lemwill said. “They’ll exchange officers. Not so sure ‘bout me though. So, you ‘eard the officer. Save my ass if it gets caught.”

“Listen to your Sergeant,” Brian said with a grin.

Brian smiled as they all nodded their agreement. They were good men and true, though he was unsure if they would be devoted enough to stick around if things went to hell. He tucked his pistol in his holster and crawled along the hedges toward the edge of the hamlet. He heard Sergeant Lemwill rustling behind him and the occasional heavy breath. The stalwart was an old soldier and experienced, but not quite up to the physical tasks Brian routinely subjected his men to.

The pace was slow and steady as they passed under the shadow of white-brick homes with deep brown roofs, built in the sweeping Germanic style. When a breeze whistled, Brian crawled faster using the sound to cover his movement. Once they were past the first home, he stood.

The hamlet was bisected by a single road. On either side were a collection of homes, any one of which could house the spy they were seeking. Brian had little to go on besides the description of a young man with a cane. Suddenly, a door to a small home opened. Before they could slink into the shadows, a young woman emerged. She smiled in a friendly manner. Her eyes widened as she must have realized the pair of soldiers she saw were not fellow countrymen. She froze.

For his advanced age, Lemwill moved swiftly, bounding past Brian and swung the muzzle of his weapon up to her face.

“Shhhhh,” Lemwill whispered. He raised a brow and when she trembled silently he said in broken German, “Sed gut, frauline. Shhhh.” He pushed her back into the house and Brian followed.

The doorway led to a kitchen. Bread was cooking and a hallway led to a room from which Brian could hear men talking. He shut the door behind him and scooted past Sergeant Lemwill, who still kept the oversized muzzle of his weapon trained on the woman. For her part, she rubbed her hands in nervous patterns over her slim apron.

Risking a look into the room, Brian was relieved to see not two men, but rather two boys. They were coloring a book together while sprawled out along the wooden floor. A small fire burned in the hearth and they chatted.

Confidently, Brian strode into the room. “Sergeant, bring the woman if you please.” He drew his pistol, and in the international language that had served Lemwill so well, said, “Shhh.”

Nosing her in with the trench-gun, Lemwill guided the woman into the house and pushed her onto the floor. She wrapped her arms about her children who whispered excitedly.

“Speak English, my dear?” Brian said in his most soothing tones. She was having a bad enough day as it was and he didn’t want her hysterical.

She knew enough to shake her head. Brian sighed and looked around the room. He walked over to the fireplace and picked up the iron fire-poker from a bin. He used it as a cane and walked up and down the room. “Sergeant, ask her if she’s seen a man like this.”

Lemwill’s German was about as subtle as his thunderous weapon, but between his butchery of the language and Brian’s charades, the woman was able to nod. She releases her boys and crept to the window, which was partially shuttered, and pointed to a house across the street.

“Figures it would be on that side,” Lemwill groaned. He lowered his weapon and in that moment one of the children sprinted. The youth was spry and out the main door before the older man could even let out a, “Ah ‘ell”.

Brian’s pistol snapped up and he trained it through the window on the child as he started to shout and point in their direction.

Pull the trigger, his training said.

Brian trembled. The pain was back in force and he fought against some horrendous, outside urge to just squeeze and end the threat.

The boy’s mother wrapped her arms about his leg and started babbling. “It doesn’t matter,” Brian said through grit teeth. He felt his knees buckle. Lemwill stared at him, a frown passed across his features.

Brian heard the voices of the guards. “It doesn’t matter!” he said in an effort to convince himself. The pain ceased and his strength returned. Whatever internal battle had occurred, was over.

“Stay down!” Brian pushed the woman off his leg and let out an exhausted breath. Several men in iron-gray uniforms emerged from the house at the end of the road. Before they could make sense of the situation, Brian squeezed off two rounds. He had no idea if they hit, he was already moving for the kitchen, leaving the woman and her child behind cowering on the floor.

Back the way they had come Brian ran. He heard Lemwill’s boots pounding on the floor behind him. Once outside, Brian started moving towards the main street.

“Not that way, sir!” Lemwill said, “It’s suicide! They’ve seen us!”

The mission hadn’t been accomplished yet. Brian’s duty to his nation was not done. He heard a desperate whispering plea in his mind. Part of him urged him to run and give up the fool’s errand, but something profound crushed his reservations. He didn’t even feel like he was commanding his own voice as he shouted, “God save England!”

“Who’ll save us, sir!” Lemwill said, panting as he followed.

A figure in gray stepped out from a gap between two houses. Brian ducked and fired his pistol. The weapon kicked and the enemy solider staggered back, clutching his stomach. Lemwill rushed past him and delivered a kick to the stricken man, sending him sprawling. The sergeant spat once and glared at Brian. “Come on, sir, let’s save the King’s bloody spy.”

Weapons fire echoed from the other end of the hamlet. Brian smiled. His men were at least attempting to follow their orders. His heart filled with national pride. No, not filled. It was put there.

“The boys won’t sit by for this one!” Again, Brian felt as if the words weren’t entirely his own.

He smiled and ran through the alleyway the enemy soldier had emerged from. He paused and saw the house with the machine-gun. The barrel blazed as it sprayed fire towards Brian’s squad. A pistol shot to silence the gunner would be difficult and Lemwill’s trench-gun would was well out of range.

The sergeant pressed himself against the wall of the alley and glanced either way.

“The lads have their attention, but not for long, sir. We need t’ do this fast n’ melt away.” Lemwill wheezed deeply.

Nodding, Brian did the only sensible thing. He ran across the road. He sprinted and kept his eyes focused on the house the woman had nervously pointed to. He heard an alarmed cry to his right from above. The machine-gunner had seen him. Fear started to rise, but training forced it away. Legs pumping, Brian sped across the cobbled street. Puffs of smoke and bouncing rounds traced after him. The wooden door to the house was closed, but he had no other options. Brian lowered his head and brought his shoulder up. He hit the door like a train off the tracks and pain burst through him. The door fell backward off the hinges and he landed atop it as if it were a sled. Instinctively he drew in his feet and a flurry of bullets showered the area outside the doorway.

A thin figure peered over an upturned couch. He stood slowly, using a cane to support himself. His eyes looked Brian over and he said in smoothly spoken English, “My cover can hardly stay intact with you mucking about in the open. You better have a good reason for being here.”

A sigh of relief whistled through Brian’s teeth. He rose to his feet. The mission wasn’t over, yet. Nodding, Brian walked towards the man. “Yes. The country no longer has need of your services.” He shot him in the face.

Lemwill waited for Leftenant Willox to emerge from the house. Soon as he saw the lanky frame of his officer he leaned around the alleyway entrance and fired his trench-gun. The pellets peppered the building in a wide spray. He highly doubted the machine gunner would be killed, but that wasn’t Lemwill’s objective. He shouted across the street, “Run, sir!”

The officer sprinted, making it to the safety of the alley before the gunners bullets chewed up the brickwork. Lemwill grabbed the panting man and hauled him firmly into the protective shelter between the houses. “You find our spy?”

“I did. I’m afraid he is dead,” Willox said. He turned a ghastly shade of white and braced himself against the wall. His eyes widened and he shuddered. “Oh, God.”

Lemwill steadied him. He often became sick and dizzied after one of his ‘moments’. The men all knew what was wrong with him; everyone knew it except the Leftenant. For a moment, Lemwill wanted to tell him then and there while under fire. Tell him that he was cursed, that some spell from the Prime Minister’s agents had his mind twisted up in knots. He had no proof, none of the squad did, but the tales of soldiers were not to be discounted. Magic was afoot, of the worst variety, he was sure of it. There were tales told of spells that countered a man’s wishes and filled them with the desires of others. They were all certain that was what afflicted poor Leftenant Willox. Only the mad, or possessed, would behave as he did, and Lemwill did not think Willox mad.

“I shouldn’t be here,” the Leftenant whimpered. “I shouldn’t be here.” His eyes fixed upon Lemwill’s.

The Sergeant frowned. “The nation needs you, sir. We need t’ get back now.”

Leftenant Willox’s eyes glassed over. He stood tall and shrugged off Lemwill’s hand. “Quite right, Sergeant. Come on then, we cannot leave our boys waiting and it is a long walk back to France.” He winked. “King and Country, Sergeant.”

He clutched his trench-gun and watched the officer jog toward the sound of gunfire. “King n’ Country, sir.”

The Last Yong-Shi

Matt Dinniman

––––––––

Brace for impact,” the captain called. To our port, a flak explosion rocked Wine into Blood, and I held my breath as our wooden gondola swayed. I looked up at the cables that attached us to the massive balloon. We still looked intact. Behind me, the boiler hissed and groaned. Its door glowed red.

The Zmey’s Breath, flying just below and aft, wasn’t as lucky. Several holes peppered the reinforced balloon, and it began its quick plunge into the burning city below as I looked on in horror. The crew of seven abandoned ship, their dark parachutes opening up like giant targets into the crackling air.

“Another brick,” the captain said.

“Are you crazy?” I yelled down to him.

To my left and right, both gunners turned the cranks on their autoguns, which meant we had gliders coming at us from both directions. The clack-clack-clack of the tailgunner’s double-barrel shook the floor of the airship. The distinctive smell of gunpowder filled the gondola.

“I said another goddamned brick, and that’s a goddamned order, Boris.”

I indicated the red-hot boiler, even though he couldn’t see it from his position below, dangling in the clockworks. “If I add another brick, it’s going to explode.”

In training, they taught us the boiler was the heart of the bomber. I always liked that description, and I saw myself, as engineer, as the surgeon in charge of keeping the heart strong. A strong heart equaled a strong ship. Too much exertion, and the heart would break.

“If we don’t speed up, we’ll be shredded. Now do it, goddamnit.”

I cursed, picked up a xin rock from the dwindling supply, and shoved it into the hopper, locking it closed. I pulled my goggles over my eyes. The boiler groaned ominously, but the fans quickened.

“It’s in,” I yelled. I closed my eyes, and I prayed.

“Why must you attack?” Zelena asked me the night before. “You haven’t even talked with the Queen, to see if she will surrender.”

That wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t want to start a long conversation with her about her queen’s barbaric response to our envoy. I tried to sleep, but the drunken singing of my fellow aviators kept me awake. The normally somber tent city pulsed with song and dance, on this, our last night. Many of us would die come morning, and we all knew it. We knew what we faced.

I kissed her forehead. “We attack because we’ve been ordered to attack,” I said.

“You will death,” she said.

I gently corrected her. She’d come a long way in nine months, but she still had issues with certain words in Gremlic. “It’s ‘You will die.’ Or, ‘you will find death.’”

“You will find death. And I don’t want a lesson tonight.”

“If I die, it will be okay,” I said. “My family will be rewarded. It’s an honor to die for the Tsar.”

“And what about me?” she asked, reverting to her native Hellenic.

I’d gotten to where I could understand her language, but speaking it still proved difficult.

“You’ll be fine,” I said in Gremlic. I touched my hand to her belly. “No matter what happens, our baby will be free.”

She looked dubious. A whole generation of propaganda could do that. I’d seen the posters as we first marched into Kozani, of imperial soldiers dangling babies over snarling dogs. All babies born under the Gremlic flag were born free. It was one of our oldest laws. Citizen, slave, felon, or crag. All babies were born free.

She lifted the chain attached to her ankle, shaking it at me. “How can I be fine when I live as a slave? How can I be fine when I know that every soldier I see is responsible for murdering my family?”

“Zelena,” I said. “Please. They will hear.”

She went on, ignoring me. “You say our baby will be free? You have told me slaves aren’t allowed to raise their own children, unless their master says they may. If you die, I will plunge a knife into my heart. I’d rather my son die than be raised by strangers.”

“Don’t say such things,” I said, alarmed. I hadn’t told Zelena the full truth about what would happen to her if I died. She believed she would be put back with the other slaves, to be dispersed amongst the far reaches of the empire, as was the current tradition.

I put my arms around her. She quivered with rage, and her heart beat uncontrollably fast. “Please,” I said. “For the sake of our child, don’t. I promise you, no matter what happens. He will be okay. He will be raised as a good, Gremlic citizen.”

“Boris,” she said, tears streaming down her face. She cupped my face in her hands. “You are a fool. You are as much a slave as I am, only your chains are on the inside.”

She said this often, though I never understood what she meant. As long as she stopped promising to kill our child, I didn’t care. “I may be a fool, but I am a Gremlic fool.”

She looked at me, and her angry and scared eyes softened, but only slightly. “You do not look like the others. You do not act like them, either. You are Yong-Shi, not Gremlic.”

“Don’t say ‘Yong-Shi.’ It’s an insult. My skin may be different, but I am just as Gremlic as they are, as our child will be. My people are essential to the empire. In time, your people will be essential, too.”

Zelena spit, and she ground the spit into the dirt with her chained foot. “My child may lower his knee to the Tsar, but in his heart, he will bow to no tyrant.”

“You sound like my grandmother,” I said.

“Thirty seconds,” the bombardier called from his position behind the captain.

Yuri, the supply officer looked up from his spot between the two waist gunners. We locked eyes. Thirty seconds? That might as well be thirty minutes.

We’d started off as a flight of fifty, and Wine into Blood had been 12th in the line of command. Through the choking black smoke and rain of flak, I could only see ten, no, nine remaining dirigibles, with us at the lead. Behind us, the sky filled with parachutes, though not nearly as many as there should be. I pounded my toolbox with my fist.

Our target was the opulent, square palace in the middle of the city, home to the Vinegar Whore, who no doubt was evacuated the moment we began our push. The marble palace looked so small from the shore, where we’d laid siege to the island city for over a month while we waited for the supply train to finally return with fresh troops, ammunition, and food that wasn’t fish. We’d waited too long, and they’d dug themselves in nice and tight.

More explosions rocked the ship, and we swung back and forth. One of the twenty suspension cables snapped loudly, whistling through the air. The red-hot metal of the boiler became unbearable to stand beside. I watched the rivets nervously.

Below, trails of rockets slammed into the walls of the city, but the bricks didn’t crumble. Rows and rows of metal waterships chugged across the bay toward the island, pregnant with transit guards ready to climb the walls and face the defenders.

Fires swept across the city, caused by the crashed dirigibles and prematurely dropped bombs.

We should’ve bombed the walls. We’d already be on our way back if we had. But the generals didn’t ask me for advice. Regardless, the city would fall, if not today, then tomorrow. If the Tsar and his imperial army was anything, it was tenacious. One after another, the whore’s cities had fallen, her fabled vineyards and olive groves trampled into dust. All that was left were two prizes: The Vinegar Whore’s heavily-fortified capital of New Athina, and the Whore herself, a prize the Tsar sought with an unnatural fervor. He demanded her presence before him, thousands of kilometers away in Tupolov, dead or alive.

“Incoming,” the starboard waist gunner cried, firing. I ducked, and Wine into Blood trembled as rounds slammed into the gondola. A small, bird-shaped glider looped in the air, and it broke apart as the gunner tore it to shreds.

“Gods, that was too close,” Yuri said as he handed the gunner a new belt for his autogun. He slipped down the hatch.

“Lining up now,” the bombardier called. Below, the clockworks shifted as the pilot transferred control over to him. “Ten seconds!”

Pop, pop, pop. The boiler trembled with potential energy. At any moment, the heart would break. It would either eject a rivet, the steam melting anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path, or the door would rip off the hinges, tearing me in half as it shot out like a missile. Or the whole thing would just explode like a grenade, taking out the entire crew of Wine into Blood. No matter what way it went, the engineer was always went with it.

“Bombs armed!” Yuri called.

“Opening the bomb bay!” the bombardier yelled.

The ship shuddered as the dual wing doors opened underneath. We were at our most vulnerable right now. A single round from a glider could set off a bomb, blowing us out of the sky.

“Bombs away!”

“Bombs away,” we all echoed. Below, another glider attempted to sweep up at us, but he couldn’t find the right current, and he was caught in a flak explosion thrown by one of his own. Behind us, the remaining dirigibles lined up for their runs.

We buoyed up several hundred feet and sped away as the bay doors closed. The satisfying, chest-thumping explosions shook the air as our heavy bombs slammed into the Vinegar Whore’s palace.

I cheered along with the others. If she had been stupid enough to remain within her palace, she would almost certainly be dead. At the very least, the sight of the palace exploding had to be devastating to the morale of the whore’s people.

I grabbed a heavy wrench from my box. This high up, we were out of range of the flak, and only the luckiest of gliders could slingshot up and catch us. The biggest danger was now the boiler. I had to vent.

The heavy bolt could be turned to create a controlled breach. Orders or not, now that the danger had momentarily passed, I...

Ka-boom! The boiler exploded, throwing me backward halfway across the top level of the ship as the tank soared into the air like a missile.

Even as the iron rocket ascended, cleaving the balloon in two, and taking half the suspension cables with it, I stared in horrified fascination. Very few engineers lived to see how their boilers failed. This one had failed at its base, something I’d never heard of happening before.

Below, high-pitched screams rose above the explosions as both the pilot and bombardier burned to death in a shower of steam and boiling water. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to register what that meant. My friends. Gone. The gondola lurched as the stern plummeted.

I thought of Zelena, plunging a knife into her own heart.

I tumbled, spreading my arms and legs as the wreckage plummeted with me. Ahead, the boiler plunged from the sky, taking out the balloon of the Bride of Old Moscow and cutting their gondola in two. The poor bastards didn’t know what hit them. The heart of Wine into Blood continued to descend out of sight, still red-hot and steaming.

My training taught me to pull the ripcord immediately. But I knew if I pulled it now, it’d take a good three to five minutes to hit the ground, and there’s no way the angry gunners of the Whore’s air defenses would pass me up. I had to wait until the last possible moment.

Above, I didn’t see any chutes.

A black, oily cloud spread beneath me, and I didn’t know how deep it was. I entered the choking cloud, and I pulled the cord. The black chute ripped open, jerking me back up into the air.

Almost nine months before, a group of conductors had rounded up the prettiest slave girls and put them all together in a single train car. These were newly captured villagers from the line of farming communities in the fertile plains of the whore’s northern lands. Not a single one had yet been reeducated or visited by the soul tinkers, which made them wild and dangerous.

They stared at us through the bars, most of them quivering with red-tinged eyes. Not a single one wore any clothes, and we all ogled, amazed at their smooth bodies. Women from my village used to be like these women, with no hair on their underarms and legs, but very few had continued on with the tradition, as the local politruk had decreed that shaving was a sign of a loose, immoral woman. They were even clipped down there, with just a light dusting of hair on most of them. It fascinated me.

The first conductor stepped forward, dressed in his full leathers. “You deserve this. If you hadn’t taken out that armored column, this train would never have made it.” He handed a key to the major. “Have at ‘em, boys.”

The pilots, gunners, bombardiers, supply officers, and my fellow engineers all bristled with excitement. The girls, sensing what was about to happen before I even did, all scampered to the back of the car.

“There’s enough to go around,” a conductor said, his huge muscles bulging out of his leathers. “Forty-two girls for forty-two men. I got shackles if you need ‘em.”

My amazement turned to revulsion at the sudden realization of what was happening. I looked at my friends to see if any of them looked hesitant, and I was shocked at the eager, hooting anticipation.

A conductor yelled something at the girls in Hellenic, and they sobbed and wailed. The major looked back at us and said, “Officers first,” as he unlocked the cage.

I stood frozen as my fellow aviators surged past the laughing and protesting major. The wails of the women turned to high-pitched, panicked squeals as the men descended upon them.

“Boris, come on,” Negreeb said, the engineer for the Star Sledge. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me in. “You’re going to get stuck with an ugly one.”

I felt sick. If I didn’t partake, the others would surely notice, and they’d think of me as a poof, or worse, anti-imperialist. Rumors like that would get me ejected from the air corps and tossed back in with the stokers.

I closed my eyes, unsure of what to do. I remembered similar screams, from when I was a boy. We’d been absorbed into the empire almost a hundred years previous, but we’d been allowed to keep our villages, and sometimes they came at night, by the hundreds. I thought of my brother, dying of the Sickness and of my father’s shame, upon finally knowing for sure the boy was never his son.

She saved me, and I saved her. I didn’t see where she came from, but she was suddenly on my arm, her fingers clutching my skin so tightly, it hurt. I could feel the rapid beat of her heart in her chest. A gunner from Purple Revolution ran up and looked at the two of us and cursed. He turned away, yelling, “Boris got her. Yong-Shi bastard.” He laughed and chased after another.

“Take me from here,” she said in barely-discernable Gremlic. “I won’t fight. Take me from the screams.”

I brushed the soot and mist off my goggles as I emerged from the cloud a hundred meters above the sprawling city. All around, the flak slingers hurled their exploding charges from flat rooftops. In a nearby clearing, a trebuchet launched a glider into the air.

They would notice me in seconds. I had little control over the fast descent of my chute, and if the defenders didn’t blast me, I would slam into a small olive grove hidden between two, multi-level stone buildings.

Shouting rose from a nearby street, and the distinctive drum-rap of a Hellenic flechette gun fired up at me. The poisoned needles didn’t strike me, but I knew the next round would. I had to do something. I was still twenty meters above ground. I pulled my knife from my ankle scabbard, and I hacked at one of the two lines holding me in the air. It snapped, and I curved, falling faster as the chute fluttered out of balance. I held onto the second line and cut it just as I passed above a building with a thick garden on the roof. I tumbled. My left arm snapped, an incredible, jolting pain, as I careened into the roof, upsetting a small fountain and crashing into a trellis.

Shouting filled the street below. I sat up and gingerly touched my arm through my leather jacket. I’d never felt a hurt like this, and I cried out into the smoky air. I cried out with the pain of my arm, and the loss of my friends.

A trap door opened, and several soldiers poured onto the roof.

I held up my good arm and said in my best Hellenic, “You got me.”

The lead soldier raised his arm, and he fired his wrist pistol. I felt the flechettes strike my chest, penetrating through the leather. I looked down in surprise at the three needles. I felt the warm, stinging poison surge through my body as the curtain fell.

“Why?” the major asked, looking up from his desk. I stood at attention in his office in the back of the administrative car.

“Sir, am I not allowed?” I asked. I tried to remain as still as possible, but my heart felt as if it would beat out of my chest.

“Of course you’re allowed,” the major said. “They encourage it, do they not? You hold a warrant, so you can even keep her with you. But we’re in a warzone, and she’s local. She hasn’t even been reeducated.”

“I’ve tamed her,” I lied. Taming Zelena would be like taming the great Argun River. It wasn’t possible.

“You’ll have to keep her chained in your quarters,” he said. “And if we lay siege on New Athina, we might be there for a while, which means we’ll move to tents while the train resupplies. You’ll have to keep her chained in there, too. It’ll be miserable and tight.”

“I understand, sir.”

“There’s also the matter of payment,” the major said, looking at my paperwork. “You’re pledging your de-enlistment settlement. If you’re killed before you’re fully earned out, she won’t go to your heirs. Her deed will go back to the empire.”

“I’d like to pledge my combat death settlement as well,” I said. “But not just for her deed. I’m pledging the full amount. I want to buy her citizenship.”

The major looked at me for a long time.

“What about your family?” he said finally.

“She’s pregnant,” I said. “She is my family now.”

The major sighed, and he signed the paperwork. “I’m ordering you not to tell her about the death settlement. You may think you’re in love, but if she thinks she can choke you out while you sleep and earn instant freedom, she’s mistaken. If you die mysteriously, she dies, too. You understand?”

I knew immediately I had to follow the order. If I died, and Zelena somehow let on that she knew she was to be freed, they would suspect I’d told her. My death settlement would be denied for disobeying a direct order. I’d seen it happen before.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I understand.”

My eyes fluttered. My entire chest felt crushed, as if a heavy weight pinned me. My arm throbbed, but I could feel it was wrapped in a warm splint.

“You are doubly lucky,” an old, female voice said in Hellenic. “Had you not landed on that roof, the people would have ripped you from your limbs. And then you were shot with three poisoned needles. Not many survive that.”

“My people are of the east orient,” I mumbled, speaking in Gremlic. “We don’t catch the Sickness from handling the xin rock. Poisons don’t kill us easily.”

A large, metal clamp locked my chest down to a table. I strained to look at the source of the voice, but she stood behind me. I looked about the modestly-lit room, and rows of tables spread beyond me. Beige-robed healers worked over the patients.

“You do speak our language,” the woman said, this time speaking in perfect Gremlic. “And of course I know what you are.” She moved to my side so I could see her. She was an old woman, wrinkled like a rotten grape and dressed in a simple white robe. Even though she didn’t wear her golden crown, I recognized her from all the wall murals throughout her conquered lands. This was the queen of the Hellenic people. The Vinegar Whore.

“Where are the others?” I asked, looking about the room for other tables with chest clamps.

“As I said. You are lucky.”

Looking up at the grim expression of the queen, I didn’t feel lucky. The fact I was having this conversation meant today’s attack was unsuccessful. I thought of my friends, all gone.

“Tell me,” she said. “How did a Yong-Shi come to learn our tongue?”

“Her name is Zelena,” I said. “She’s to have my child.”

“I see,” the queen said, not looking at me, but at the rows and rows of the injured.

I remembered my training, belatedly, and I said the words they made us memorize in case we were ever captured and brought before an enemy general.

“Your city will fall,” I said. “Your people will be enslaved. But, it doesn’t have to be that way. If you surrender right now, if you surrender to me, considerations will be made.”

The queen laughed. “Do you know the history of your own people? Of the Yong-Shi clans?”

Her question surprised me. I knew little of the great clans that had risen from the smoke of the old world. My grandmother had told me stories. She was determined that I know the history, but I never cared or listened, no matter how frustrated she became. Why should I care about the chronicles of a defeated people, even if they were my own blood? I cared more about the history of the great tsars and tsarinas of the Gremlic Empire. I cared about the history of the hero aviators. How could I not be enraptured by the mighty Gremlic armies, marching out from Tupolov to annex the known and unknown world?

“The word ‘Yong-Shi’ is not an insult, you know,” the queen said, when I didn’t answer. “They want you to think it is. That’s one of the empire’s greatest tricks, to make the conquered think their own history is poison. Yong-Shi is a name of honor. A Yong-Shi was a warrior, one who prayed to his own ancestors for strength.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said finally.

“Soldier, what is your name?”

“It is Boris, after the second great tsar of the new age.”

“Boris,” she repeated, as if the word tasted foul in her mouth. The queen nodded, and a healer stepped forward, injecting something into my arm. “I wasn’t sure of my decision, until I met you. Sleep now.”

I slept.

Later, I awakened, and the chest clamp was gone. The room was dark, and the only light was held by a guard, standing above me. Next to the guard was the queen. She wore her formal, golden gown, and it glistened in the light of the torch. Her hair was held up in a tight bun, and her famous crown made of golden grapes sat perched upon her head.

I blinked up at her, unsure if this was a dream.

“I’m surrendering to you,” the queen said, her words stale and flat. “A boat awaits at the gates of the city.”

Wordlessly, I stood, still groggy, still not fully certain this wasn’t a dream.

I’d been moved from the clinic to a simple stone house. A mural of an olive tree dominated the wall, and a massive crack cleaved the painted image in two.

“Follow me,” the queen said, taking the torch from the guard. She leaned in and kissed the man on the forehead, who stared straight forward, emotionless.

I followed the queen outside. A row of torches lit the way to a small dock within the confines of the walls. Torches filled the city and high walls with light, but not enough that I could see much damage from the failed attack. A small steam tug sat heavy in the water, lit up with electric lights. A white flag raised above the stern.

A sailor waited at the end of the dock.

“Do you think you can navigate this with just one good arm, or should I bring this sailor with me?”

I looked at the controls, and they seemed simple enough. I noted their steam engine had not one, but two safety release valves.

“I can do it,” I said.

She nodded, and she kissed the forehead of the sailor, who turned away and marched off the dock, leaving us alone.

I helped her into the boat, and she trembled as I held her arm. I could feel her pulse, and it was wild, erratic. We sailed out of the open gates of the city, chugging alone slowly through the waves.

“Before we land, I want you to take this,” the queen said, handing me a small satchel.

“What is this?” I asked, taking the bag.

“They are two books from our great library. I am giving them to you in exchange for your life. I want you to read them, to know them. I want you to read them to your child. The first is the history of my people. My scribe finished the last chapter as you slept.”

Ahead, a pair of gunboats moved into the water to greet us.

“And the second?” I asked.

“It’s called The Last Yong-Shi. It’s the history of your people.”

I watched the train steam off, headed on its long journey northeast toward Tupolov.

“You’ll be famous,” the major said. “I can see the headlines now. Hero Aviator Snatches Queen From City. There’ll be parades and medals in your future.”

“She surrendered to me,” I said. “All I managed to do was land and not get killed.”

“It won’t play that way, especially after word gets out of what happened in the city.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

The major blinked. “Don’t you know? You were there. Don’t you know what we found?”

“No,” I said.

“They’re dead. All of them. The whore ordered them to drink poison, and they did. Every last one. Can you believe that? It’s a city of ghosts.”

Surprised, I looked back across the bay at New Athina, feeling a deep hurt in my chest.

I wasn’t sure of my decision, until I met you, the queen had said. In my good hand, the satchel containing the two books was heavier than it should be.

Standing nearby was Zelena, who stood just outside my tent, her leg still chained to the ground, her stomach visibly swollen. I walked up to her, and she threw her arms around my shoulders. She clutched onto me for a long time, and I held onto her the best I could. I held on until finally her heart rate slowed.

I handed her the bag containing the two books.

“What is this?” she asked.

“It’s everything that’s left,” I said.

The Power of Her Position

Bernie Mojzes

––––––––

Dawn brings yet more bad news.

“Sail ho!” shouted from the crow’s nest, echoed in a parade of voices the length of the Light Brigade.

Mr. Gibson curses. “Where ahead?”

“Dead ahead, sir! And all across the bow from one point starboard to two points port!”

A dozen feet slapping the deck, even before Gibson starts to crank the siren, more below deck and hitting the stair. Captain Carrigan still tugging one-handed at his belt buckle as he bursts from his quarters, looking-glass and coat collar clutched in the other.

“Bring her ’round hard to starboard!” he yells, scrambling to the foredeck with the ease of a much younger man. The coat flaps like a matador’s cape in the wind as he shrugs himself into it.

The deck pitches sharply, tossing some of the less experienced boys against the rail. Mary’s feet come out from under her as she emerges from the captain’s cabin, and she slides across the deck until a burly hand grasps her by the ankle.

“God bless, Yaqub.” She sits up, straightens her bodice, struggles to her feet. “What’s happening? I thought we’d a good lead?”

The big moor shrugs and wags a thumb at his captain. “Don’t know yet. Ask your man, or wait with the rest of us.” He hefts the box of ammunition he’d set down to save her and hurries on his way.

Mary reaches up and tugs the hem of Carrigan’s coat. “Tom? What’s wrong?”

“Below decks, woman.” Carrigan scans the mass of ships that block their escape. Some of the ships start to raise the Union Jack, others raise the flags of France and the Golden Horde, depending on which of the pursuing armadas they see first. Their confusion is short-lived, but enough. Two fleets chase this lone clipper across the waves, and it’s too late to hope to trick either into lowering their guard. They raise their true colors.

“Fucking East India Company,” Carrigan mutters.

And they’d almost escaped, riding the wind before the fleets of two empires. With a decent tail wind, a fast clipper could still outrun any ironclad. Especially the Light Brigade. Better to be a gazelle on the high seas than an armadillo.

Unless there is nowhere to run.

Carrigan speaks into Gibson’s ear, waits for his first mate’s acknowledging nod. Gibson scowls, concedes, then takes the stairs three at a time, swinging ‘round the banister to catch Mary around the waist.

“You’re coming with me, lass.”

She struggles in his grip as he drags her below.

Behind her, the captain bellows. “All hands on deck! Raise the white flag! And prepare to engage!”

Mary stumbles on the stair, but Gibson’s rope-muscled arm holds her up. He doesn’t slow, and it isn’t until they’re half down the hall that she gets her feet back under her. He stops at a closet, shoves her in among the mops and buckets, the filthy rags that stink of brine and puke.

“Keep your trap shut ‘til we come for you,” he says, ugly, pocked face half in shadow, demonic, scared-angry lips tight and work-hardened fingers gripping her face hard enough to bruise like it’s Whitechapel again with a gent too good to hit his own wife but not that good. She reaches for her knife. Instinct, though she knows there’s no need. His fist doesn’t rise. Instead, the hand drops to her shoulder, a half-comforting pat, just before he swings the door shut. “Try not to break anything this time, aye? And maybe we’ll all get out of this alive.”

In the dark, she hears the bolt slide into place, hears his footsteps, running now. And then there’s just the creak of the wood, the calls of the men as sails are raised, and the endless slapping of the sea.

Not that she’s scared of the dark. She’s a creature of the dark, and she knows its ways, the ins and outs of the soot-stained alleys and shit-smeared cobblestones, the taverns and brothels and opium dens. She knows the robbers and cutthroats, the soiled women and men who trade in stolen gold and flesh. The dark is the realm of the lost and desperate, and while it’s brutal and dangerous, she knows how to survive, when to spread her legs and when to run, and when to strike back.

The Devil is not one of their company, even should he deign to walk among them.

The Devil wears a silk top hat and velvet gloves and an overcoat of the finest wool. He watches the girls from within his carriage as his driver goads the horses through the cold mist. And when he spots the one he wants, he is ever so polite and charming.

“Ah, Miss Kelly,” he’d said, leaning from his carriage to extend his hand, and Mary didn’t ask how he knew her name, her real name, and not one of the names she wore to work as the one garment that never came off. She had no recollection of him, and yet he seemed familiar, and she knew at once that she would go with him, even before he adds, “You will be so good to grace us with your presence this evening.” Even now she has no idea how many times she went with him, or where they went, or what she did there. Those memories are lost, as good as dead, and there’s no point dwelling on it. There’s no man she’d trust enough to bring them back, and only one woman, and that woman lies rotting in St Patrick’s under a gravestone marked with Mary’s name.

All she knows is that there were lost days, lost nights, and if there was a bit more coin in her purse the following morning, she’d been sore enough to have earned it. She’d chalked it up to the gin.

The Devil even smells good, of soap and roses. Mary felt filthy sitting next to him on his velvet-cushioned bench, his gloved hand idly stroking her thigh under her dress as they rolled through the Whitechapel streets. The velvet was nice though.

After a time, two other girls had been brought into the fold. Familiar, both of them, though she’d be hard pressed to say why, and she never could remember their names, no matter how many times the Devil addressed them.

The carriage took them far from her familiar haunts, far from the safety of dark alleys to a place of wide, gas-lit streets and gated mansions. A guard held the gate for them and locked it behind them, and the doorman brought them inside.

Others were waiting, two other men in similar finery. Mary curtsied. It seemed only proper.

One of the men laughed.

The other rose to his feet. “Shall we get started?”

The Devil led them through a maze of corridors, left, left, right, and left, Mary memorized. Always know your way out. She wonders how many times she memorized these same passages, this same door, and the rooms beyond. The two men led the two girls through the door into a darkened room.

“You will be so kind as to wait here, Miss Kelly,” the Devil said, stopping her in the corridor. “We will call for you when we are ready.”

Mary waited patiently for half an hour, then less patiently, pacing the length of the hallway and wishing for a chair to rest her feet. She sat against the wall, and after a time, began to doze.

She woke, her head in a muddle, to a voice at the door.

“Excellent! The experiment is a profound success. Just one more test.” The door opened, and the Devil peered out at her. “Come, come, Miss Kelly, we’re not paying you to sleep.”

He brought her into a dimly lit room. At the far end was a thick, metal door, and next to that, a tube that led from the wall to a chair, where a man might sit comfortably while looking through the eye-piece into the next room. He led her by the elbow to the metal door, opened it onto a blindingly bright room and pushed her through, then pulled the door shut behind her.

What did she see first? The machine? The donkey? The naked girls? Or the blood?

Mary stared at the scene in front of her, trying to comprehend. One of the men sat within the machine, strapped in with leather cords. Copper prongs extended from two metal-lined tubes to either side of his head. The machine buzzed lightly, and thin arcs of light crackled between the prongs and the copper-mesh crown on his head. The machine itself was a thing of wood and metal, two disks rising vertically like a pleasure wheel at the fair. Another man stood at the crank. He wore a strange helmet of rubber and lead that extended all the way to his shoulders. He’d clearly already been pleasured, as had the donkey, who now pressed himself against the wall as far from the dead girl as he could manage. One girl stood above the body of the other, wearing almost as much blood as the girl on the floor, and almost as blank and motionless. A knife hung loose in her hand.

Mary stared, mouth open. She’d been seriously underpaid.

The Devil’s muffled voice came through a grate in the wall, next to a thick block of curved glass. “Has Miss Kelly begun to emote?”

“She’s just standing there like a cow.”

“We need to see if the Influence Machine can establish control over a distance while they’re agitated. Do something to agitate her.”

“Very well.” The man in the machine focused his gaze on the living girl, and sparks arced across his head.

The girl dropped the knife and crouched by the dead girl, gripped her hair to lift her head off the floor, and kissed the dead mouth with passion. The man in the machine smiled and bit on his lower lip; in response, the girl clamped her teeth on the dead girl’s lip and tore. Mary screamed.

She scrabbled at the doorknob. The door rattled against the lock. “Let me out. Oh God, let me out!”

God may not have heard, but the Devil did. “Splendid. You may begin.”

The man with the helmet turned the crank. The disks spun, each in an opposite direction. Electricity crackled and arced brighter over the other man’s head, glowed around freestanding copper balls. The room smelled like a lightning strike.

A disturbingly familiar pressure began to build at the base of Mary’s skull, buzzed at her temples.

“No, no, no!” Mary drew her own knife, a bone-handled thing she’d had from her father before he died, and had carried tucked in her boot from Cardiff to London, and from Caernarfon to Cardiff before that. Could she reach the man in the machine before she was reduced to a mindless automaton? Before they made her do things like that? Again? No, the closer she was to the machine, the stronger the effects; a single step confirmed that. Instead, she pressed the blade against her own chest.

A sound came through the grate. A popping sound, muffled like the Devil’s voice had been. Mary took a step back, away from the machine, behind the door. It swung open and a man stepped in. He fired two shots at the man in the machine, striking him in the chest both times. The girl clutched her head and screamed. The assassin fired another two shots into the man beside the crank, who fell back against the wall and slid to the ground, his head trailing blood. The gunman reloaded, and executed the screaming girl with a single shot to the head.

The donkey’s panicked wheezing broke the sudden silence.

Mary cowered behind the door while the assassin examined the machine. He stepped out for a few moments—Mary could hear him rustling around in the other room—and returned with two trunks and a notebook, and a bag of tools. Consulting the notebook, he extracted the dead man from the machine, and then disassembled it, packing the parts into the trunks. He struggled getting the trunks strapped onto the donkey’s back, and he cursed in a tongue Mary could not understand.

This was it. When he turned to lead the donkey out, he would see her. She had no choice.

Mary threw herself across the room, burying the knife in his back. He howled and staggered forward into the donkey. She pulled the blade free and drew it across his throat as he turned. The blade sliced easily through flesh and arteries, caught and ground sickeningly in cartilage. He fell to his knees and clutched at her dress, gurgling through pink bubbles, then sagged to the floor.

Mongol. Pale makeup might be adequate disguise passing in the night, but up close in this brilliant light, there was no doubt. Madmen and Mongols, and a room full of corpses.

She couldn’t breathe. She wanted to get away, as far away as she could, but she seemed frozen, staring into a dead man’s eyes. She’d cut a man before, in self defense, but this—to the best of her unreliable memory—was the first person who had died at her hands.

The Mongol lay at her feet, her knife protruding from his throat. She could hear her father’s voice now, grim words from that grim night on the Caernarfon docks. No Mong fwkar touches my girl. She grasped the bone handle and yanked the blade free. Air burbled and sighed through the hole.

Mary fled.

In the other room, the Devil slumped in his chair, motionless.

Right, then left where the doorman lay in a heap. Another Mongol lay dead just around the corner. More corpses just down the hall—another Mongol, right again, and the driver lay tangled with the body of yet another assassin, the body of a maid laid out just beyond.

The doors Mary had entered through were still closed and locked. The assassins had come in through the servants’ entrance.

She didn’t want to see what had happened to the other servants.

The doorman would have the key. She turned back, toward the center of hell, where an animal brayed for salvation.

She hears the bolt move, but even with that warning, the flickering lantern blinds her as the closet door opens.

“Captain wants you,” comes a voice—Yaqub’s, though she still can’t make him out through the sudden tears the light brings to her eyes.

“Again? The man takes advantage of our agreement.”

Yaqub chuckles, but directs her above deck.

The fleets have drawn closer. On the deck of the Light Brigade, activity has stopped. The ship bobs on the waves, and everything that can be done to prepare has been done.

Only one thing is different.

“You’re putting me in a fucking balloon?” she asks. The thing rises as high as the mainmast, the gondola looking more like a boat than a basket.

“Aye,” Carrigan says. “You and your machine. We’ve been negotiating a price for you, and the bidding is getting fierce, but I fear when all’s said and done all we’ve done is postpone the inevitable. I’ve considered tossing the damned machine overboard and to hell with it all, but they’ve already got submersibles around us, and a net beneath us.”

“Negotiating? Bidding? Have you turned on me, Captain?”

Carrigan studies her. “You know there’s not a one of us would turn on you since you demonstrated that machine of yours. No matter what it might cost us. No, you’ll go up there with your machine, tethered to the ship. Proof that we’ve got the machine and are willing to part with it. When we see our chance, we’ll make a break for it. You’ll power up the motor and do your best to keep up—don’t want you slowing us down more’n you need.” He laughs. “Don’t worry, Yaqub will be up there with you. He built the thing, and he can pilot it better than any of us.”

“What if your plan doesn’t work?”

“Then you break away from us, get out from over their nets, and sink the damned machine where they’ll never find it. Understand? The most important thing is that none of them ever get their hands on the thing.”

“Yes. I’ve only one question.”

“Mm?”

“What’s the bidding up to?”

“More than they’d ever intend to pay.”

Mary looks up at the balloon flapping over her head, straining at the ropes. “S’what we all pay, in the end, ain’t it?”

Selling the donkey paid for passage for two on a steamer bound for Amsterdam. A senseless waste, in so many ways. Even now, just the thought of it digs cold claws into her heart, more deeply than anything else will ever touch her. It’s all she can do to shut Julia’s memory back in its box.

Once she reached Amsterdam, she shared a room with another English girl of unfortunate circumstances. They stretched a curtain across the room so one of them could rest while the other worked. And if Mary drank more than was healthy, what of it? She’d already lived longer than she’d expected, and longer than anyone knew.

She’d taken the name of the woman she had left in Whitechapel, the woman whose throat she’d cut. Her roommate. Her lover. Her soul. Now she was Julia, and Julia was Mary Jeanette Kelly on a coroner’s report, and splashed like blood across the newspapers. And if the Devil’s men or the Mongols still sought her after the mansion and the dead within had burnt to ash, had sought her and that hellish machine, that trail ended with Julia’s mangled corpse.

Sometimes it was easier to believe that the Ripper really had killed Julia. When she doubted, she drank.

Once when she had been drinking, her roommate—what was her name?—asked her why she left London. The girl had run half-naked, bruised, and bleeding into the street to escape Mary’s sudden rage. Mary dumped the girl’s belongings on the curb and locked the door. After that, there had been no conversations, no questions, just an endless parade of men buying relief, day after night after day, until the weeks melted into months.

One night, after a particularly unpleasant client, Mary drew the curtains to her room early and began drinking heavily. Was this it? Her life, alone and friendless in fucking Amsterdam? Is this what Julia had given her life for? There had to be an escape.

That was the night she began to put the machine back together.

Two months and part of a third she worked on the fucking machine, and not a single day went by that she didn’t curse the lack of foresight that led her to use the pages of the Devil’s notebook to fuel the fire that burnt his mansion to the ground. She’d saved the machine, but not the diagrams showing how it went together. What was the sense of that?

The truth was, she hadn’t saved the machine. She’d saved the donkey, overwhelmed by the horror of one more death, even that of a beast. The machine was just a passenger, strapped to the donkey’s back and forgotten in the panic. It was only as she fled the growing inferno toward her home, and to Julia, that she realized what she had.

She and Julia could have lived like queens. They could have had anything they wanted.

Why couldn’t Julia see that?

He was British, and an officer of the East India Company, and he paid in cash and opium. They passed the pipe between them, and she danced for him, slow and sinuous, before pushing him back against the cushions. And while she dreamed the dreams of poppies, it didn’t much matter to her what he did with her flesh.

She didn’t notice when he climbed off her flaccid body in search of a chamber pot, or when he exclaimed in shock when he walked behind the curtain that hid the Influence Machine. Even when he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the machine, demanding her name and how she had come by the thing, it took all her energy to bring herself to enough consciousness to respond.

And when it was done, she sank back into dream, and down into the blood that pooled around his body, the razor blade still clutched in her bleeding palm. Soon, she knew, she would need to do something about this. But soon seemed so very far away.

Before Mary could make good her escape from Amsterdam, the rumors already ran rampant. The man she’d killed was more important than she’d known, and his body was found quickly. Stories of the odd machine she’d kept, revealed by former clients under interrogation, quickly filtered through the city. How much information sold to the British, French, Company, and Mongol agents who trolled the underbelly of Amsterdam was real and how much was fabricated would never be known, but it was luck as much as anything else that got her on a train for Munich while another woman traveled north to Copenhagen with two trunks purchased for a song.

The Influence Machine itself Mary repacked in three smaller trunks, and she thought herself both clever and safe, until they reached the Stuttgart station.

As she waited for passengers to disembark, an older man approached her, frowning sternly under his elaborate mustache. He held his monocle to his left eye and squinted.

“You are Mary Kelly, ja?”

Mary shook her head. “My name is Julia.”

The German’s expression did not change. “You are Mary Kelly. You will come with us, now.”

A pair of armed guards stood at either exit to the car.

Mary took a deep breath. “Ja. Okay.”

The Germans escorted Mary and her luggage to a carriage, which took them through the Black Forest to a waiting train in Baden-Baden, which, in turn, carried them to Konstanz, on the south side of the Bodensee.

“Today,” the German said, addressing Mary for the first time since he’d escorted her from the train, “we saved you from Mongol agents. Rest tonight. Tomorrow we sail for Friedrichshafen. The Graf is most eager to meet you.”

The three fleets drift perilously close to one another as they jockey for position. Smoke rises from four ships, victims of an unfortunate breeze that brought them too close to the enemy. One of the ships has begun to tip as it prepares for its long slide into the depths.

Within the circling armadas, the Light Brigade bobs absurdly, a sailcloth balloon flapping half-filled in the wind, rising as tall as the mainmast, but not near enough to lift the gondola from the ship’s deck.

“You built this?” Mary asks.

Yaqub shrugs. “Just the engine. Petrol is more efficient than coal, and I can divert power from the heating coils to run the propeller. The engine spins a coil between two magnets which generates electricity—so it’s a bit different from your Influence Machine, which is an electrostatic...”

“That’s nice. You know how it works, then? And if it broke, you could fix it? Or make it, I don’t know, do other things?”

“If I had the right parts with me.”

Mary purses her lips. On the forecastle, Mr. Gibson waves flags in an elaborate semaphore. The negotiations still run hot between the Light Brigade and the others. In this case, it is the East India Company increasing their offer.

“Load up some parts, Yaqub. I have a feeling that we’ll be needing them.”

They lay like giant bratwurst across the surface of the lake, dozens of them, tethered to floating hangers. The ferry made its way between the silver behemoths and toward the docks just outside the town of Friedrichshafen. On the lake and on the dock, workers in both military and civilian uniforms scurried around and over the mammoth constructions.

Once on dry land, guards escorted Mary to a sturdy, utilitarian building. Some of the workers stopped briefly to give her an appraising whistle, and she flashed her ankles in return. There was never any harm in cultivating a bit of good will in a dangerous situation.

Mary’s escort stopped, knocked briskly at the door before opening it, and announced them. He spoke in staccato German, and she understood only Graf Zeppelin, which she took to be her host’s name, and the word mädchen, which she knew referred to her.

Inside, a man looked up from the schematics that spread out across his desk. He smiled under his bushy mustache and stood. It looked like most of the hair from his scalp had burrowed through his head to hide under his nose, and to sprout like mad roots from his cheeks. In contrast, his uniform was immaculate, every decoration perfectly in its place.

“Ah, Miss Kelly, yes? You are even more beautiful than our reports suggest.” He wiped graphite from his hands onto a towel, then circled the desk to approach. “I am Ferdinand Graf von Zeppelin. You have heard of me, yes? No? It does not matter. You have seen my work, out on the lake. Soon enough, the world will know my name.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Zeppelin, I’m sure.” Mary curtsied. “I saw them, but I don’t know what they are.”

“Please, this is the title. ‘Graf’ is in German like your English ‘Count,’ so I am Ferdinand Count from Zeppelin. But I must insist, call me Ferdinand.”

“Yes, your lordship. Sir.” Mary hesitated. “So what were those things?”

“Airships, my dear! Not simple balloons, but ships that will navigate the skies as ships now sail the seas!” The Graf put an arm around Mary’s shoulders and drew her away from his office, and down a path leading to a small bunker. The small contingent of officers who made up Mary’s escort followed, bearing her luggage. Ferdinand spoke with an air of confidentiality. “They are what Germany needs to push back the Mongols who even now plunder Prussia. When we command the skies, we will no longer need to bend a knee to the British, begging for support against the Golden Horde.”

“So this, this airship thing. It’s a surprise, right? A secret?”

“Of course. It does not do to advertise one’s capabilities before engaging the enemy. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just making sure I understand my situation.”

Graf Zeppelin held her at arm’s length and studied her. “We will not mistreat you during your stay.” He shrugged. “And if the gift you have brought us is anything like what we have heard, this war will be very short, and you will then be free to go. You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Kelly, or from the German people, and perhaps a lot to gain. Come, let us take a look at your machine.”

Only two people were permitted access to the bunker. Graf Zeppelin held the only keys to the complicated locks, and a half-dozen men kept guard at all times.

“Aren’t there dozens of men better suited to help you with this?” Mary asked, handing the Graf a screwdriver.

“Perhaps, but none so lovely.” Ferdinand stepped back from the machine. It was almost fully assembled. “And none who have seen this device assembled. Besides, I dislike executing good men.”

Mary swung one of the wooden chairs in front of her and straddled it, arms crossed over the chair back, skirts hiked to her thighs. The Graf’s eyes travelled to her legs, pale and lovely in the stark incandescent light.

“So, you were lying,” she said. “Earlier.”

“Tell me, you have seen this machine work. You have had it in your possession for months, and tried—unsuccessfully—to put it together. You have held all its parts, and you have watched me catalogue and construct this thing over these two weeks. Could you instruct someone else—anyone else—on how to build one of these? Do you know how it works, and on what principles it operates? Do you understand even the smallest aspect of what makes this Influence Machine different from any of the scores of electrostatic generators out there?”

“So I’m a good assistant for you because I’m stupid?”

Ferdinand sighed. “You are a woman.” He shrugged. “A woman can be strong and smart, but science and mechanics? A woman’s strength’s lie elsewhere.”

Mary loosened the laces of her bodice. “Is this what you mean?”

She didn’t hear his answer. Twin explosions rocked the earth beneath them, and through the concrete walls, the sounds of gunfire, muffled and indistinct, came like hail.

Graf Zeppelin’s men were not unprepared for an assault, only the scale of it. That the French had gotten a heavily armed band this deep into enemy territory without being noticed was a feat in itself. Had they scaled the Alps, as some of the Germans surmised?

“No.” Ferdinand’s face was broken with a deep scowl as he rapidly disassembled the Influence Machine. “They had assistance. They needed only to come here in small groups, if they had someone within the German army to procure arms for them.”

He and Mary heaved the partially dismantled sections into several wooden crates. He hammered them shut, then called his men in.

“Whatever the cost, we must protect this machine. So we must retreat with it until it is safe to return. Hauptfeldwebel Stern?”

A young officer snapped his heels. “Alles ist gut, Generalleutnant.” He gestured at the crates and the men carried them out. At their appearance, the gunfire intensified, but the French were unable to break through the German’s defenses. Only an occasional stray bullet threatened them.

Mary followed the Hauptfeldwebel out into shadow. A great, long shape hovered above them, obscuring the sky. Heavy horse-drawn wagons had pulled the airship from the lakefront; it loomed over the camp. The crates, attached by hooks to ropes, slowly rose into the air toward the airship’s cabin. Ferdinand locked the bunker behind them and then ushered Mary to a rope ladder that dangled from the great ship.

“Quickly,” he said. “It is not safe here.”

Bullets kicked up bits of asphalt, not a dozen feet away. Mary grabbed a rung and began to climb.

“You’ve gone to great lengths, your Excellency, for a free peek up me dress. It would have cost less just to hire me.”

The Graf’s laugh washed away in a chatter of gunfire. He started climbing behind her, and Hauptfeldwebel Stern followed. The rope swung and twisted dizzyingly. The soldier holding the ladder stable fell suddenly, clutching his chest. The ladder, tangled in the man’s arms, jerked to Mary’s left, and she lost her footing for a terrifying moment. Two other soldiers ran out into the line of fire to disentangle the wounded man and steady the ladder. Mary climbed faster.

Hands grabbed her from above and hauled her into the cabin. Graf Zeppelin was not far behind. He pulled himself over the edge and stood, then stumbled and collapsed, his legs giving out under him.

Blood merely spotted his chest, but ran freely from his back. He clutched Mary close.

“Go to Lüderitz. It will be safe there. Tell Wolfgang, go to Lüderitz.”

By the time Hauptfeldwebel Wolfgang Stern pulled himself onto the flightdeck, the airship had lifted up and away from the firefight, and Generalleutnant Ferdinand Adolf Heinrich August Graf von Zeppelin was dead.

It was a long journey to Deutsch-Südwestafrika. They crossed mountains and seas and deserts with dunes so great they may as well have been mountains, stopping only once, in Togoland, to refuel. Mary sat back in the cabin with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and refused to look out the windows. Every time she tried, all she could see was Ferdinand’s body falling, spinning loose-limbed as it rushed toward the hard ground.

She couldn’t look at Stern either, without remembering the cold stone of his face as he searched his commander’s body before rolling him out the open cabin door with his boot. But she had little choice there. The Hauptfeldwebel demanded her assistance as he tried to assemble the machine according to the notes in the book he’d stripped from the Graf’s body.

And it almost worked.

Mary shook her head. “It’s not right. I kept telling Graf Zeppelin, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Those brushes don’t go there.”

“What do you know? You’re just a girl.”

“That’s what he said, but I am a girl, and one with a lot of hair. I know brushes.”

Still, it would have worked had Mary not stolen a couple small bits. The Hauptfeldwebel ranted about them, pointed them out in Zeppelin’s sketches. Mary shrugged.

“Maybe they’re still in the bunker. We were sort of in a hurry, you know.”

The sun was bright and the wind brisk on the day the pilot announced that Lüderitz was in view. At the Hauptfeldwebel’s command, the airship swung out away from land to approach the harbor from the sea.

The sun beat down, hotter than summer, as they descended. Mary pushed aside visions of falling bodies and risked looking out the observation windows. She could make out individual buildings in the ramshackle colonial town, and tiny specks that she took to be people. Two ships were moored in the harbor. Quite a few more were further out at sea, sailing toward the harbor. The pilot expressed concern, and the other two crewmen hurried to look.

“Can you see who they are?” Stern asked, coming up behind them.

One of them raised a looking glass. “French!” he said. “And Mongol also!”

“Good,” said the Hauptfeldwebel. He raised his pistol and pressed it to the back of the crewman’s head.

The shot rang, deafening in the enclosed space. The window shattered and the crewman fell forward, flipping over the railing and out. Mary screamed. Stern fired two more shots, and the second crewman stumbled, still clawing at his holster as he clutched his chest. Stern aimed his pistol at the pilot as he kicked the dying crewman to the deck, and then rolled him with his boot under the railing and out.

“Shut up,” he told Mary, and then to the pilot. “Take us to meet the fleet.”

“I will not.” The pilot lunged for a control panel.

Stern fired twice, and the pilot grunted in pain, and then Mary tackled Stern from behind. She slid her knife between his ribs, seeking something vital. There was a hissing of gas, and two more shots, and then flames.

Mary hesitates, staring up at the balloon above her. “You know, last time I got in anything that flies, things didn’t go so well.”

Carrigan laughs. “I don’t know. Since you crash-landed that flying behemoth of yours right in front of us, we’ve been hounded halfway ‘round the world by Frenchmen and Mongols and Brits, matched wits with convicts on Devil’s Island and battled sea monsters in the Sargasso Sea. More adventure than any man deserves, and quite a bit that Mrs. Carrigan will thoroughly disapprove of when she comes to learn of it.” He waves his arm at the encircling armadas. “This is but a temporary inconvenience.”

“No regrets at all?”

“Only that we haven’t got the time now to make Mrs. Carrigan even more jealous.”

Mary shakes her head. “If that’s your biggest worry, you haven’t been paying attention to what’s around us.”

“Don’t you worry, lass. The old girl may look like a dated has-been, but she’s got a few surprises left in her. Now off with you.”

Carrigan slaps her on the buttocks as she turns to climb into the balloon’s gondola; Yaqub catches her under the arms and lifts her in. On the deck, sailors work the two ropes that tether them to the Light Brigade, playing them out like fishing line until the balloon hovers a hundred feet above the surface of the sea.

“Right,” Mary says. “We don’t know how much time we have before things go bad. Let’s get to work.”

The deck lurched suddenly under her feet, knocking her to the floor. Flames flared across the ceiling of the cabin, and the windows burst outward. The ship plummeted toward the sea, tipping precipitously.

The Influence Machine slid across the deck.

Hauptfeldwebel Stern cursed and flung himself in front of it, then screamed as the machine crushed him against the sharp glass jutting from the window frame. Lodged in the window, the Hauptfeldwebel’s body prevented the machine from slipping out and into the depths.

What came after was and remains confusion. Flames, and water, and thick, viscous oil from the engines, and hands, strong hands that pulled at her.

“Let go of it, lass,” one of the men said. She’s not sure now who it was. Maybe it was Mr. Gibson.

“No!” Mary realized that she was holding onto the machine, arms wrapped around the frame, keeping it from sinking. “No, we have to save it!”

It was Yaqub—she knows the color of his skin now, deep and rich as coffee, unique on the Light Brigade—who grasped the machine and pulled it to the side of the skiff. Three men heaved it up out of the roiling waters and onto the little boat. Mr. Gibson—it was Mr. Gibson—dragged her in and dropped her, coughing and spitting, on the deck. The men rowed quickly to get out from under the flaming and collapsing gas bag.

“What in God’s name is that thing?”

Mary wasn’t sure whether they meant the airship or the Influence Machine, but at that point she didn’t care. She sat up and felt inside her blouse. Yes, she still had the stolen parts.

“Get us somewhere dry, luv, and I’ll show you.”

The Influence Machine is complicated. It took years to build; it took a brilliant scientist nearly a month to piece together. And Mary is just a girl.

But she knows this thing, this monstrous wonder. She has lived with it, killed for it, lost friends and lovers to it. She’s put it together and taken it apart. She has held every piece of this thing in her hands, watched them fitted together, and she doesn’t need Graf Zeppelin’s little book—fallen from the flaming airship into the waters off Southwest Africa—to tell her how it works. She imagines the ink running like blood from the charred pages into the currents, around the Cape and beyond, circling the world forever. She has put it together before, and she has sat in the Devil’s seat, electricity playing over her head, with the world subject to her every whim.

She looks down at the Light Brigade, at the sailors scurrying across the deck like frightened ants, at the flash of Tom’s red coat flapping in the wind. Each one her willing slave, ever since she demonstrated the machine to them, back in Lüderitz harbor. Each one ready to die for her. Loyalty such as the Queen never imagined.

And she can’t say that she hasn’t thought about it. Queen Mary. Empress Mary.

She laughs and draws Yaqub into a fierce embrace. “When I am Empress, will you still love me?”

Yaqub’s eyes wrinkle. “When you are Empress, will you even remember me?”

Mary snorts. Stupid question. She won’t be Empress. She won’t even live out the day, and neither will he. All they can hope is to save the crew of the Light Brigade. “Get back to work.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The balloon bobs at the end of its tethers while below the negotiations over the price of the world flash in semaphore across the waters of the North Atlantic. Yaqub works at modifying the engine that heats the air that lifts the balloon and runs the propeller, and Mary constructs the Influence Machine.

After that, it is just a matter of waiting.

Mary smiles. It’s a beautiful day, up in the sky and far from the hassle of ship’s chores and the stink of men and fish too long in close quarters. The breeze is pleasant and fresh, and the sweat glistens on Yaqub’s skin, slick under her hands and against her belly, and Mary knows that when she is Empress, she’ll know exactly how to reward her most loyal subjects.

It is midafternoon when the final bids come in. Captain Carrigan sends a note up the rope. Yaqub reads it out loud.

“The East India Company offers to pay the most. The British will spend less, but offer us all amnesty, and me—by that they mean him—a knighthood. The Mongols tell the truth, that the others are lying, and if we give them the machine, they will spare our lives. We’ll accept the East India Company’s offer, sail toward the British, and make a run for it when the fighting starts.”

“Tell him we’ll be ready,” Mary says.

Yaqub scribbles on the paper, clips it back to the line. The pulley spins and the paper disappears into the distance.

“Ready?” Mary smiles at Yaqub and tries to hide her nervousness. “You’ll need to strap me into this thing.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Yaqub quips.

Below them, flags wave, and ships begin to move. The Light Brigade’s sails unfurl and catch in the wind. The clipper turns, graceful as a dolphin, and heads toward the British fleet.

And the battle begins.

Six years earlier, Mrs. Thomas Carrigan, acting as a proxy for a group of eccentric Colonists who fancied themselves The Children of the Revolutions, saved the Light Brigade from an ignoble fate as a coal hulk. Over the course of five years, they had renovated and retrofitted the aging clipper with the most promising technologies their scientists and inventors had developed. This was her maiden voyage, the one that would prove whether a fleet of such ships might be enough to tip the scales, and the Colonies finally win their independence.

The thin, nearly frictionless coating on the outer hull let the clipper cut through the waves like a hot knife through lard, and had let them keep their lead over two fleets all the way from the coast of Africa nearly to Hatteras. A distinct advantage, but not so obvious that it couldn’t be attributed to luck and a skillful crew.

Captain Carrigan sets course directly toward the British flagship. His flagman sends the message: “Protect us.” It’s not yet time to reveal their other surprises.

To port, the French and Mongol Alliance ships move against the British, those already within range opening fire. To starboard, the East India Company’s fleet does the same.

The British respond: “Prepare to be boarded.” The Light Brigade signals assent. They move unhampered through the British fleet as they approach the flagship. Two ironclad frigates flank them on either side, and close. It’s not until they can see the grappling hooks that Carrigan gives the order.

A gunport opens on either side of the Light Brigade’s hull, and a single shot roars from each. They punch holes in the ironclads’ sides, then explode with enough force to break the ships’ backs.

“Damned things worked,” Mr. Gibson says.

“Aye, that they did. Pity we’ve only got two left.” Carrigan strokes the wheel as the engines hidden deep below deck roar to life. Turbines built into the ship’s hull spin and the ocean churns to foam. “C’mon, love, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Watching as the British flagship turns its big guns on his ship, he doesn’t notice the balloon’s tethers falling loose behind them, or the balloon’s rapid decent as it veers off to port.

It isn’t that she can feel herself in their minds. More that she can feel them in hers.

Yaqub steers the balloon, manipulating the direction of the propeller, and they swing low over the British fleet. Too far, still, for the Influence Machine to have an effect, if Yaqub had been cranking it as he had before. But he wasn’t. It’s connected to the balloon’s engine, and the twin wheels spin faster than any human could ever crank them.

Some part of her smells burning hair, and burning flesh, and idly wonders if it is hers. Most of her is otherwise occupied.

Her dictates to her victims are simple: Those who fly the same flag as yours are traitors, more dangerous even than your worst enemies, and waiting only for the fighting to start so that they can shoot you in the back. She plants the seed deep and wills it flower.

A British destroyer turns its guns away from the Light Brigade to fire on its own flagship, which responds in kind. Picking up speed, the Light Brigade slips past the embattled ships.

The violence spreads in the wake of the balloon’s passing, spilling far beyond Mary’s reach as those unaffected are drawn into the fire-fight. Yaqub steers the craft in a wide arc, circumnavigating the ring of ships that once threatened them. As they complete their circle, Yaqub cries out.

“They’re free!” He points at the clipper, sailing full speed away from the conflagration. Mary can’t turn her head to see, but she can see it in Yaqub’s mind. Smoke rises from the ship, but not enough to worry about. His ship is safe. And so are her people.

Yaqub kills power to the Influence Machine and increases power to the heating element, and they rise, up above the stench of burning ships and the cries of dying men, and drift away on an easterly wind.

The balloon starts to lose altitude shortly after they run out of fuel.

Though she was drained and ill after the battle, Mary didn’t rest, not until the machine had been fully dismantled and the pieces dropped, one by one, into the North Atlantic. It was near dusk when the last piece drowned, and Mary very nearly followed, her strength failing as she tried to clamber over the railing.

Yaqub caught her. He laid her head in his lap and gently applied a cooling salve to her burnt skin.

“I’m a monster,” Mary said. “I’m as bad as the Devil. Worse. I deserve to die.”

“You’re not. The Devil would take that as triumph, and then do the same all over the world. You could have been Empress. You could have had everything. You threw it all away. And that is why you are not the Devil.”

“I killed Julia. I cut off her face. I cut out her...” Like a dam breaking, it spills from her, the tears, the grief and the guilt. The terrible, impossible decision she’d forced on her lover, her desperate, broken lover, and Julia’s escape in a bottle of rat poison. The convulsions were just starting when Mary arrived home with their tickets to Amsterdam.

“I’ve seen a man die of arsenic poisoning,” Yaqub says. “What you did was a kindness.”

Julia had been beyond kindness. Had been for longer than Mary had ever imagined.

“Help me,” she’d begged. “Make it stop hurting.” She grabbed Mary and held her close enough to feel every convulsion. “Make it look like my father did it. Make it look like the Ripper.”

She did. And then she and her knife visited the home of one last gentleman before she set sail for Amsterdam. For Julia.

The gondola is the size of a lifeboat, perhaps a little smaller. It is hard to rate the speed of their decent, or what side of a wave they’ll strike on landing; the moon is near new, and useless tonight. Yaqub braces himself for impact, but it still knocks him on his ass.

He scrambles to his feet, slashing the ropes that hold them to the balloon. If he cannot free them in time, they will capsize, or be swamped and drowned in the thick sailcloth.

Of course, a quick death is preferable to a lingering death by starvation and thirst. But instincts die hard, and he gets the last of the ropes cut. Freed of their weight, the balloon rises up and out of sight.

“It’s okay,” he says, as much to the waves as to himself. “They’ll find us.”

“No.” Mary is sitting up, woken by the rough landing. “They won’t. I freed them. I freed you all. Even before we started... before the massacre.” She shrugs, the horror of the day before—the horror of her life—once again buried, and the world once again just another fact. “There’s no more compulsion on them to help. Tom Carrigan’s a smart man. He’ll be getting as far away from me as he can.”

Yaqub exhales, a long sigh punctuated with the slapping of wavelets against the gondola’s prow. "That's another thing the Devil would never think to do."

That night, they sit together under the stars, close enough to share each other’s warmth, and one by one, they redraw and rename the constellations—the Whore, the Zeppelin, The Devil’s Bowler, the Three Flacid Penises—names the world would embrace, should she ever become Empress.

Before they sleep, Yaqub kisses her softly, and says, “They will come for us. I can feel it in my bones. You will see.”

For once, dawn brings good news.

Bell, Cog, and Scandal

R. Rozakis

––––––––

Evangeline Bell woke in a strange bed. In the dim light behind the bedcurtains, it took her a moment to remember where she was. Then, her heart sank.

Yesterday had begun so promisingly. Lord Hilden’s house party had gathered the leading scientists working in airship design. She still could barely believe she had been invited. No degree, no retinue more than a farmhand assistant she had trained herself. But Lord Hilden had called her monograph on a proposed steam engine governor brilliant. And indeed, her lecture went over smashingly well.

It was at dinner that it all turned sour. Evangeline had never been terribly good at small talk, or fashionable dressing, or any of the other skills a young lady should possess. She might be able to lecture well, but as soon as the conversation turned to travel, she revealed herself to be a hopeless bumpkin. It wasn’t fair. If she could have afforded to go on a Grand Tour in the first place, she would never have yearned so hard for a spot on the airship-design team.

Professor von Karloff, the glowering aether dynamics specialist, had turned on her, grilling her on her lack of formal education. Sensing the blood in the water, the ladies across the table began a never-ending procession of subtle jabs at her hair and dress. Never mind that what they knew of science could fit in a thimble and they had only been invited to round out the party. Their hair had been expertly styled by their maids, and apparently that was what mattered. When the card tables began to appear for games of whist she could not afford, she pleaded a headache and fled.

It didn’t matter how brilliant a scientist she might be. Convention always tripped her up in the end.

She shook herself mentally. No self-pity. Instead, she needed to get up and make herself presentable. She would give her demonstration of her preliminary governor model, and then she would pack up her equipment and her assistant, Jeremy Wright, and she would go home before she could embarrass herself further.

She chose a dark green walking dress for the day. The bustle was small enough that she shouldn’t have too much trouble hitting things when she turned around in the lab. She fingered the material. It seemed a pity. She did really like this dress, and she knew that it would be forever linked in her head to a day she already dreaded. She sighed, reminded herself of her “no self-pity” rule, and dressed for the day. Her hair went up in a simple bun. She didn’t realize how angrily she was stabbing the pins in until she embedded one of them in her scalp. She grimaced, but took more care with the rest.

One of the twins greeted her heartily when she appeared in the breakfast room, as if nothing had happened the previous night. She did not know if this one was playing the gentleman, or he really had been too distracted to notice. Bertrand and Edmund Woosley had recently published a paper on the chemistry of balloon gases, and she still could not tell one from the other. But he did not seem put off by her subdued greeting. She went to the sideboard and chose a pastry, hoping to make it through the rest of breakfast without needing further social pleasantries.

She had no such luck. Dr. Abrams settled down next to her not five minutes later, with a cup of coffee.

“May I get you some, my dear?”

“Coffee?” She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He did not leave, which had been her first wish. Nor did he spontaneously combust, which had been the second.

Instead, he offered her tea. She accepted, hoping that would drive him off, since denial had failed. He merely reappeared with the teacup and retook his seat.

“Where did you disappear off to, last night?” he asked, buttering a slice of toast.

“I was tired,” she answered, praying perhaps for a lab explosion to set the house on fire. The walls remained disappointingly solid. “It was a long day. I retired early.”

He looked at her sympathetically. “They aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, you know.”

“Who?” She knew who he meant. It was kind of him to try.

“The pretty airheads,” he replied. He leaned toward her earnestly. “You’ll notice that they’re not here today, and yet you are. I, for one, am very much looking forward to your demonstration. I hope you’ll be at mine later in the week.”

She felt touched, despite herself. And a bit dismayed at how transparent he found her. But perhaps she should stay the course. Letting a pack of airheads drive her from the field would be an admission of defeat.

“I should like that,” she replied, and forced a smile.

“Excellent, excellent,” he smiled back at her. Then he looked over her shoulder. “Ah, Professor. Good to see you this morning.”

MacTaggert came up behind her. The engineer had the fiery red hair that might have been expected, but also a twisted scar from temple to eyebrow and a glass eye that were less so. The iris was violet, which clashed rather badly with his remaining green eye. The glass eye had become turned around somehow, so only the rim of the iris peeked at the corner of his eye. The effect was alarming.

“Miss Bell, Dr. Abrams,” he acknowledged them in his thick brogue.

Dr. Abrams coughed, and attempted to discreetly point to his eye. MacTaggert stared at him for a moment, and then comprehended. He strode off toward the sideboard, spent an immense amount of time with his back to the room, and when he returned bearing a crumpet, his eye had resumed its normal position. As normal as it could be with that color, that was.

He started a conversation with Dr. Abrams regarding a monograph that she had fortunately read. The subject matter, regarding the biology of a new species of frog discovered, did not entrance her, but she knew enough to converse sensibly on the subject. She had begun to relax, and even enjoy the conversation, when Lord Hilden appeared at the doorway.

Their host looked pale. “If you please, gentlemen—madam—make your way to the library when you are finished with breakfast.”

He left as quickly as he had come.

The three glanced at each other. The stated plan the evening before had been to meet in the lab after breakfast. While Lord Hilden had phrased his request so as to lack urgency, his tone suggested otherwise. Evangeline drained her tea as MacTaggert finished his crumpet in two bites. Brushing off crumbs, they hurried to the library.

They arrived to find the rest of the company assembled already. Lord Flynne looked barely awake, and clung to a teacup as if his life depended on it. She wondered if he had been roused straight from bed. The assistants clumped in a knot at the back, but fanned out to find their respective masters as they arrived. Jeremy made his way to her elbow.

Lord Hilden cleared his throat. He held a letter, his fingers unconsciously curling up the corner. His wife stood off to the side, looking anxious. “I apologize for the disruption in the schedule, but I have news which affects us all.”

He glanced down at the letter, and his fingers stilled at once. “I suppose many of you are familiar with my long-running feud with Count Ravenswood. It started, of course, when the cad stole my design for a mobile static electricity generator—”

His wife cleared her throat.

“I suppose it’s not really important how it started,” he amended. “But the animosity has stood for some time. And I’m afraid that he’s taken advantage of this gathering. He’s challenged us to a scientist’s duel.”

“What’s a scientist’s duel?” Jeremy asked her urgently.

“How much do you know about the Artificers’ War?” she asked.

“It was another one of those War of the Roses, everyone fights everyone else and leaves all the farms a mess kinds of things, wasn’t it?”

“Pretty much,” she agreed. It had been far more complicated than that of course, with all the political factions and differing philosophies and such, but from Jeremy’s ancestors’ view, that summed it up. “Various artificers and alchemists, who were the forerunners of real scientists, began using their inventions to take over each others’ lands and to steal each others’ work. It got to the point that you could barely step outside without getting set on fire or transmuted to lead or something. The King at the time finally put an end to it all about a hundred years ago by instituting a dueling system. It’s tied to the patent office now. The only legal way to fight another scientist outside of the court system is a formal scientist’s duel.”

“It’s a way of formalizing conflicts between scientists and keeping the violence from laying waste to the countryside,” Dr. Abrams explained. “At the date specified in the letter, probably a few days hence, Ravenswood will descend on the estate with whatever technological forces he can muster.”

“Then we have to leave!” Jeremy said.

Evangeline shook her head. “He timed this well. Anyone working with the challenged scientist is subject to the duel. It allows lab teams to work together, and prevents retaliatory attacks later. Win or lose, the entire team’s fate is decided as a whole. And this—” she gestured at the crowd of arguing scientists “—counts as a unit, under the law.”

Dr. Abrams looked thoughtful. “Miss Bell, you may be able to escape. You haven’t worked with us before, and you haven’t published yourself. He may not even know you’re here. And if he does, the argument could still be made that you’re merely a visitor, like the young ladies last night.”

“I’ll pack at once,” Jeremy replied, making a move for the door.

“No.” Evangeline’s hand shot out and snagged his sleeve. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. “We would have to leave the governor. If they lost, I’d lose all rights to my own work.”

“You’ll do other work.” Dr. Abrams tried to usher them both to the door.

Jeremy paused. He looked at her, straight into her eyes, weighing something. Whatever it was that he saw there, he turned back resolute. “We’ll stay.”

Dr. Abrams tried to protest. “My dear boy, I don’t think you know what you’re letting yourself in for.”

Jeremy shook his head. “She wants to stay. We’ll stay.”

Dr. Abrams looked worriedly back and forth between them. Evangeline straightened her spine. Dr. Abrams shrugged helplessly.

The initial furor had begun to die down. Lord Hilden stood, knowing better than to interrupt a roomful of scientists in full outrage. When the hubbub had quieted enough for him to be heard, he spoke.

“My most recent information regarding Ravenswood’s work indicates that he has been experimenting with some sort of mechanical cross between cavalry and artillery—a cannon that pulls itself, if you will. Since he has the element of surprise, I have no doubt that he has constructed as many of these as he deems necessary, possibly surrounding the estate. If we stay on the ground waiting for them, we shall surely lose. I see no better alternative but to put all of our plans into effect early—we must construct our airship, and do it in the next three days.”

Stunned silence greeted the announcement. Finally, von Karloff voiced all of their thoughts. “Three days? Are you mad, man?”

Lord Hilden favored them with a wan smile. “Perhaps. But haven’t we all been called mad, at one time or another?”

Lady Hilden spoke up. “Professor MacTaggert and Miss Bell—you are staying, dear, yes? Excellent—should be able to make the proper modifications to his engines. Dr. Abrams and Professor von Karloff will be putting their control plane theories into practice. The Woolseys will build the balloons, of course—I’ll put the women on our staff at your disposal for sewing duties. Lord Hilden and Lord Flynne can supervise the assembly of the hull—I believe we already have a great deal of the pieces unassembled in the basement.”

“And you?” von Karloff rumbled.

“I’ll be coordinating, while I see to the evacuation of the village, of course,” she replied calmly. “It’s fortunate, Hilden darling, that we insisted on keeping up those drills, now isn’t it?”

For all his brave words, Jeremy had grave misgivings about this entire situation. While he understood how much her work meant to her, and that abandoning it would essentially mean abandoning her dreams of working the airship project at all, he still wished that she had chosen the more feminine reaction and fled for her life. He did not like the idea of sitting in what would soon be a very well-contained war zone.

He liked the idea of her there even less.

Jeremy had known that Miss Bell’s profession put her in danger. After all, she had only hired him after he helped her clean up the glass she had blown out of the windows of her cottage. It was the first of many explosions they had shared. He doubted it would be the last—while the theory was sound, they had never succeeded in getting a full-scale version of the governor to work. But surely if anyone could do it, it was she. He had begun to believe his mistress could do anything.

Once they reached the lab, though, there was no more time to brood. The group scattered purposefully, each team heading to their appropriate equipment. He had seen the laboratory the night before, and remained stunned by the size. Most of the cottages in his village could have fit inside. A wide catwalk ringed the room and MacTaggert’s assistant Corby had claimed that the roof was made of tin instead of slate; they could retract it if necessary.

A massive forge dominated one wall, complete with its own dedicated blacksmith. A screen could be pulled across to partly shield the rest of the room from the heat. Foundry equipment littered that side of the room. Electrical experiments claimed the other side, with vanes running up to the roof to catch passing lightning bolts. In between lay equipment he could not even conceive of a use for, let alone name.

Corby tossed him a pair of goggles and a heavy leather coat. They would swelter, but the thick leather did offer a degree of protection from burns and the like.

“We’re going to need a new governor,” Miss Bell turned to him without preamble. “Larger, much larger. Here, I’ll write you some specs. I need to help get the engine itself up and running—do you think you can build this by yourself?”

He swallowed. He wasn’t sure. He looked at her. She trusted him, and she needed him. He would not fail her now. “I can do it.”

“Good.” She turned away and hurried across the floor to catch up with MacTaggert. He shoved down the shock of abandonment and went to find the blacksmith.

Recasting the flyweights proved nerve-wracking. He calculated the new size required by the weight, but had to put together a makeshift mold. Only the number of men helping made it possible to finish any of it on time. Apparently, every able-bodied servant on the estate had been drafted. When they finally poured the brass, Jeremy took a step back. The weights needed to cool, and there was nothing to be done with them until morning. No longer absorbed in his task, he looked up.

Over the course of the day, the other teams had built the skeleton of the hull. Somehow, the laboratory was transforming into a hangar. This ship was not the enormous vessel that they had talked about. They did not have the time to plate a hull the size of a man-of-war; that would have to wait until another day. The little airship would more resemble a sailboat, and carry a crew of seven or eight people at most.

Even that inspired awe, though. The airship might not reach the size they dreamed of, but the fact that so much had been built approached miraculous. Lady Hilden must not have been joking when she said they had many of the pieces already lying around.

A pretty serving girl appeared at his elbow. “Sandwich, sir?”

She held out a silver tray piled with sandwiches. Not a single spot marred her black and white uniform; not a single hair dared to leave its place. Jeremy became acutely aware of the sweat and grime coating his skin. He could hardly do anything about it. He shrugged and took a sandwich.

She threaded her way neatly between a shower of sparks and two men carrying an iron beam, vanishing into the far side of the room. Jeremy shook his head. The Hildens certainly trained their staff well.

He thought little of it after that. His entire world narrowed back to his work. Corby finally dragged him away.

“I just need to finish measuring the spring coefficient,” he protested.

“Your hands are shaking,” Corby replied, never releasing his iron grip on Jeremy’s arm. “You need to wash them, eat something, and go to bed.”

“I had a sandwich.”

“Just the sandwich? Those were almost eight hours ago. Didn’t you get any of the roast beef?”

Jeremy couldn’t remember a roast beef. Someone had tried to interrupt him awhile back, but he hadn’t wanted to leave until the latest casting could be removed from the mold.

Corby rolled his eyes. “Ach. Save me from the young ones. You haven’t learned when to stop yet.”

“But it’s important,” Jeremy pleaded. Corby grabbed something from a tray left in the corridor and shoved it at Jeremy’s face. It was another sandwich. “They need us to get this up and running, there’s only two days left.”

“It’s always important,” Corby sighed. He pushed Jeremy up the staircase ahead of him. “It will always be an emergency. Don’t let them run you ragged, boy, or they’ll burn you out and then find another one.”

Miss Bell wasn’t like that, he wanted to protest. Instead, he just asked, “Are the professor and Miss Bell still on the floor?”

Corby snorted. “He made her go to bed an hour ago.”

Jeremy squashed the impulse to declare that it was his job to make her go to bed.

Instead, he stumbled into his room. His fancy new clothes looked worse than his farming clothes ever had. When he washed his face and hands, the water in the washbasin turned black. He weighed the pros and cons of going in search of a real bath. His temporary roommate Beckett already snored from his bed. Jeremy gave up. He managed to get the lab coat and his boots off before falling over, but just barely.

Evangeline stared in despair through the hole in the wall. On a hill in the distance, sheep continued to bleat in dismay.

“Are you all right?” Jeremy appeared at her elbow, panting.

“Of course not,” she snapped. “That’s the biggest blowout yet. The hull work is nearly complete, and we’re running out of time.” She looked at the naked fear in his face and took a deep breath. “But physically, I’m fine.”

He nearly sighed in relief.

“I thought this governor of yours was supposed to keep this from happening,” MacTaggart growled.

“My governor is working just fine,” she fired back. “Your tank has too much pressure.”

“Fire-tube boiler tanks are supposed to have high pressure!”

“Not this high!”

“Well, that’s what happens when you run hot air in tubes through water! The pressure builds up! That’s the point!”

Jeremy held his hands up, placating. “Is that the only way? Is a fire-tube boiler the only kind?”

MacTaggart blustered at him. Evangeline ignored it. In her mind’s eye, she could see the pattern shift. If they reversed the order, rearranged things...

“We’re doing it backward,” she declared.

The men stopped arguing. She explained, the words tumbling over themselves as the new boiler took shape in her mind. “We need to do it the other way around. Not hot air from the furnace through the water, but hot water from the boiler through the furnace. The water would heat either way, just in a different location.”

Light blossomed in Jeremy’s eyes. She was surprised, and then chagrined. Just because he had started on a farm didn’t mean that he was stupid. And after all, she had taught him herself.

“In the water-tube version, there would not need to be nearly the same amount of pressure in the tank...” he said slowly.

“...reducing the risk of explosion,” she finished.

MacTaggart’s eyes narrowed. “It’s hardly conventional, young lady.”

She opened her mouth, intent on arguing the math, when Jeremy jumped in.

“To hell with convention,” he said bluntly. “We don’t have time to debate this.”

Evangeline blushed slightly, shocked at Jeremy’s coarse language. But MacTaggart backed down, grumbling.

“We only have time to do this once more,” he warned. “It’s on your head if it doesn’t work. Backward boilers, indeed. I’ve never heard of such a thing, in all my years as an engineer. Still,” he sighed, staring up at the growing skeleton above, “it’s not like I’ve heard of an airship, either.”

They were going to make it.

Evangeline could not remember ever being more tired in her life, but a curious triumph lay under the exhaustion. They were going to make it, and it was going to work.

The last few days blurred together horribly. She couldn’t remember the last time she had bathed or sat down for a civilized meal. But the first balloon trial had worked—the ship floated over the floor inside the laboratory. Jeremy came through with the governor. She had been concerned about leaving him alone, but he had more than proven himself...and proven her in the process. Even more importantly, the modifications to the boiler worked as well. The looks of amusement from the day after the dinner party had converted back to looks of real respect. Her design worked flawlessly.

They would have a working airship by evening.

They even had a strategy—the Woolseys were certain that their super-charged powder bombs would be able to break through whatever armor Ravenswood could have used, as long as they could be dropped on top of the machines. All they needed was to determine who would crew the ship.

This would be the difficult bit.

“Your part is done, Flynne,” Hilden said. “You’ve been invaluable, of course, but there is little you can do up there.”

Flynne backed down with ill grace. The maiden flight could very well prove to be a suicide mission, yet they all yearned to go anyway.

“You’ll need us both,” interjected a Woolsey. “One to prepare the bombs, and the other to monitor the balloon.”

“Very well,” Hilden replied. “Both Woolseys, Abrams to steer and Beckett to keep the controls working, MacTaggert to run the engines and Corby to shovel coal, and von Karloff to navigate the currents and help load the bombs. And myself, naturally. Can’t well hold a duel without the challenged party.”

Evangeline took a breath. “MacTaggert and Corby will stay here. Wright and I are going.”

Lord Hilden raised his eyebrows. “Miss Bell, the deck of an untested warship is scarcely a place for a lady.”

“At least the lady has depth perception,” she fired back. “And you can’t tell me that Corby can manage a tossing deck with that leg of his.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” von Karloff scoffed.

MacTaggert looked thoughtful. “I’m afraid she might have a point. As much as I would like to be on the maiden voyage, we may not be the best for the job.”

Von Karloff glowered at him. “That is no reason to replace you with her. Surely a manservant would be a better choice. Grooms, perhaps? Someone used to wielding shovels.”

“But would a groom be able to take care of that engine?” Evangeline argued. “I’m the only one you have with both the expertise and the physical ability.”

“My dear, you can’t be serious,” Dr. Abrams protested.

“Completely serious,” she replied.

Lord Hilden opened his mouth to object once more, and his wife touched his sleeve. She whispered something in his ear, and he deflated.

“I concede the point,” he muttered. “The places of MacTaggert and Corby will be taken by Bell and Wright.”

She lifted her chin triumphantly.

The group dispersed, turning in early for the night to be rested for the next day. She paused next to Lady Hilden.

“What did you say to him?” she asked.

The lady tilted her head. “I asked him whether I had ever failed to get my way in the end, and noted you seem to be every bit as headstrong as I was your age. And I merely suggested that he would do best to save the time and energy and pointless shenanigans, and just allow you to do as you willed in the first place.”

She looked at her hostess, impressed. Clearly, the woman must have cut quite the figure when she was young for Hilden to have folded so quickly. Lady Hilden smiled slightly, and slipped out of the room.

Jeremy waited for her at the exit of the laboratory. The room had cleared, everyone seeking their well-earned beds.

“Was that really necessary?” he asked.

She grasped what she had done. “Oh, Jeremy. I’m sorry. I signed you up for a floating death trap, and I never even asked you. We can still catch up with Lord Hilden, I’m sure he can supply a man to feed the boiler, it needn’t be you.”

She moved to hurry after the departing scientists, and he grabbed her wrist.

“That’s nothing,” he said. “I wouldn’t let you go up there on your own, regardless. But why are you going up at all?”

“Because I’ve dreamed for years of this,” she replied. “And in the last few days, I’ve earned it. I won’t let Ravenswood win, I won’t lose all my research, and I’m the only one who can do this job.”

She realized her voice had risen, and brought it down again. “MacTaggert can’t, we both know that. I know that engine inside and out. If anything goes wrong, I’m the one to fix it. They can’t risk doing this without me, and I can’t risk letting them try.”

“And did it occur to you that I can’t risk you?” he demanded, stepping closer.

“I don’t understand.”

He growled, exasperated. “How do you think I’d feel if you get killed in this mad adventure?”

“I-I don’t know,” she faltered. Could this really be going where she thought it was?

“What am I going to do with you?” he asked. “I know I can’t stop you.”

She thought of Lady Hilden. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Then promise me you’ll be safe.” He was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off of him.

“Or you’ll what?” she asked, daring him.

“Or I’ll lock you in the broom closet.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would.”

“You’d never be able to sleep again, knowing I was just waiting for you to let down your guard.”

“I’d never sleep again if something happened to you, either,” he confessed.

And then he leaned down and kissed her.

She slapped him.

They stared at each other in shock.

And as she had when bewildered at the dinner party, she fled.

Evangeline sprinted out the door, and didn’t stop running until she had reached her room. She felt faint. Was it the kiss? No one had ever kissed her before. Then she realized how quickly she was breathing. She loosened her corset laces, nearly falling over as the air rushed into her lungs. Her head swam, and she sank with her back against the inside of her door.

The slap had been completely automatic. Now she wondered if it had been entirely the wrong move. Her lips still tingled. The rational part of her mind reminded her that that was most likely the result of the blood still rushing to her head. But she could not deny that she had enjoyed the sensation. And it was not as if she had a reputation to ruin—she’d known perfectly well when she took up science that she was condemning herself to a life as a spinster.

But how dare he? A puffed-up farmer, reaching way above his station? Even as she sneered at the notion, she felt the injustice of it. Only a few days ago, she had bristled at others lording their social position over her. And he was the closest thing to a partner she had ever had. If he hadn’t intervened, would she and MacTaggart still be arguing over smoking wreckage even now? He brought out the best in her. Intellectually, of course.

Her heart raced for far longer than she would have thought it would take to recover from the run.

His first impulse was to run after her. But his hand rose unconsciously to his cheek. She had slapped him.

What had he been thinking? Perhaps that they were quite likely to die in the morning, and that he would never get another chance. He couldn’t remember how long he had wanted to kiss her. He had trouble remembering a time that he hadn’t. More than kiss her. Throw himself at her feet and proclaim his adoration for her.

Maybe he should have tried that. Maybe it would have gone over better.

And now they would go to their dooms with her angry at him, he mused glumly. Still, at least she knew.

He brooded on his way to the kitchen, and all through dinner. Perhaps sensing his dark mood, the rest of the assistants and servants gave him a wide berth. He went back and forth, again and again. Forgiving her. Raging at her. And back.

He truly must love her, he realized. Otherwise, he would not be so tempted to wring her neck.

After dinner, he stomped up to his room. He flung himself on the bed, knowing he was being melodramatic. He felt he had earned a little melodrama. He watched the light from the moon crawl across the ceiling. He still hadn’t reached a decision by the time it set.

The day dawned bright and clear. Evangeline rubbed her eyes. They felt swollen and gummy. She would swear she could feel every individual vein scraping against her eyelids every time her eyes moved. She dressed carefully, tied up her hair carefully, avoided thinking about Jeremy carefully.

She stopped fretting as soon as she stepped into the hangar. Already, they had pulled back the roof. The airship floated a few feet off the ground, unsupported. A thin line tethered her. She had been patched together quickly, and it showed. But the elegance of her lines shone through.

“What shall we call her?” MacTaggert asked.

“The Eagle,” Dr. Abrams suggested.

“Chained Lightning,” von Karloff declared.

Lord Hilden turned to Evangeline, who still had not taken her eyes off the graceful vessel. “And what would you recommend, Miss Bell?”

“Hope,” she breathed. Then, to be diplomatic, she added, “Hilden’s Hope.”

“Score one for pandering,” Lord Hilden chuckled. “Hilden’s Hope it is. All aboard?”

She levered herself over the rail only to find Jeremy already aboard. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but merely went on stoking the furnace for the boiler.

Matching his indifference, she picked up the giant wrench they had used to bolt the engine to the deck and checked that the bolts were secure. Nearly as long as her leg, the tool felt unwieldy in her hands. She refused to show effort, though. She had won her spot, she did not intend to admit weakness now.

“If you’re done,” Lord Hilden called, “we’re jettisoning any unnecessary ballast now.”

“Keep it,” Jeremy advised, when she tried to toss the wrench overboard.

“What’s it good for, with the bolts tightened?” she asked. His nonchalant attitude had begun to grate.

He shrugged. “Hitting things.”

She nearly threw it overboard to spite him, but thought better of it. In the event that they went down, someone might very well need to hit things. She stored it out from underfoot.

Lord Hilden took his place at the fore. Since the airship had no rudder, there was no need for the captain to stand aft. He sang out. “Armament?”

“Ready,” called Edmund. With assigned stations, she could tell them apart for the first time. His bombs rested in a cradle next to him. The deck had a hatch he could open aloft. With no worries of water currents, they had built the ship with a flat bottomed hull, which was the underside of the deck itself.

“Navigation?”

“Starboard ready,” Dr. Abrams replied. The ropes controlling the sails that would help steer them had be connected into a traditional ship’s wheel. He had a rod for his side that could trigger steam jet bursts for emergency maneuvers.

“Port ready,” echoed Beckett from his rod. They would have to coordinate very carefully; they had not had time to link the two sides.

“Balloon?”

“Throttle open,” Bertrand answered. The whoosh of gases confirmed his statement.

“Furnace?”

“Fired,” Jeremy answered, closing and latching the door on the flames.

“Engine?”

“Power to full,” Evangeline said, throwing the switch.

“Cast off,” Hilden cried.

Von Karloff flung the lines to the ground below, where Lord Hilden’s men scrambled to stow them.

Hilden’s Hope floated gently upward. As they cleared the roof, their rise accelerated. Evangeline felt her heart leap in her chest. She was flying.

Just as quickly as her elation had risen, it died. From above the house, she could see Ravenswood’s forces. And the estate was indeed surrounded.

The mechanicals looked, from up here, kind of like pill boxes with ant legs. If pill boxes had cannons protruding from them, that is. There were six in total, each advancing on the house. Their legs moved separately, balancing the body no matter the terrain. She winced as one heavy foot smashed a chicken coop to smithereens.

“Hard to port,” called Lord Hilden.

They veered left, heading over the mechanical closest to the house. Surely they had seen the airship. There was no way anyone within sight of the house could have missed the vessel rising straight through the roof. But Ravenswood certainly could not know what exactly to expect.

Edmund Woolsey balanced the first bomb in its cradle. Von Karloff muttered to himself as he made hurried calculations, trying to gauge the speed of the wind.

“Now!” he said, suddenly. The bomb tipped away. They all held their breath, save Edmund and von Karloff, who struggled to get another bomb into position.

The tiny airship shuddered with the force of the explosion.

“You knocked it over, but missed the bug itself,” Beckett called from the rail.

Von Karloff muttered darkly. “Two degrees starboard,” he finally said.

“Two degrees starboard, aye,” Dr. Abrams replied, having far too much fun with the nautical jargon.

“Now.”

The second bomb fell away, whistling in the wind.

The muffled crump shook the ship once more.

“That’ll do!” crowed Beckett.

“Jolly good show, old chap!” Lord Hilden beamed. “Now on to the next!”

“Why aren’t they firing back yet?” Jeremy fretted.

“Eh,” Beckett scoffed. “They’re built for ground fighting, see? They probably can’t even crank those guns up high enough to try to hit us.”

That didn’t seem quite right, somehow.

An explosion to their left tore apart the sky.

“I thought you said they were built for ground fighting!” Bertrand yelled as he fought to keep control of the balloon.

“But how could they know we would try an aerial defense?” Dr. Abrams cried, spinning the wheel hard.

“I don’t know—maybe he read our papers?” Evangeline retorted, not bothering to rein in the sarcasm. She risked a glance over the rail. The guns of the remaining four mechanicals that she could see rose to track them across the sky. Where was the fifth?

“Now,” von Karloff said quietly, under the confusion. She couldn’t see the fifth because it lay directly below them.

Edmund nodded, released the bomb, and watched through the bay. The airship bobbed again.

“Got it,” he said. “Next?”

“This is going to get bumpy,” Dr. Abrams warned as he steered toward the next target.

Another explosion rocked the deck. Evangeline examined the engines. Still doing fine. Then she glanced at the balloon.

The guide ropes were on fire. She frantically shrugged out of her jacket. The flames licked the rope. She could see individual strands curl back and blacken. She beat at the flames with the fabric as hard as she dared, afraid to use too much pressure or risk snapping the ropes themselves. The fire finally died.

Another shell burst near them, and another. Bertrand went down with a cry, his blood spraying the deck. She rushed to his side. Shrapnel protruded from his leg. She tried to staunch the bleeding with her jacket. It had missed the artery, but he still bled heavily.

She could barely see, with the smoke from the shells. Von Karloff kept count, though, in a steady voice. The ship shuddered again, and she tipped over the rail.

She had time to stare at the ground below. A panicked herd of tiny sheep milled in confusion. She wondered if she landed on one, if it would break her fall or just reduce them both to strawberry jam. A strong hand grabbed her shirt and hauled her back on board. “Stay put,” Jeremy said firmly, and turned back to his furnace.

She made her way shakily across the deck to the engine. Her governor spun merrily, oblivious to the carnage. The bass thrum of the engine, so steady when they first unmoored, rose in pitch. It had acquired a slight hiccup she did not like.

From behind her, Dr. Abrams cursed as another near-miss shook the ship. There was much here she did not like.

“More fuel?” Jeremy had to yell to be heard.

“We’re already overloading,” she yelled back.

“I thought the engine was designed to take this!” Lord Hilden fought his way across the heaving deck.

“It’s not like we had time to test anything,” she replied, frustrated.

“They’re down to three mechanicals.” Edmund looked up briefly.

Von Karloff peered down through the smoke. “Make that two.”

Lord Hilden grinned, despite the danger. “Just two more, we can certainly—”

The deck exploded as a mortar connected. It flung Hilden into Evangeline, who collided with Jeremy. He wrapped his legs around the base of the railing, holding tight to them both as the deck slowly tilted toward its side. Above them, the whistling confirmed their worst fears. The balloon had been hit, and spewed its gases into the sky.

“We’re losing altitude,” Beckett cried.

“Aim for a mechanical and let’s take one of the bastards with us!” Lord Hilden tried to fight free of Jeremy’s restraint.

“Everyone brace for impact!” Dr. Abrams let go of the wheel, following his own advice. The wheel spun crazily and the deck veered in the other direction. For a brief moment they were level, and then gravity pulled them back toward the other side of the deck. Jeremy kept his tight grip on both Hilden and Evangeline.

An explosion behind them confirmed that the enemy’s guns still worked. It didn’t seem quite sporting to shoot a plummeting airship out of the sky, but Ravenswood apparently did not care about sportsmanship.

“Impact in approximately five seconds,” von Karloff rumbled. “Four, three—”

His count was off. The deck slammed into the ground, spraying dirt into the air. Terrified sheep fled, bleating, some on fire. The ship skipped up again, then crunched back down, its forward momentum tearing a gash in the pasture behind it. Evangeline glanced ahead, saw the trees, and then they crashed headlong into them. Her head hit the railing and the world went dark.

Nearby, somebody groaned. Jeremy twitched, then pried his eyelids open. Around him, bits of burning sailcloth fluttered to the ground. Someone’s boot rested an inch from his nose. No sign of Miss Bell.

The boot’s owner groaned again. Jeremy levered himself up on an elbow to see better. He tried to twist over and realized that he couldn’t. A chunk of the engine had tipped over on top of him, and he couldn’t see anything below his waist.

For a moment he panicked. Had he broken his back? What if his legs had been completely crushed? Searing pain began to filter through the shock. Futilely, he beat at the machine with his bare hands. The heavy wreckage refused to budge an inch. He would never walk again. He would spend the rest of his days as a cripple, assuming that he didn’t burn to death here first. He dug in his right heel, straining to push his way out. What if his legs had been completely severed? His right toes curled in sympathy.

He blinked. Heel. Toes. He could still move his heel and his toes, at least on the right side. Which did imply they were all still attached. He swallowed, took a breath, and tried to take stock of the situation, this time with less panic.

He could tense each of the individual muscle groups on the right side. They felt sore, and cramped, but that limited the amount of damage that he could have taken. All the pain came from the left. He tried to concentrate. The upper thigh seemed all right. Then came the searing white pain. And somewhere below that, he could just twitch his toes. So they, too, seemed to be still attached. Which meant that the bone was probably broken. He had no idea how badly. And he knew very well that if a limb was broken badly enough, he could still lose it. But, assuming that he could escape the immediate situation, he might manage to keep at least a leg and a half. This didn’t seem like such a bad bargain, all things considered.

He suspected he would be more upset if he could think more clearly. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He didn’t know if the fuzziness was from shock or a head injury. Either way, he should not stay here.

“Lord Hilden?” He shook the boot. “Lord Hilden!”

The man groaned again, but did not come to full consciousness.

Jeremy felt distinctly ridiculous. What did one do, in this situation? Somehow, Miss Bell’s rudimentary etiquette lessons failed to cover this.

“Dr. Abrams? Beckett? Is somebody out there?”

He swallowed.

“Miss Bell?” No response. What if something had happened to her? Fear gripped his heart. “Evangeline!”

“Foolish boy,” replied a silky voice. “Giving away your position.”

A figure stepped through the smoke. His clothes suggested a gentleman dressed for an evening at the opera, until he drew closer. His top hat nestled on top of a pair of goggles, his face covered in grime except around his eyes. His black great coat had been fashioned from leather instead of cloth—Jeremy recognized the spark-resistant material from Lord Hilden’s lab crew. Instead of shoes, he wore heavy boots.

“And who are you?” the figure mused. “ Dr. Abrams, perhaps? No. Not the clothes of a gentleman. One of the assistants, then. Cabby? Bucket? Something like that?”

Jeremy stared at him, refusing to answer.

“Stubborn, are you? You’re probably the Scotsman’s, then.” He leisurely picked his way across the wreckage. Jeremy prayed for someone else to wake up and do something. From where he lay trapped, he could not see much more than Hilden’s legs. He wondered if the others had evacuated. Perhaps they left him here. Perhaps they thought he was dead?

No. Miss Bell never would have abandoned him.

“Ah,” the interloper exclaimed softly as he rounded the corner of the remains of the steering column. “And there’s Lord Hilden. Hiding behind the wreckage. How very typical.”

He nudged the unconscious scientist with his boot. Hilden’s head rolled.

“Well, this takes so much of the fun out of it, doesn’t it,” the interloper mused. Jeremy presumed him to be the infamous Ravenswood. “I wonder if you’re planning to wake up at all. After all, it’s not a proper triumph without an audience.”

Ravenswood shook his head in mock sadness and stepped right over the body. He bent down to examine pieces of the engine trailing along the ground.

With his enemy’s eyes temporarily off him, Jeremy struggled again to free himself. No good. He cast around for something to use as a weapon.

Ravenswood straightened again, propping up the sadly bent governor as he did so. He gave it a gentle push. The flyweights wobbled in a circle, with a shriek of protest. “Pretty. I look forward to presenting it to the Royal Society. A governor of some kind, is it not? For the engine, I presume? Ravenswood’s Flyweight Governor. Yes, I like the sound of that.”

Ravenswood gave Jeremy a calculated glance. Jeremy could feel the rage radiating off his own skin. Ravenswood merely seemed amused.

“Ah, is this your work? Your master’s idea, I suppose. It’s quite good, you know. A pity he—and you—won’t be able to present it yourselves.”

He propped the governor against the base of the boiler and crouched down next to the engine to examine it in more detail. Jeremy glanced around. One of the nuts that held the engine mount bolts lay just a few feet from him. The size of his fist, it weighed a good bit. Maybe he could chuck it at the bastard. He leaned as far as he could, stretching out his hand. The tip of his finger brushed the nut. He tried to drag it closer, but he could just barely touch it. He pushed down on the edge, hoping to tip it toward him. The far edge rose a hair. He pushed harder.

A boot came down on his hand.

“None of that, now.” Ravenswood glared down at him. The silky politeness in his tone had vanished, replaced by steel. “If you’re going to be trouble, I’ll have to dispose of you.”

He glanced over Jeremy’s body to where Lord Hilden lay. “It’s a pity to have to remove an opponent when he can’t even be aware of his defeat. But I haven’t all day, you know. Do you care which one of you goes first? No? Well, I suppose the sensible thing to do would be to eliminate the conscious one before the completely incapacitated. Not that you’re much of a threat like that.”

He pulled out the most complicated gun Jeremy had ever seen. Had it not been tracking toward his head, his fingers would have itched to take it apart. As it was, his curiosity took a more morbid turn.

Ravenswood casually checked a dial on the side. “Whose assistant did you say you were, again?”

“Miss Evangeline Bell’s,” Jeremy replied, raising his chin proudly. If he was to die in her honor, at least someone should know.

Ravenswood shrugged and aimed the gun squarely at Jeremy’s face. “Never heard of her.”

Clang.

Ravenswood dropped in a heap.

Evangeline stood behind him, panting, holding one end of the giant wrench.

“What do you know?” she said. “It is good for hitting things.”

It took nearly an hour to set up the block and tackle to get the wreckage off Jeremy’s legs. Evangeline reran the leverage calculations, suggested modifications, criticized the laborers’ angles, and generally made a nuisance of herself until von Karloff finally took her by the shoulders, steered her to a flat bit of wreckage, and said, “Sit.”

She sat.

She watched Lady Hilden’s calm organization of the salvage efforts. She saw to the bandaging of Bertrand’s wounds, the removal of Beckett from the tree he had been flung into. Evangeline could see the lines of worry around the older woman’s eyes as they moved her husband onto a stretcher, but the lady’s orders stayed crisp and clear. Evangeline vowed to try to emulate her composure in crisis. But when Hilden stirred, his lady literally dropped everything, leaving a trail of papers on the grass as she rushed to his side.

She caught his hand in its feeble attempt to rise. She whispered something. He smiled blearily. She smiled back, tears making their way unnoticed down her cheek. She stayed with his stretcher, calling orders over her shoulder, and never letting his hand go through all of it.

Evangeline felt a stab of jealousy.

The laborers called out and heaved. The engine tipped up, and more of the house staff rushed in and pulled Jeremy free before the engine could fall back. She caught von Karloff’s eye. He rolled his eyes and stepped back.

She rushed toward Jeremy’s side, only to hover awkwardly, with no idea what to say.

The doctor poked at the injured leg. Jeremy grimaced. Finally, the doctor stood up.

“It’s a clean break below the knee,” he said to Jeremy. “You’re quite lucky, you know.” He glanced at Evangeline. “We’ll have to set it. It’s not really the proper place for a young lady.”

She stared at him in the smoldering wreckage of a machine that defied God’s limits on man, her hands bruised from giving a gentleman a concussion with an oversized wrench. She raised her eyebrows.

“Then, again,” the doctor faltered, “the young man might find your presence comforting. Er.”

She looked down, wondering if her presence was comforting or not.

He smiled at her, and held up a trembling hand. She took it, and smiled back.

And deeply regretted that a moment later, when the doctor pulled at the bone and Jeremy damn well near broke her fingers.

Later, she tracked him down again. They had sent him off to be cleaned up, after they peeled his hand off hers. She reluctantly let herself be dragged off for a bath and a meal. She had to admit she felt a bit more human. But that did little to assuage her anxiety. She checked the servant wing, first, but he was no longer in his original room. Beckett gave her a sickly smile from the bed. He’d burned his eyebrows and the better part of his hair off, and his wrist was in a sling. He seemed in reasonably good spirits, though, and sent her back to the guest quarters.

Apparently, the Hildens thought his distraction of Ravenswood had been quite heroic. Jeremy was ensconced in one of the better bedrooms, far larger than her own. When she peeked in the door, he looked lost in the ocean of white bedsheets.

Her courage deserted her, and she tried to shut the door quietly enough that he wouldn’t notice.

No luck.

“We need to talk,” he said.

She trudged across the ornate carpet, not really daring to look up from her shoes. A stiff wooden chair sat near the bed; she perched on the end. He had seemed happy enough to see her in the wreckage of Hilden’s Hope; but to be fair, at the time she had just saved his life and he was in shock. Now, out of danger, she saw every reason why he would want to reconsider.

They sat in silence.

She summoned her courage.

“I never should have—”

“We didn’t—”

They both stopped.

“You first,” he gestured magnanimously.

She didn’t particularly want to go first. She gave him a pleading look, and his mirrored expression suggested he felt the same.

He sighed and relented. Taking a deep breath, he began, “I shouldn’t have kissed you. I’m sorry.”

Her heart plummeted below her stomach.

“It was unspeakably presumptuous, and entirely ungentlemanly. Not that I’m a gentleman, which is largely the point,” he said, stumbling through what sounded like a prepared speech. “Now that the crisis has passed, I offer my immediate resignation. And obviously, I will never mention it to a living soul. I can only offer my most profound apologies.”

She bit her lip. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t be willing to try again, then?”

He blinked at her in shock.

“I shouldn’t have slapped you—” she started.

“I love you,” he blurted.

“I think I love you, too,” she replied hesitantly.

His face glowed. “Then you’ll marry me?”

She stood up so fast her chair fell over. “No!”

He looked confused.

“Everything we just went through—all of it was so I would not lose the rights to my own work. But if I marry you, or anyone, for that matter—”

He slowly nodded, deflating. “Your husband automatically owns all of your property. Including your patents.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

He turned to the wall. “Then I must tender my resignation after all. I’m sorry, Miss Bell—”

“Evangeline.”

“I don’t think I can bear to continue to work beside you and never be able to touch you. Not anymore.”

She took his hand firmly. “Who said anything about that? I just said I wouldn’t marry you, is all.”

He whipped his head around, shocked. And then blushed in comprehension.

She loved the way his fair skin blushed, she realized.

Evangeline smiled. “To hell with convention.”

Deadly Imitation

A tale of The Spellpunk

Patrick Thomas

––––––––

The livery horse and cab driver knew he had a customer by the crick of the door and the slight sinking of the back of his buggy as someone sat down.

“Evening Guvner, where to?” the driver said, craning his head behind him. As soon as he saw the bald man in the stovetop hat, he cringed. “Oh no, not you. Get out of my cab, Grimstone.”

“Careful there, Stevie, your cockney accent disappeared,” the passenger said, a mischievous grin on his face.

“Look, I have to put on a show to fit in here, but I don’t have to do it for you. Get lost. Every time I see you, it’s nothing but trouble. I wish I was back on Earth.” Stevie said.

“I don’t,” Grimstone said.

“Well, yeah that’s because you fit in here. Back home before we were taken, I pulled down six, almost seven, figures a year as a broker. I was on my way to a lingerie-model trophy wife. Instead of living the best years of my life drinking body shots and banging a beautiful woman every night before retiring at thirty-five to a tropical paradise, I end up here. Worse, I’m stuck with you and the rest of these backward cretins, none of whom even realize that they’re part of a stupid playworld. Back home I could have bought and sold you. What were you, a chemistry teacher in a high school?”

“Physics,” Grimstone corrected.

The cabby kept talking as if Grimstone hadn’t answered. “And here you’re notorious and rich. And what do I do? I have to drive a livery cab to survive. I hate horses. And with the Thames city subway, I never get long runs, just short rides—there’s no money in the short rides. Hell, I can’t even afford one of the autos here and they’re not even real cars. The damn things run on steam same as the trains. And those giant gears in everything are ridiculous. They don’t even try to miniaturize anything.”

“It’s part of the world’s Steampunk motif. That’s how things work here. And you are hardly an innocent. Weren’t you wanted for bilking some sweet old ladies out of their savings?”

“Rumors. Never proven.”

In the shadows of a nearby alley, something stirred. A man dressed in black pulled a pistol out of his inside breast pocket and pointed it at Grimstone. Before the muzzle could line up with the bald man’s head, Grimstone had already slipped a knife out of his sleeve and flipped his wrist, catching the would-be assassin in the throat with the throwing blade. The assassin was caught by surprise. His last sounds were a gurgle of blood as he fell back into the wall and slid down to the pavement, his gun falling harmlessly to the walkway.

“Holy shite!” Stevie yelled. “What the hell did you go and do that for?”

Grimstone didn’t answer. Instead he linked his hands behind his head, leaned back, and put his feet up on the front seat of the cab, which was built to hold four passengers, two in the front and two in the back.

“Get the hell out of my cab! You just killed that guy. I’m not going down for murder.”

“Not murder. Self-defense. You’d think the Duke would get tired of sending men to kill me and have them die senselessly in the process.”

“How’d you even know he was there?”

Again Grimstone stayed silent but adjusted the goggles he wore. Back home he needed glasses to see, but basic eyewear technology here was not up to par, at least for the masses. However, he managed to come across a pair of goggles in another playworld that not only corrected his vision, but had motion detectors, night vision, telescopic and microscopic abilities, along with a host of other visual enhancements.

“You can sit here and argue with me, but eventually someone will notice the corpse and call the cops. Do you really want to be here when they start asking questions? We both know you do more than drive this cab to make ends meet. You’re a courier for things quite illegal.”

“Hey, a guys got to make a living,” Stevie said, shrugging.

“Exactly. Which is what I’m trying to do. So if you would so kindly take me to Tenth and Dorchester, we can both get on with what we do.”

The driver grumbled and mumbled under his breath, but snapped the reins so his horse started pulling. They rode most of the way in silence until they passed a small boy on a corner hocking papers.

“The Spellpunk stops opium smuggling ring! Read all about it!” the boy shouted.

“Stop,” Grimstone ordered. The cabby grumbled, but pulled back on the reigns. The cab and buggy came to a halt.

“Boy, I’ll take one.”

The boy ran over to him and held up the paper in one hand, his other palm outstretched for a coin. As he looked up at Grimstone, his pupils went wide and he glanced first at the cover of the paper and then back at Grimstone.

“You’re him. You’re the Spellpunk.”

“Actually he is me, but not really worth arguing the point.” The boy, more than a little awed, broke with his normal practice of making sure he had payment first and handed the paper over.

Grimstone reached out his hand to drop a coin in the boy’s palm. The boy, a tiny bit of fear on his face, “No charge, sir. For you it’s free.”

Grimstone put his hand to his pocket and put the coin away and took out another.

“Nonsense, my boy. You have to make a living, just like the rest of us. And this job helps keep you out of the orphanages and the factories, I assume.”

“Actually it’s me and my mums, sir. We rent a room over on Locke Street.” Grimstone put a coin in the boy’s hand. When he saw it a huge smile came across his face. “Sir, that’s a gold pony—twenty five sovereigns. I wouldn’t make that much selling papers in a year.”

“Put it in your pocket and keep it hidden. Consider it a tip and see if you can’t get some better housing for you and your mother.”

“Yes sir, thank you, sir.” The boy took off his hat and started bowing. “If you ever need anything sir, me names Falkner. I’m at your service.”

“Thank you, Falkner. I will keep that in mind.” Grimstone snapped his fingers once. Stevie grimaced but started up the horse.

“I’ve driven you around close to a hundred times and you’ve never given me anything near that as a tip.”

“When I think you’ve earned it, I’ll give it to you. Now be quiet. I want to read about my latest adventure.”

“But you were there. Don’t you know what happened?”

“Sure I do, but the papers tend to make up the details they don’t know. I always find it interesting to see how it compares to the real thing.”

As the cab neared its destination the driver pulled up short. “We’re here.”

“I said Tenth and Dorchester. That’s a block away.”

“The coppers are all over down there. You get off here, Grimstone.”

“Really?” Grimstone said. “Squire, I think you should check under the driver’s seat. There a hidden compartment with...”

“Shush! Fine, but not a word to them, okay?”

Grimstone didn’t reply and the cab moved slowly down the street until a kid of about sixteen dressed in a police squire uniform held up his hand to stop them. “Sorry, but this area is closed off for a police investigation. You’ll have to turn back and go around.”

“Oh, well then. Nothing to do about it, we’ll get out of your way,” Stevie said, all too happy to listen.

“Actually son, I’m expected. I’m Jackson Grimstone.”

“The Spellpunk. No one would lie about being you, but I was not informed that you would be arriving. I will let you through, but you should know that Sir Reginald is in charge of the investigation. Should you not be expected, things will not go well for you.”

“Duly noted, Squire. Now step aside and let us pass.”

The crime scene was in an alley near the cross streets. The cab took him as far as the police vehicles.

“Good riddance, Grimstone,” Stevie said.

“Such a harsh way to speak to such an old friend.” Stevie snorted and made ready to leave. “Don’t be going anywhere just yet. I will need a ride when I leave here.”

“Find yourself another cab. I’m off duty.”

“You will wait for me.”

“And exactly how do you plan on making me do that?”

The men’s eyes met. Stevie tried to look dark and menacing. Grimstone simply smiled, but it was not a happy grin and in reality the slight upturn of his lips was far more menacing than Stevie could manage to be with his entire body. The cabby broke eye contact first.

“Fine. I’ll wait.”

Grimstone opened the door and stepped from the cab carrying his cane with him. It wasn’t something he needed to walk. It was partially for show, carved from rare black ivory that was tougher than steel and sported a small dragon head atop it for a handle. It was a weapon disguised as a walking stick. Instead of using it in the normal fashion, Grimstone held the bottom and put the upper end on his shoulder as he strolled jauntily toward the dead and bloody body of a young woman. His arrival did not go unnoticed.

“Grimstone, you get away from the body,” Sir Reginald said. The knight cop was a big man both in height and girth, not so much fat as large. His strength was legendary, often being called in to singlehandedly break up fights among a dozen or more men. His dislike of anyone who wasn’t a fellow knight cop was as almost as well known. At the top of his particular list of those he disliked, Jackson Grimstone probably held the top spot. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

“Sir Reginald! A pleasure as always. How are the wife and children? Haven’t eaten the wee little ones yet, have you?”

“Grimstone, that is enough of yer mouth. Leave before I bodily throw you back into the gutter where you belong.”

“Well, that is certainly something you and those big arms of yours might actually manage if I decided to let you. However, then you would have to explain why you did that after I was asked to come here and lend you my assistance.”

“Who would ask you to come here?”

“Why, her majesty, of course,” Grimstone said.

“You’re bluffing,” Reginald said, as a small metallic sphere hovered around him. The gawker had a large lens making it look like a metallic eye was floating to one side of the knight cop, turning back and forth between the two men as they exchanged barbs. “As you can see I have the matter well in hand.” The knight cop had a sense of pride that the gawker had been following him. The flying spheres had a tendency to be around when interesting things happened. Of course, Grimstone was the only one who both knew and was troubled by the curse may you live in interesting times.

“Showboating for the bug eyes and their little cameras? Reggie, it’s so beneath you.”

The big knight cop began to look nervous. “I’m not ... what are you talking about ...”

“Oh come now. We both know your alien masters watch life through the gawkers.”

“Grimstone, be silent!”

“Yes, yes. I know the Steam Table Knights are aware of the existence of the bug eyes and know this world is merely a stage for them to watch. One of many in fact. They have forgotten how to live so they choose to live vicariously through others. That’s the truth, even if you are under orders not to let the populous know. But there are rumors. They see the gawkers and the robotic tourists. They suspect the truth. They may be able to set hoops on fire and force us to jump through them, but you don’t have to look so happy about it. Personally, I try to put a sausage on a stick when I have to jump in order to at least get a hot snack out of it. However, if you don’t believe me about Her Majesty, why don’t you send one of your squires to a call box? Or contact one of your zeppelin watch stations and find out if I’m speaking the truth. If I’m not, you’re welcome to try to send me back into the gutter, but even if you do I shall be looking toward the stars.”

The knight looked at him confused.

“A bastardization of a quote from Oscar Wilde.”

“Who?”

“A writer you shall sadly never have the pleasure of reading.”

The knight cop was not happy, but he called up one of his squires and sent him to a call box. The lad returned soon after, informing Sir Reginald that her majesty, Queen Theodora, had indeed requested Grimstone’s assistance.

Grumbling, the knight cop motioned for the Spellpunk to follow him.

“This is the fourth girl we’ve found this month. They have all been prostitutes, each of them cut up in similar fashion with a blade.”

“Damn bug eyes. So obsessed with The Ripper that they can’t get enough so they have to make more. They choose to prey upon the weak-minded.”

“Are you saying the aloff are behind this?” Sir Reginald whispered.

“They are behind everything, pulling puppet strings, putting schemes into place that might not play out for years just to entertain their sick, twisted masses. Or haven’t you noticed that every few years there is a new knife-welding killer that has to be stopped?”

“I admit I do find it disturbing.”

“The bug eyes take a child, make sure he is abused, and then arrange for a patron to adopt him so he may rise up in society. More often than not, the boy becomes a doctor. Although I admit this is the first one in some time that has focused back on the ladies of the evening. Do you have any witnesses?”

“None yet, but the squires are still canvassing. Not one clue left behind as to who or what did this.”

“So, Sir Reginald, what are your plans to catch this murdering bastard?”

“We will put undercover knights in the areas where the prostitutes frequent. We were thinking of taking most of the women off the streets and closely watching the few that we allow on in order to set a trap,” the knight cop said.

“Sir Reginald, on a personal level I may find you to be a bore, but you are a quite a decent cop. I will help you set the trap, but it would hardly be chivalrous to put a young lady at risk. Perhaps we should provide other bait.”

“Not a bad suggestion,” Sir Reginald said.

“I’m glad you agree. Which one of us do you think should dress as a woman? Personally I would love it to be you, but you may have to shave that lovely handle bar moustache and we may have to convert a tent into a dress.”

The knight cop scowled at Grimstone. “I was thinking more along the lines of using one of the squires. Many of them have not even grown their first beard and could more easily pass as a woman.”

“It makes sense, but hardly as much fun as getting you in a dress. Where shall we dangle our bait?”

“All of the murders have been within a mile of this spot, although none have repeated locations. That leaves only two areas for the working girls to be.”

Then we best get our plans in action. Shall I ride to the zeppelin watch station with you?” Grimstone asked.

The knight cop grumbled, almost growling. “Fine. Shall I send out one of the squires to dismiss your cab?”

“Nah.” Grimstone grinned. “Let him wait.”

As night fell across the city of Thames a different element took to the streets, especially in the poorer neighborhoods. Some were criminal, most were not, at least in the strictest sense in that they were not actively engaged in criminal enterprises. These denizens of the night were concerned with the pursuit of pleasures, whether they be of the flesh, mind, or soul or sometimes a mixture of any or all of the three.

True to his word, Sir Reginald had set up traps in the most likely areas to catch the latest Ripper. Both he and Grimstone decided to wait at the most likely spot. Hours past without so much as a customer browsing, let alone partaking of the secret and carnal pleasures being laid out for sale on the shadowy street corner.

“This isn’t working,” Grimstone said, tapping his shaved head with the dragon’s head. The gawker floated down as he spoke. “And I told you to back off out of sight or I’ll melt you down for scrap.” He pointed the tip of his black cane at the gawker and it floated behind some ivy on the nearby building.

“And why isn’t it working then, being you have such great expertise on the going and comings of prostitutes and their clients,” Sir Reginald said snidely.

“Other than your mother, I’m not really acquainted with many in that line of work,” Grimstone said with a wag of his eyebrows. The knight cop growled. The Spellpunk grinned.

“You still haven’t told me what wrong with my trap,” the knight cop said.

“What’s wrong? Besides you dressing them all in pink and giving them parasols?” Grimstone said.

Sir Reginald shrugged. “The parasols seemed the best way to hide the fact that they weren’t really damsels. And the pink was to make them look more girlish.”

“In the entire time we’ve been here, not one paying customer has come along and met with any of our ‘girls’. It probably looks too suspicious.”

“And how do you propose we fix that, Grimstone?” Sir Reginald asked.

Grimstone tilted his hat jauntily to the side, covered up the dragon top of his cane with the palm of his hand and strutted merrily toward the squires in women’s clothing.

The Spellpunk staggered slightly as if he had a bit too much to drink but not so much as to be incapacitated. The gawker floated out to follow, but Sir Reginald grabbed it with one meaty hand.

“Regulations or not, if you blow this trap, I will crush you myself,” the knight cop whispered. The gawker floated back behind the ivy, but its lens adjusted to keep Grimstone in a close up.

The Spellpunk had made his way across the street and put a hand on the wall that one of the squires in girls’ clothing was standing in front of as if to hit on her. And hit on her he did.

“Good evening, sweet lady. What will a crown and a loaf of bread get me?” The lad seemed horrified. It was the same squire that had let Grimstone in the area that the police had quartered off earlier in the day.

“Grimstone, what are you doing? This is very unseemly,” the squire whispered, as his eyes darted toward the hiding places of his fellow coppers, embarrassment not only storming his face, but taking up a stronghold on his face that it appeared ready to defend against all comers.

“Nonsense. The lot of you aren’t fooling anybody. You’re supposed to be out here to make money, yet you’re horrified that I am trying to engage your services. You put aside those Victorian mores and act like a woman of the evening. You should be working hard in an attempt to disengage me from my money, which means you don’t pull away, you lean forward, you smile, you giggle, you laugh. You put a wiggle in your step when you walk. So what we are going to do is you are going to take my arm and we are going to walk around the corner as if I were a real customer and we were actually going to do what a customer and a lady of the evening engage in for there to be an exchange of currency. That would make the lot of you look more likely to be prostitutes and less likely to be coppers.”

Grimstone led the squire around the corner, stopping once to squeeze his bottom. The squire almost clobbered him but managed to stay in character. Sir Reginald had seen the logic of the Spellpunk’s plan and had sent a knight cop to engage the services of another of his undercover squires. They too walked off, but around the corner on the other side of the block. A single squire was left alone acting nervous, which was good for his cover. A woman alone on the streets at night would be anxious. It wasn’t long before a man in a long wool coat and a hat lumbered down the street toward the squire. While it was not exactly a sweltering summer evening, it was not nearly cool enough to justify the scarf the man wore around his neck and face. Or the cloud of fog that seemed to follow in his wake.

“How much for the rest of the evening?” the man in the scarf asked.

“A crown,” the squire said in a falsetto that cracked only slightly. His gentleman caller didn’t seem to notice.

The scarfed figure reached in the pocket and handed over the requested amount. “Now come with me.”

“Where are we going?” the squire asked.

“I’m not paying you to ask questions. I told you to come with me, whore,” the scarfed figure barked. The squire seemed at a loss. He didn’t know if this was the killer, but he didn’t necessarily want to go off with a man who wasn’t, especially since he had no intention of providing the services that were paid for. His hesitation lasted longer than the scarfed figure was willing to wait, so he reached out and grabbed the squire by the wrist and pulled. The squire tried to pull back, but was unable to break the grip, so he took a swing at the side of the man’s hat with his parasol, which had the added value of being a large wooden club with metal inside to give it added heft. Sir Reginald hadn’t wanted any of his squires unarmed. The blow should have at least stunned the man. Instead all the squire got for his trouble was an ominous sounding metallic clunk.

The scarfed figure strolled away, dragging the disinclined squire in his wake. The lad at first stumbled and then ran to keep up. Sir Reginald held back until he saw the scarfed man reach into a special pocket on the side of his long woolen coat and pull out a long metal blade. He blew once and three times rapidly on a whistle and the Steam Table coppers moved in. Eight men, two knights, and six squires, rushed the man. Each was equipped with their own specially weighted club. Dozens of blows rained down faster than hail during a spring storm, none of which affected the scarfed figure in the slightest. Next the men tried to wrestle him to the ground and were tossed aside like rag dolls for their trouble. The only thing the melee accomplished was knocking the killer’s hat off and tearing his long coat, revealing a silver metallic body beneath.

“Blazes, it’s a tourist!” Sir Reginald snapped, moving in himself. Although the knight cop was a giant among men in both strength and bravery, he was a weakling when compared to the might of a metal man. The knight cop did his best to pin the mechanical arms to the tourist’s side but his grip was broken and he too was tossed aside.

The gawker had left its ivy perch and followed, moving in for a close up of the mechanization. The tourist swiped at it, but the sphere dodged it easier that a horsefly avoiding an old mare’s tail.

Both Grimstone and the undercover squire had returned to the scene running and breathless.

“What do we do?” the squire asked. Instead of answering, Grimstone reached his hand inside the neckline of the squire and down into his brazier. “Grimstone, what the hell are you doing?”

Grimstone put his hand out and with it the four pairs of socks that the squire had used to augment his chest size. “Figured you wouldn’t need these. How far away is the nearest zeppelin airship?”

“Five minutes or so,” the squire said.

“Go contact them and get them here.”

“On whose authority?”

“Mine. Remember, the Queen asked me to poke my nose in. Tell them to pilot right over me and drop anchor, minus the anchor. Trust me, in the long run, Sir Reginald will thank you. Now run,” Grimstone said, tossing one pair of socks aside before sneaking up behind the tourist and the three exhaust ports that were hooked up to his back. Grimstone shoved a pair of socks in each. He raised his cane over his head and used the tip to push the stockings further in. The tourist continued to move, although much more slowly.

“What did you do?” the mechanical automation demanded.

“You bug eyes can project your consciousness into these robots, but you’re foolish enough to bind yourself to the themes of this world, meaning you are allowing them to run on steam-based technology. That means I block your exhaust pipe and you have to slow down.”

“You can’t stop me. No human can match the strength of a tourist,” the automation said. Stepping forward, the machine seeming to actually strain with the effort, pushing harder until its internal pressure built up and two of the three pairs of socks were shot out of the exhaust tubes like woven cannonballs.

Grimstone stuck his cane between the tourist’s legs as the mechanization took his next step. The result was a very ungraceful fall that brought the unfortunate squire the tourist was holding down alongside the mechanization. There was a trough meant for watering horses on the front of a nearby building and Grimstone ran toward it. Sir Reginald had a similar idea and followed him. The two men picked up the trough, carrying it between them back toward the tourist, although even Grimstone would admit that Sir Reginald bore most of the weight. The automation was back on his knees when they dumped the water down his pipes.

The water ran all over the automation but the robot was waterproof except his exhaust pipes, which quickly filled up and then poured down into the section that burnt coal specially designed to last a day without being replaced. The water was enough to put out the fire within and stop the automation from moving.

Unfortunately the steam-powered Ripper didn’t seem to be playing by the rules because even as the fire within burnt out his limbs began to become active again.

“What the blazes is happening?” Sir Reginald said, bending forward to try and pull the automation’s leg out from under him to knock him back down. The tourist only wobbled.

“Obviously he has managed to modify the mechanical shell,” Grimstone said. “An obvious violation of the rules that govern visitation of the playworlds.”

“How do you even know that? Not even the knights are privy to all those rules.”

“This isn’t the first playworld that I’ve visited. Or the firstprivy, which is where the bug eyes belong. But this is the one they’ve hidden my daughter on, so I’m staying until I find her.” Grimstone looked right into the gawker’s eye lens as he spoke. “And then I’m coming for the ones that did this to us.” He turned toward the tourist. “Now if you don’t come quietly, I’m going have to report you. Oops, I think I have. They don’t take to kindly to rouge tourists, do they? Throws off the whole entertainment dynamics. Can’t have the camera fodder catching on and getting ideas of their own, can we?”

“And just how do you think you can do that? No one from a playworld can visit our home,” the tourist said.

“True, but I can always phone it in. Or I guess telegraph it to be more era-specific. Or did you miss the floating broadcast center up there?” Grimstone said, pointing to the hovering gawker.

Instead of showing worry, the consciousness hosting robot laughed and waved at the floating globe. “Hi, Mom.” The mechanization turned back to Grimstone. “Yeah, I may be in all sorts of trouble, but if I’m entertaining and get good ratings all will be forgiven. And what could be better ratings magic than killing the notorious Jackson Grimstone?”

“Jackson Grimstone kicking your mechanical posterior I’d imagine, at least if the number of gawkers stalking me at any given time is any indication.” Grimstone rammed his cane into the wrist joint of the hand holding the squire and the grip loosened. The Spellpunk pulled the boy in a dress free. “Go on and get yourself out of here, Miss. This is man’s business.” Grimstone laughed and pointed his cane at the metal hand with a knife. A single electrical blast shot out, temporarily shorting out the hand so when Grimstone hit it with his cane, the knife fell to the cobbles. “Back home that comment would have gotten me in trouble with the PC police.”

The tourist rose to his feet. “I’ve watched you. You criticize me for cheating, but you have knowledge of higher-level tech, making people think you have magical powers and using it to your advantage all the time,” the tourist said.

“And there is no time like the present,” Grimstone said, pulling a handful of large marbles from his pocket and tossing them on the ground where the chemicals mixed with each other and the air, creating large clouds of smoke. “Now you see me, now you don’t.”

The mechanization swung his arms wildly in the haze. “Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I can’t kill you.”

“But it does help my odds a wee bit, don’t it?” the Spellpunk said, his voice suddenly above the tourist.

“What?” the tourist yelled, craning his neck upward in time to see Grimstone soar by. “You can fly?”

“Under the right circumstances,” Grimstone said, wrapping a rope tied lasso-style around the chest and under the arms of the metal visitor. The Spellpunk yanked twice on it. “Going up.”

With a lurch the rope tightened and the tourist launched upward, his legs clearing the ground in an instant.

“What the hell?” the tourist said.

“I control the forces of light and darkness. Simple levitation is well within my powers,” Grimstone said.

“You of full of shite. You control nothing,” the mechanization said, craning his neck back to see the outline of a zeppelin soaring above them. “You think lifting me off the ground will stop me? I’ll climb up this rope and rip your head off and piss down your throat.”

“See, this sort of thing is why we don’t allow tourists to use our plumbing facilities. You’re just too dumb to figure out how to use a water closet.”

The tourist reached up and pulled on the rope with one hand, then the next.

Grimstone wagged his finger at the mechanization. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“You’re not me. I’m smarter,” the tourist said.

“That remains to be seen,” Grimstone said, taking a swipe with his cane at the floating gawker who had followed them into the sky before putting his walking stick in his mouth. Both hands free, he ascended higher up the rope with the mechanization following behind.

The tourist climbed slowly and steadily behind the scrambling Grimstone, quickly closing the gap. Grimstone reached the side of the airship and shouted “Permission to come aboard.”

“Granted,” a deep voice boomed and the Spellpunk scurried over the hull.

“Grimstone, in a moment I will be onboard that airship and kill you, then scuttle it,” the tourist said.

“Not really on the agenda for today, old boy.” Grimstone twisted the dragon’s left ear and a long blade sprung out of the carved mouth. Grimstone slipped the blade under the rope.

The tourist was not close enough to grab hold of the hull, so he looked down, amazed at how high the airship had climbed in so brief a time. “No!”

“Oh, yes,” Grimstone said, slicing through the rope.

The mechanization plummeted down more than a hundred meters, crashing in the walled section of Steam Table Yard. Tourists were build tough, but not indestructible. The impact snapped one of his legs, making it difficult to stand, which made it easy for the waiting knight cops to pull out a prod from a generator as big as a large cart and shock the tourist’s system into shut-down mode long enough for them to shackle it.

“Smart move, heading toward the yard, Captain,” Grimstone said.

“Daring move, catching him in the noose like that,” the airship captain replied. “Can I drop you back by Sir Reginald, so the two of you can head to the yard together to finish the paperwork and the tourist’s incarceration?”

“That would be wonderful,” Grimstone said, looking down and seeing a familiar horse pulling a familiar cab that he had told to wait for him. “Actually, I have a better idea. Do you have a spare anchor line?”

Moments later, Grimstone was again dangling below the airship, this time his foot in a loop, so he only needed to hold on to the rope with a single hand. The airship lowered so Grimstone was gliding above the busy street in a straight line for the cab.

"Hello Stevie!"

The driver turned around to see Grimstone descending toward him like a flying spider. Stevie cursed and urged his horse to greater speeds as if the devil himself was chasing him.

The next morning papers featured not only the tale of how the Spellpunk stopped a murdering tourist, but  how he flew through the air to catch a cab driver who had done him wrong.

Miss Winterdove and the Erupting Eulogist

Angel Leigh McCoy

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Apparent failure may hold in its rough shell the germs of a success that will blossom in time and bear fruit throughout eternity.

– Frances Ellen Watkins Harper

Miss Josephine Winterdove gazed down at Ernesto Aperador in his coffin. He looked peaceful, and that did nothing to assuage her wish that he burn in Hell. She dabbed her handkerchief at the corner of her eye, as did several of the women in the church. Señor Aperador had left behind many broken hearts, including Josephine’s.

Unlike the others, she hadn’t craved his romantic attentions. Rather, she coveted the cravat pin positioned in the middle of his chest. It broke her heart that the powerful carnelian cameo would be buried with him, despite her unrequited efforts to purchase it.

She couldn’t stand by the coffin for long, or she would draw attention, but she had to find out how the cameo was attached. Already, she had spotted a strange joint on the base of the pin. She assumed it was connected to a tripwire. Leave it to ol’ Ernesto to booby trap it, out of spite. He had to have known she would make an attempt.

Josephine opened her purse, reached into it with her handkerchief, and wrapped the cloth around a ball small enough to fit in her hand.

Elijah Newton, Josephine’s escort, appeared at her elbow. He whispered, “Have I mentioned that black does not suit you?”

“Thrice,” replied Josephine. “You remarked that it makes me look too pale, that it turns my red hair positively bland, and that it darkens the green of my eyes to boring brown, like yours.”

“Brown is not boring.”

“Everything about you is brown,” Josephine commented. “Your hair, your skin, your eyes. You’re awash in boring brown.”

“At least brown isn’t a color you wear to steal a family heirloom from a corpse.”

Josephine hissed, “Keep your voice down.” She glanced around to make sure he hadn’t drawn anyone’s attention.

Elijah leaned in over her shoulder to study Ernesto’s Spanish features. “You think he’s more handsome than I am?”

“At this moment, yes.”

“What does he have that I don’t? I mean, look at him. His nose is enormous.” Elijah shrugged his shoulder against hers. “His hair is black, it’s true, but it’s also thinning, and his jowls have begun to sag.”

“For one thing,” Josephine replied, “he’s dead and unable to embarrass me in public.” She rested her wrist on the rim of the coffin and let the metallic ball slip from the handkerchief in between the satin and Ernesto’s hip. She said, “On the other hand, what Ernesto is attempting to do is a crime against humanity. I will not allow him to take such an important item with him to his grave. I’d be equally guilty if I didn’t at least try to rescue it.”

“Ah yes,” countered Elijah, “you’re doing this for the sake of humanity.”

Josephine looked up at him, eyes blinking in surprise. “Do you doubt my intentions?”

Elijah sighed, smiled, and stole the opportunity to gaze into Josephine’s green eyes. She held a challenge there, one that dared him to repeat his accusation. The truth was, however, that he knew better. He knew beyond all doubt that Josephine’s intentions were noble, even if her methods didn’t always stand up to scrutiny. “Of course not, my dear girl. I knew when I first saw you that you were a force to be admired. You were scolding chubby Darren Hadley for bullying the smaller children, if you remember. Your braids were flying, and your eyes were flashing.”

Josephine remembered. She said, “He hit me for my trouble. I had to go home to my parents with a black eye.”

“That’s true. He did.” Elijah’s voice had gone soft with affection. “But, you made him regret that punch for the rest of his schooling.”

A smile tilted the corners of Josephine’s lips. She whispered, “It was fortunate for me that he was so afraid of spiders. He made it easy to torment him. If there’s anything I hate, it’s a bully.”

“Speaking of bullies,” continued Elijah, “I have to say, Señor Aperador has the most wretched taste in jewelry.”

Josephine turned so she could rest her head on his chest, feigned a sniffle, and whispered, “I presume you’re referring to the ancient, priceless, and world-famous Candileja carnelian cameo. You may find it hideous, but I, my dear Eli, am enamored of it. That stone has special alchemical properties.”

Eli’s arm fell around her shoulders. He answered, “Special properties?” He lay his cheek against her hair and breathed. “Is that so?”

“That is so, yes, it is. Though few use its properties for good, it has the ability to increase a person’s creativity and analytical capacity.” Josephine watched the metal ball from the corner of her eye. It wriggled a bit to orient itself between Ernesto and the side of the coffin, then it unfolded like a pill bug, armadillidium vulgare, revealing a dozen short legs and two antennae. A small puff of steam huffed out of its posterior vent, and it began to climb Ernesto’s hip. Josephine continued, “The old woman and the two children you see in the cameo are called ‘the Candileja.’ According to Colombian legend, she allowed her grandchildren to become bullyragging tyrants who took whatever they wanted from the locals and killed those who resisted them.”

Eli interjected, “And here you are, stealing the cameo from poor Señor Aperador’s dead body.”

Josephine jabbed her elbow into his gut, causing a huff. “The story goes that when the grandmother died, she met St. Peter, who had noticed her negligent parenting. He doomed all three to roam the world, for eternity, as balls of flame.” Josephine wiped away more imaginary tears. “In my opinion, our own justice system could take a page out of old St. Peter’s book and punish parents along with their children.”

“Easy for you to say,” said Eli. “Your parents are dead.”

Josephine gasped, though she didn’t look away from the mechanical bug. “What an evil thing to say.”

Eli harrumphed and turned his head to scan the crowd. “Funerals put me in a foul mood.”

“You’re a coroner.”

“It’s exactly because I’m a coroner that I hate funerals. It’s one thing to tend a body; it’s another entirely to be exposed to the rituals of mourning.”

Josephine felt him shiver and had to hide the small smile it inspired. “I don’t hate funerals, but I do wonder what it is about churches that always make me feel like I’ve stepped back in time to a more barbaric era.”

“Maybe it’s the lack of whirligigs, ticking thingamajigs, and flying machines with which you surround yourself at home. Churches have none of that.”

“Maybe it’s the lack of imagination and self-government, not to mention the feudal ethos.”

Eli snorted a laugh and was forced to hide his face and pretend he too was crying for Ernesto.

Josephine patted him on the shoulder, comforting him.

He whispered, “Heretic.”

She replied, “I prefer the term ‘scientist.’”

They fell silent for a long moment. Josephine lowered her chin and focused on the cravat pin. She wanted it so badly, she feared she would cry for real if she didn’t get it. Its monetary value meant nothing to her. She already had more wealth than she could spend, having made a fortune off her invention of the telescoping ferrocerium igniter. For Josephine, the cameo’s true worth lay in the stone’s alchemical properties.

She cursed Ernesto again for his stubborn refusal to part with it. After a full year of coaxing, cajoling, guilting, and goading hadn’t worked, after all the money she’d offered had been refused, she had made a mistake. In anger, she had warned him that, come Hell or high water, she would own the cameo one day. Ernesto had laughed in her face. He’d told her that he would take it to his grave before he would let her have it.

Elijah had noticed the mechanical bug slowly moving up Ernesto’s abdomen, and his discomfort was growing. Josephine could feel it in his fidgets and increasing alertness. He asked, “What’s that thing going to do?”

“That thing,” Josephine replied, “is an aqua regia injector device. I call it Arid, for short. I designed it to seek out gold and wrap itself around it. Arid’s body contains a pool of corrosive fluid that will leak out through its legs and attack the gold fixings holding the cameo in place, hopefully without triggering whatever trap he’s put on it. Once liberated from its seat, I’ll bend in to give poor Señor Aperador a good-bye kiss and snatch it right out from under his dead nose.”

Elijah patted Josephine on the back. He whispered. “Are you sure you want to risk this? It’s my understanding that this whole family is involved in felonious activities.”

Josephine did not deign to reply. She lifted her head off his chest, looked up at him, and instead asked, “Have you seen the dowager?” She glanced over her shoulder at the old woman dressed in black from head to toe.

Abuela Aperador, Ernesto’s grandmother, was twice as wide as she was tall, especially with the old-fashioned crinoline and skirts she wore. She inched her way down the aisle on the arm of a hefty male relative, coming toward the altar, her face hidden but for the gleam of her eyes behind a lace veil.

Josephine doubted those eyes missed much. She said, “It explains why Ernesto was so attached to the pin. He and his brother were raised by their hawk-nosed old grandmother to be murderers and thieves, as in the legend.”

The mechanical bug had made it up onto Ernesto’s chest and was heading straight for the cameo; its double rows of legs fluttered across the wool of Ernesto’s coat.

Elijah murmured, “Yeah, it’s the ‘murderers’ part that bothers me.” He put his mouth to Josephine’s ear and whispered, “She scares me.”

Josephine brought up the handkerchief to cover her spontaneous smile and turned away from the coffin. “Perhaps we should take a seat. I don’t know what will happen if Arid triggers the trap. It’s safer at a distance. Besides, now that Abuela Aperador is here, I imagine the eulogies will begin soon.” She led the way, presuming that Elijah would follow. After a few steps, her heel caught in the ringed handle of a trap door. She tripped, and Elijah came swiftly up beside her to steady her. She covered her misstep with a small sob into her handkerchief.

Elijah whispered, “Aren’t you taking this grieving act a bit too far?”

“Hush,” Josephine replied. She proceeded more cautiously and headed for the side wall. The entire church was full, with standing room only at the outer edges. As Josephine made her way along the wall, moving in and out of multi-colored pools of glass-stained sunlight, a young man rose from the end of a pew, stepped to the side, and bowed. “Miss? If you please?” He waved her to the proffered spot.

Josephine gave the young man a wan smile and a weak, “Thank you,” and sat. Elijah propped himself against the wall near her.

She hadn’t been wrong about the timing of the eulogies. Within five minutes of taking her seat, Father O’Connell stepped to the dais and introduced the first speaker, Ernesto’s younger sibling, Marcos.

Josephine watched the coffin, alert for any sign of smoke, mist, or sparks, but nothing happened. She was sure the bug had reached the pin and was already wrapped around it, disassembling the gold molecules and tightening its hold—Josephine’s hold—on the cameo.

While the eulogies were underway, Josephine could do nothing but wait. She made a game of counting the number of times Marcos dropped a Spanish word into his broken English. He droned on for an interminable time, extolling his brother’s virtues with understated monotony. He looked at the dowager throughout. The other eulogists did the same, some kneeling to kiss her hand on the way back to their seats, as if she were royalty.

The Catholic church had gone all out for Ernesto’s funeral, dressing the altar with pristine linens and golden crosses. The smell of incense lingered in the air from the morning mass. It drifted in waves through the nave and mingled with the aroma of burning wax. There were candles on the altar, around the eulogy podium, and in the side sanctuaries where people lit them to guide Ernesto to Heaven.

Josephine looked around at the gothic architecture with its arching ceiling and magnificent woodwork. She studied the mourners with their serious faces and black attire. She was relieved that some seemed as bored as she felt.

Josephine swallowed a yawn. She knew her window of opportunity would be slim. She had to be the last eulogist in order to get to the cameo after everyone else had finished viewing the body and before they closed the lid on him for good. After she’d said a few nice things about him, she would bend into the coffin, under the guise of saying good-bye, and grab Arid. He would, by then, have freed the cameo from its golden bonds.

The mourners all described Ernesto as a generous man, and Josephine began to wonder if the Aperador family had handed out a list of recommended adjectives for the eulogists. She wished Ernesto had been more generous with her, but that had not been the case. If the—

Lost in thought, Josephine missed that the last eulogist had stepped down from the podium, and Father O’Connell had risen to conclude the proceedings with a prayer.

“Fiddle faddle!” uttered Josephine under her breath.

After the amen, the priest called for the pallbearers to come forward and issued directions for meeting at the cemetery. The large, Colombian pallbearers, many of whom had holstered Colt revolvers, joined Father O’Connell beside the coffin. He was ushering them closer, giving them instructions, and guiding them to positions around Ernesto.

“Looks like you missed your chance,” whispered Elijah at her side.

Josephine had no choice but to concur, though it galled her. She watched the burly Colombians place the lid on the coffin. She sighed and wondered how hard it would be to dig him up later, and what the prison sentence was for grave robbing.

People began to rise and make their way to the exit. Elijah stepped forward and offered his hand to help her to her feet.

Josephine took it and stood. “Some you win,” she said, “and some you lose. It would seem Ernesto has had the last word.” But, she was wrong. There was someone else who was quite insistent upon having the final word.

The commotion started with a rash of murmured conversation at the back of the church. It escalated when a woman with golden hair, skirts in hand, erupted from the crowd and stumbled up the main aisle. She cried, “Wait! I will have my say!” Dressed in a faded blue dress, she stood out starkly against the background of black, as if she were a rift in the midnight sky, a glimpse into another layer of reality.

Hands reached for her, clawed at her dress and hair, trying to hold her back. She batted and shoved the Aperadors, head bent like a bull, pushing her way to the altar. She made steady progress until she hit a brick wall of Colombian stubbornness. She slammed into the man, and he grabbed her arm. He nearly lifted her off her feet as he turned her back toward the exit.

Josephine clutched Elijah’s arm without realizing it, sensing opportunity. She watched as the woman hunkered down and refused to budge. She noted the woman’s reddened eyes and slurred speech. To Josephine, she looked more truly grief-stricken than anyone else in the church.

“Who is that?” Josephine whispered to Elijah.

He shook his head, attention fixed on the woman.

The woman squirmed and called, “I will have my say! Father! Tell them!”

Josephine looked over at Father O’Connell. His face had gone as white as his robes, whiter even than his soul. His mouth flapped like that of a fish out of water, and he seemed at a loss for words.

Finding no succor with him, the woman took the only avenue she had left to her. She kicked her captor in the shin with the pointed toe of her boot, then bunched like a spring, and shoved him as hard as she could. He went back on his heels and was caught on the edge of imbalance. When he tipped, he nearly dragged her down with him. She stumbled, caught herself, and only by virtue of a small miracle, she broke free of him. She lurched the rest of the way up the aisle, using the pews for support as she went. She stopped in the circle of flickering candles, one hand on the closed coffin.

The Colombian pallbearers were looking around for instructions, but couldn’t find anyone willing to tell them what to do. The Aperador matriarch had stood and turned her back on the altar and the woman. With assistance, she had begun to creep back out of the church. People got out of her way or offered a hand to her elbow as she passed them.

No one approached the woman in blue. After a brief prayer, she crossed herself, then turned to face the mourners.

Questions and answers rippled down the pews: “Who is she?” and “She’s the American harlot.” This was invariably followed by understanding nods. Apparently, everyone knew about “the American harlot.”

The pallbearers made a half-hearted attempt to approach her. She warned each one with her index finger and said with a drunken slur to her voice, “You think you knew Ernie, but you didn’t. None of you did. I was...the only one who understood how sweet he was. I was the only one who—” For a moment, it seemed as if she would break down and sob, so strong was her emotion, but then, she did something no one ever could have predicted.

She opened her mouth, and she belched, loud and long. It roiled up from deep inside her as if she were a well-fed sailor.

Gasps sounded throughout the gathering, and many people sent shocked looks in the woman’s direction. Their surprise was further inflated when her exhalation turned into a great plume of fire. The fire leapt to her from all directions, from the candles upon their candelabras, into her hair. After the initial flare died down, it seemed as if everything would be all right, but then, flames began licking around the woman’s head. It took her a second, maybe two, before she realized what was happening and began to scream.

“Dear lord!” cried Elijah, and he was moving before Josephine had even twitched.

Josephine stood in place, in shock, and watched as the pallbearers backed away from the woman. She noted the entire crowd backing away, everyone but Elijah, who was vaulting over pews to get to her.

The American harlot’s head was ablaze, and the smell of burning hair reached Josephine’s nose. It startled her out of her fascination, and her mind rejoined her. She opened her mouth and screamed, “Fire! Get out! Fire!”

Few things motivated a crowd faster than a cry of “Fire!” Josephine’s shout awakened others who had also been frozen, caught by a morbid inability to look away. They began screaming, shoving others out of the pews or out of the way, lunging toward the back of the church.

The woman patted her hair, and the flames took to her sleeves. The fire was spreading down the woman’s dress. It latched onto anything she brushed. The altar cloth and the eulogy platform ignited. The woman lost all reason, grasping blindly for help.

Aside from Elijah and the woman, Josephine saw only backs, backs dressed in black, backs pressing to get out of the church. Even the priest had disappeared. She herself turned toward the altar. Elijah couldn’t get near the woman. Her hair had stopped burning, having exposed her red and smoking scalp, but the flames were devouring her skirts.

Smoke was assaulting Josephine’s lungs, making her cough. Her eyes were watering and stinging, but she hurried to the dais. Ernesto’s coffin sat in a clearing, surrounded by burning curtains. If she could get to it, she’d have her chance. She rushed toward the altar and—

Her foot came down on the spot that had tripped her earlier. She caught herself up, to avoid stumbling again, and in that moment of caution, she registered what it was that had snagged her heel. The cover on the baptismal well was in place. Beneath it, there would be a pool of water. If they could get the woman into it, they could perhaps save her life.

Josephine peered through the smoke at the coffin, then down at the iron loop embedded in the floor. She didn’t know the woman. This was the perfect distraction. She could lift the coffin lid and have the cameo in her hand in no time. But, the woman didn’t have that kind of time. Josephine called, “Eli!” She bent and grabbed the iron loop. “Here!” She hefted with all her might, and the cover swung open on hinges, revealing a small tile-lined pool fed by cherubs holding pitchers.

Elijah understood. He made a run at the woman. He caught her around the waist and lifted her off her feet, hauling her with him toward the baptismal pool. The flames licked over him, hungry for a new victim.

The woman’s screams filled the church. She and Elijah crashed down the steps into the pool and landed in the water with a splash. The water wasn’t deep, but it did the trick. Elijah sat up and turned the woman onto her back, keeping her face out of the water so she could breathe.

Josephine glanced over her shoulder at the altar. The curtains had fallen onto the coffin, and ignited the drape that covered it. Her window had closed—again.

She bent to help Eli out of the pool. He carried the woman in his arms.

The bells of the fire brigade sounded in the distance. Before long, firemen came rushing in with hoses and axes.

Josephine gave one last, mournful look back, and whispered, “Hasta la vista, Ernesto.”

Upon her return to Ipswich, Josephine was greeted at home with clean clothes, hot tea, and a late lunch. Elijah arrived several hours later, having stayed behind to tend to “the American harlot.” He brought news that the woman had a good chance of survival, although she would be scarred. He was dressed in a smart tweed suit, having changed before calling.

“Thank God for stone churches,” said Josephine. She and Eli had just finished recounting the story—a second time—to Josephine’s Aunt Hettie.

Hettie replied with her gentle French accent, “Mon dieu. Truer words were never spoken. You two are lucky to be alive.”

Elijah shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that, Miss Hettie. It wasn’t so bad for us. Jo’s quick thinking saved the woman’s life. Jo suffered no worse than a singed dress, and I have a few minor burns.”

Josephine sipped her tea, eyeing the bandages on Elijah’s hands.

Hettie shook her head in amazement. “What could have caused such an eruption? La pauvre!”

Josephine said, “It was the Candileja, of course.”

“The Colombian legend?” Elijah laughed. “Jo, don’t be ridiculous. Are you sure your mechanical bug didn’t trigger a trap or cause a chemical reaction?”

Josephine shook her head. “No. I know what I saw, and that woman was nowhere near the coffin when she ignited. Besides, the coffin was closed. No, it was definitely the Candileja. Maybe because Ernesto had the cameo on him, it summoned them, three balls of fire doomed to roam the earth forever. Stranger things have happened.”

Elijah leaned toward Josephine, eyes twinkling, and said, “I am sorry to spoil the magic for you, my dear girl, but the truth is much more down to earth. The woman was an etheromaniac. We found a bottle on her.”

“Ahhh,” said Josephine, brow furrowing. “That would explain the intoxication...and the eructation.”

Elijah nodded. “The belch, yes. That was my first indication.”

Hettie said, “I’m afraid you must explain this to me. I am not a member of your scientist club.”

Josephine gave the explanation over to Elijah with a wave of her hand.

He said, “There are people, Miss Hettie, terribly misguided people, who drink ether as one would drink liquor. Its effects are faster, though they don’t last nearly as long. Furthermore, at body temperature, ether turns to a gas. Most people chase it with cold water to keep it in liquid form longer, so it has time to be absorbed. If the ether turns to gas in the stomach, the imbiber often belches it out. This can be dangerous, especially near open flame, as ether is highly flammable.”

Hettie’s china blue eyes had grown enormous. “Oh mon dieu,” she muttered.

Elijah looked over at Josephine and said, “I’m just sorry you weren’t able to acquire the cameo. I know how much you wanted it.”

Josephine sighed and looked down into her teacup. “It is a shame, indeed,” she said.

Elijah’s hand slid across the settee. He turned it face up and opened his fingers. Inside, lay the metallic bug, its legs and body clutching its carnelian prize.

Josephine didn’t see it right away, lost as she was in thoughts of grave-digging.

Elijah cleared his throat, and when she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze, he nodded down at his hand.

She saw it then, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Eli!” She looked at him, then at the cameo, then at him again, and said, “However did you do it?”

One corner of his mouth tipped up. He took her hand and placed the device in it. He said, “After you left, I insisted that they allow me back into the church to investigate. It was a minor abuse of my coroner’s badge.”

A smile dawned across Josephine’s lips. She pushed a button behind the head of the bug, and it clicked. Its legs spread wide with one clacking stretch, and it released its cargo into Josephine’s hand. She studied the cameo for a long moment, then raised her emerald eyes to Elijah and gave him a look of such utter slyness that he burst out laughing.

A middle-aged lawyer arrived at the bedside of Amanda Jane Maguire. He wore a long black overcoat, satin vest, and gentleman’s silk cravat. He carried his derby in his hands. His immediate reaction to the stench of scorched flesh was to recoil and cover his nose, but he lowered his hand and straightened his spine. He studied the burned young woman with more of an evaluating eye than a sympathetic one. He did not sit, nor did he stay long. He had a message to impart, and he imparted it.

“Miss Maguire,” he began. “My name is Marius Keeling, and you will be encountering me regularly as I am a representative of your new benefactor. Your medical bills will be paid, and an income has been established for you once you leave the hospital.”

Within the slits of her bandages, Amanda’s eyes shifted toward Keeling. The rest of her remained perfectly still.

Keeling continued, “If you are so inclined, when you’re well enough, your benefactor will fund your education so that you may establish a trade. I won’t burden you with further details at this time. Suffice it to say that you need not worry about your care or its cost. You have fallen into the hands of an angel.” Keeling looked down at his hat, and his mouth pinched. After a moment, he cleared his throat, lifted his chin, and asked, “Do you have any questions?”

A breathy, pained whisper rose from the bed. “Who?”

It was, of course, the first question Keeling had anticipated. He said, “Your benefactor wishes to remain anonymous. Put this question out of your mind.”

“Why?”

Despite the fact that Keeling had been expecting the question and that he’d asked it himself when sitting across the table from Josephine Winterdove, he found himself at a loss for words. He said, “I cannot presume to understand the nuances of your benefactor’s motives, however it is my understanding that the money is a debt owed, and the original beneficiary is no longer available to make use of it. Therefore, it is being transferred to you.”

Keeling waited, but Amanda asked nothing else. She made a soft sound, and when Keeling leaned forward in query, he realized she was emitting restrained whimpers as if the very act of crying were painful.

Keeling placed his hat on his head. “I wish you well, Miss Maguire. In conclusion, I will quote the master bard himself, William Shakespeare, who said, ‘Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.’ Good day.”

The Foxglove Broadsides

Gail Gray

––––––––

You’re not really going through with this?” Nathaniel Dillon stood in the doorway, his face hidden in shadow. Behind him, several buildings along printer’s row shifted again, their foundations loaded on train rails by the building re-allotment engineers; the entire shops and contents to be shuttled away to the scrap yards. The groaning of masonry grated against masonry, the grind of stone followed by the fading click-clack of wheels on rails tortured the night. Nathaniel’s nerves, already distraught, sparked as violently as a Tesla coil piercing the night sky as he witnessed the slipping away of livelihoods and shipping away of souls..

Only a few days ago, the printing of newspapers was banned by the Industry for the Consumers Council. It was whispered on the streets and in the Printers’ Guildhall that any shop or dwelling which housed a printing press was slated for destruction. Their bricks were reused to construct iron, copper, and brass foundries. The iron presses were destined for the smelters to be re-poured for machinery parts. Anything suitable was outfitted for war machines. The merchants and shop owners simply disappeared.

In the sudden downpour, Nathaniel turned up the collar of his grey wool coat to hide his face from detection. There was no telling if hydrogen-dirigible spies lurked just above the clouds, their reverse periscopes peering into the Kensington streets. Once inside the Equinox Book Shop, he dripped water in small puddles. He kept his hands in his pockets so as not to drench any of the offerings in the shop. He held his body in, as if he could shrink to maneuver the stacks. Cracky, the printer’s apprentice, had often joked how Nathaniel was a freakishly large man, but Nathaniel retorted The Equinox was ridiculously Lilliputian.

Nathaniel navigated the aisles with only the gaslight from outside to steer him toward the stairs in the backroom. While it wasn’t unusual for The Equinox to be open into the evening, lamp oil was rationed and candles were hard to come by. He hoped Cecilia Bainbridge was here and nothing had befallen her on the way to their meeting. He was afraid to discover the reason she was at the bookshop so late. He could hear the pressurized moans of the steam pipes. He removed his coat, gloves, and bowler, grabbed a candle, lit it, and carefully opened the great wood-plank door leading to stairs carved in stone over a century ago.

Even on the upper steps, he felt the difference in atmospheric pressure. Below him, shapes were indistinct through the layer of haze and before he could make it halfway down, his shirt was damp, his hair listless.

“Who is it?” Cecilia called from below, her voice tense.

“Nathaniel,” he reassured her. “What are you doing? I was worried with all this blasted activity afoot. I have been waiting for you at the Blue Anchor.”

“I had no intention of missing our dinner, but I ran late. I’m sorry. However, you are just in time. I can use the light from your candle. Hurry!” As if to punctuate this point, the young woman slammed the clamshell press closed with a heavy, iron clang.

With every step of descent into the basement, the humidity became more cloying. He felt as if he navigated through heavy wool. His breath stuck in his throat as if someone had stuffed a rag in his mouth.

“You’ve done a marvelous job,” Cecilia said as she pressed the foot pedal for more steam. The pipes clanged and sweated as if under great stress, but held as they performed the task previously only handled by brawny men. Nathaniel shook his head. Perhaps he had made a mistake when he adapted the Koenig printing press to the effort-saving methods of steam. Even though steam-driven rotary presses had been used in the industrialized factories since 1814, few small clamshell presses, like the one hidden beneath The Equinox Bookshop, were powered by steam.

“Before now, no woman has had the strength to leverage this foot treadle,” Cecilia said, pumping the mechanism for emphasis, “or even turn the wheel, but with the help of your steam propulsion, I can manage quite well. Look!”

The platens of the press separated, revealing a sheet of paper. Sable-colored ink smeared on her cheek and nose made Cecila even more irresistible. He would have laughed if the situation had not been so serious. She gingerly removed the printed broadside with her fingertips, and held the paper flat on her palms as she slid it next to others on a long drying table. “There. That’s sheet ninety-seven, only one hundred and thirteen more to go.”

“My stars, you’ve already printed almost as many as Cracky did in such a short time. He was the best apprentice this side of London.” Nathaniel resisted the temptation to pull the copper tubing and stop this entire operation. It was just too dangerous. And it was his fault. While Nathaniel had been vulnerable to her charms and whims for years, he never imagined what would happen once he invited her to his mechanics workshop. There in the midst of inventions springing to noisy, sweaty life, she stood hypnotized by the power and potential. In her usual impulsive way, she begged him to build her a specific contraption—for a more specific reason—to stir up trouble.

“Thank you, Nathaniel. Ye of such little faith,” she said, gloating as she checked to see which sheets had dried. “You have to admit, I am my father’s daughter. Do me a favor, will you? Will you please shovel on another load of coal.” She pointed in the direction of the steam engine he’d built at the back of the room where he’d erected a dividing wall from leftover bricks, The wall protected the papers and press from the damp and as much as from discovery. The contraption which could lead to the destruction of the whole enterprise. Copper tubing extended upward to near ceiling height, crested the wall, and then stretched just above the ceiling both ways. One part dipped back down again to the junction at the press, while the other exited the building at ground level to relieve the build-up of excess steam.

“It seems warm enough in here to me,” Nathaniel said, removing his waistcoat and hanging it on a hook.

“I just need enough to finish the last batch. But yes, it is abysmally warm and humid,” she agreed. “I must remove my jacket before I faint.”

“You, madam? Struck by the vapors? I hardly think so. Remember how revolted you were when Margot, that silly neighbor of yours pretended to swoon at the opera? You would never stoop to such coy playacting,” he joked. “But I shall look away if you like.”

“Silly, Nathaniel. It’s only my jacket. I am wearing four layers.” She rinsed her hands in a small basin and after a cursory swipe of the hand towel, untied the ties on her jacket. The light from the candles bounced off the sheen of the russet silk, emphasizing her choice of bold colors, which set off her dark heavy hair. Fabrics dyed with madder were for the daring these days. Greys and blacks were considered more appropriate for young women. But Cecilia had never done what was appropriate. When he built the steam engine for her, hauling the pieces down the stairs bit by bit in heavy crates, he never imagined one of the benefits would be the opportunity to watch her disrobe. He was generously rewarded now. Without a hint of embarrassment or decorum, she removed the copper-colored jacket revealing a green- and white-striped corset. Her blouse was of material so sheer it exposed the embroidered linen petticoat beneath its gauze.

Cecilia reached into the maw of the machinery as if such an act was an everyday occurrence, especially in a secret room without a chaperone. She inked the roller as agile as any back street boy. She was a slim woman and the arch of her back beneath the striped satin was a sight he memorized without guilt.

Nathaniel stepped behind the brick wall and shoveled coal as she worked. The pumping clangs, hisses, and bangs of the machinery beat out a rhythmic music all their own, one of industry and efficiency, energy and intricacy. The sounds ran through him as if he were on the receiving end of the powers only steam created. It escalated his heartbeat, swelled his heart with passion for his mechanical work and renewed gratitude for this amazing age. Despite all the stresses of the current state of Britain, once the Science for the Advancement of the Individual Society was reinstated, he envisioned a future bright with commerce and production, where man could use his brain, not break his back to accomplish marvelous unimagined things.

Cecilia stopped working before he did. He stopped as well. The steam would build all night if he shoveled more coal. He walked around the edge of the brick wall, unbuttoning his shirt from the heat of his efforts.

“I’m having trouble keeping the paper from curling. Can you hand me a few blank sheets?” she asked without looking up. “I’ve had to keep them as far away from the steam engine as possible. They’re in that metal drawer under the paperweights.”

As he assisted her once more, he realized he was an accomplice. “You’re intent on publishing these broadsides?”

“Yes, of course. You know as well as I do, we’ve been driven to such recourse. You were there at the planning stages, even when Father was still alive.” She inserted the paper he handed her and then summoned the steam to operate the great wheel to close the press.

Nathaniel respected her as a sharp book dealer, as well as her ability to haggle to acquire rare volumes at the best prices, but in dealing with the real world, he didn’t trust her judgment. She was too independent, too driven on impulse. And unfortunately, she had a way of driving the rest of them into dangerous ventures without resorting to pouting or guilt. She simply took the first step. And for some uncanny reason—they followed.

“The authorities will trace them here,” he said, finally accepting the idea of a confrontation. “There is gossip they consulted a Chromotographer to analyze the ink in the diaries they think belong to Jack the Ripper. You shall be found out,” Nathaniel stepped into the light thrown by the candles.

“Nathaniel, you know I am not a stupid woman. I stole the ink from Ratcliff’s. His shop has been confiscated. Didn’t you notice the crane positioned outside his building ready to lift it onto the wheel bed? Fustin warned me. Do you recall that sly, but charming street urchin who comes by here all the time? He’s as good as any other leader of the revolt, heading up that raggle-taggle band of boys.”

Nathaniel nodded his head, but looked unsure. She ignored the look. “Fustin told me how his brothers were sent up Ratcliff’s chimney to crack the mortar. Afterward they were put to work at gunpoint, some sort of highly engineered gun the boy said, the stuff of nightmares, he said. They worked all last night extending the rail line beneath Ratcliff’s. By the time anyone thinks to trace the ink there, the building and its contents will be scattered in pieces across the scrap heap. Fustin also heard street gossip that Ratcliff buggered off just in time with that French woman. Luckily, he’s drinking absinthe in a Parisian café by now. Besides, Jack the Ripper and I can hardly be compared.”

Nathaniel looked at her in shock. “Murder is murder, my dear. Things are getting out of hand. This has gone too far.” He stepped forward and put one hand on her forearm. He could feel her muscles tense just below where she’d rolled up her sleeve. She stopped working, her hand stilled between the two platens of the printing press, the lace-edge against her sweat-gleamed skin accenting her feminine nature. But the hand holding the ink-roller, now stilled, was once again covered in ink like a workman’s hand.

“And you don’t think they’ve gone too far?” she asked.

“That demented Industry for the Consumers Council! Imagine banning newspapers? Mark my words, books will be next. This is our last chance,” she said in a tone which terrified him, slightly demented in its own right.

“Things have escalated on both sides so quickly,” his voice trailed off. He didn’t know the words to convince her.

“That is why we must make our move, is it not? It’s all the more imperative now that Cracky, Morris, and Archibald have been arrested. I’m not going to throw away six months of planning.” She pulled free of his grasp and held up the roller. “Besides this is the most common of all inks. Any Industry Council investigators will be led on a merry chase.”

“And the poison, you don’t think anyone will trace the poison?”

“I know my experiments with, let us say, the more deadly plants disturb you, but I’ve even consulted the alchemist. John Henry Bolton, whose father studied under William Withering, the first physician to realize the medicinal properties as well as the potency of the foxglove. And yes, the steroid glycoside: or digitoxin when taken from the more potent leaves and upper stem of what fanatics call Dead Men’s Bells and Witch’s Gloves can cause death, but it all depends on amounts.” She held up her fist and opened and closed it as a heart might look when beating.

Nathaniel winced. “But it can stop the heart.”

“It’s true, digitoxin pumps more than the usual sodium and potassium ions which impacts the heart rate. But, I’ve only extracted small amounts from the foxgloves in my garden. It may make the council men faint, suffer vomiting and dysentery, or even experience hallucinations and delirium...” She flicked away a lock of hair which had escaped from her chignon. He would have reached forward and assisted her, but he was stunned to the point of inaction.

“And granted it can go either way,” she continued, “with bradycardia or tachycardia if one has issues of the heart, but men with health problems should be at home with their families not out late at night stirring up trouble on the council. It’s not as if many will die. Most will just fall ill.” She spoke with calm detachment as if they stood in the drawing room, discussing a recipe for rose potpourri or boysenberry tarts. She put her clean hand on her hip as she tilted her head and grinned at him with a wicked wry smile on her face.

“I hope they fall ill,” she said half under her breath with more vengeance than Nathaniel expected. “Every last one embroiled in the sinister mockery of a civil governing body. At least long enough to put off the vote until our men return home. You know the commission the councilmen from our district, two men on the side of the common man, on that wild-goose chase just to get them out of town. The Industry Council has resorted to subterfuge and trickery. You must believe, as I do, why Cracky and my cousins were arrested. It was right after Cracky told us he’d overheard the plot to eliminate all printing. So, as far as I’m concerned, these unethical dignitaries can stew in their own juices, at least long enough for Jonathan Tilby and Raymond Longton to have time to make the meeting, convince those of the Industry Council who survive to change their minds—and to interrogate any sickly survivors. By that point, they should be willing to reveal where their headquarters is located and who is behind this internal invasion.”

Her eyes lit up as if flared by a candle, but the light was from within, Nathaniel realized. A fervor, a dedication just like her father’s and one he had admired in both of them. When she was younger, the spoiled only daughter of one of the most respected book dealers this side of the channel, he thought her shallow and conceited, the way she talked about fashion and pranced about town. Complimentary colors, he could hear the way she said the words in his mind, as if they held a mystical secret. But now, he knew it was all a distraction.

In the marketplace she turned the heads of men and inspired gossip among women as she taunted everyone with her flamboyant, Bohemian style. But, once in the underbelly of The Equinox, she was all business, as dedicated as any other revolutionary. She strategized against the Industry Council and their reprehensible methods of churning innocent women and children into fodder for the textile mills and work houses.

“Yes, I do agree, something must be done.” He realized it was going to be a long evening. “But can’t we go speak to a higher authority?”

“Who? The Commissioner? He’s as crooked as the Industry Council, and is probably even more entangled with the Progressive Movement for Utilitarian Mechanization. You must realize they all stand on the side of greed, money lust, and power. They will stoop to nothing to persuade the entire country to their Industrial Conglomerate plan. It’s all based on coercion and the eradication of the individual. First the newspapers and then all other means of communication. Infiltrate, Isolate, Interrogate, Indoctrinate, and Incorporate. That’s what my father found out when he stumbled on their publications. That’s why they killed him. Yet, they claim simple book and newspaper publishers are propagandists. They don’t care if children sicken or die from overwork laying the rails. They don’t care if a woman can barely stand at the end of a twelve-hour shift.” He could see hints of the malachite hue of her eyes, that fervent gleam which meant she could not be swayed from her purpose. The color was brought out by the striped corset. If she knew how to create poisons as well as she knew how to make a dramatic statement, her enemies were in dire trouble indeed.

“I brewed a tea of the blossoms,” she whispered as if to herself, as if reading his mind, her voice distant, her eyes looking into the shadowed hollows of the press as if it held answers. Ink dripped from the roller onto the floor and spread in odd, brown patterns.

“Digitalis purpurea more commonly called foxglove is not as fragrant as their noble, upright blossoms would lead you to think.” She still spoke in a vague tone, the anger devolved into a slow simmer, a determined simmer to last longer than a quick boil, a simmer of seductive sultriness, like the day she’d taken him by train along the Thames to the botanical display at Kew Gardens. It was beneath the stunning glass dome of the horticulturalist house where she’d shown him the foxglove—and also the first time, drunk on the heat and aromas of lilac and lavender, freesia and roses, he became entranced: both by the power of steam and the allure of Cecilia. He’d attempted to kiss her, but they were interrupted by a haughty matron with her brood. He reluctantly acted the gallant and backed away right into dionaea muscipulaa, an oversized, violently green Venus Flytrap.

“And the resultant boiling liquid,” she continued, “it has no special color, only a limp yellow. But the poison is there all the same.” She turned to look at him to make sure he was paying attention. Then she looked at the roller in her hand as if she had forgotten it was there. “And now it’s in the ink. Your injection idea worked.”

She handed him a broadside along with her father’s brass-handled magnifying glass. The optical aid was a piece he’d often enjoyed using when examining technical texts. It was devised with a blend of three separate lenses fused together. One magnified by simply making things bigger, but the second tinted the light in a red tone, while the third tinted the light in a blue tone. These variables, had Cecilia explained, were warm and cold tones, to amplify different aspects of an image. While the tints didn’t affect text to a large degree, they did make a difference in seeing various details when examining the art of drawings, such as Audobahn’s drawings.

When Nathaniel read the broadside, he saw how, in a perverse sense of paradox, Cecilia had chosen to use the broadside to advertise the opening of the Tropical Exhibit at Kew Gardens. “You see how there is a shade of lighter brown at the edges of the ink on these sheets? That’s where the foxglove has escaped the turpentine and watered down the soot and walnut oil... just as it slightly oxygenates the blood and races the heart. Whoever touches these broadsides and eats with the same hand will be stricken. They may not all die, but they’ll certainly suffer alarming reactions.”

Nathaniel couldn’t take his eyes off the roller as ink ran in dark trails down the pale skin or her arm. As the candlelight flickered, it reminded him of dried blood, of the way her father’s face looked shortly after they had found him behind the shop at first light. The poor man had obviously been bludgeoned following one of the clandestine meetings of the local merchants turned reactionaries. Nathaniel stepped back, his mind racing.

“But without all of us, without some keeping watch, we cannot make sure the broadsides don’t fall into the wrong hands. We must avoid hurting innocent people,” Nathaniel tried to convince her, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush.

“Balderdash. I have it all arranged. I have hired Fustin and his boys to be distributors. He already agreed to sell from the pouch with the—let us call them—tainted inks. He’ll make sure they’re only sold on the steps of the meeting house to council members. The younger boys will sell the safe sheets on street corners, at the guild halls, and outside the Blue Anchor Pub. Maybe if I can hire them on for a spell, I can keep the younger ones out of the chimneys and off the rail line and steer Fustin away from his penchant for thievery. I shall save myself a few coppers, just in the number of books he steals for their fire. Now, make yourself useful.” Cecilia pointed to a stack of broadsides on the table. “See that batch over there? They should be dry by now. Don’t worry, you can touch them. Those are the safe batches. Please put them in the weight press so they lie flat. Maybe twenty or twenty-five at a time.”

Nathaniel did as he was told. There was no stopping her at this point. Perhaps he could stop the boys once they hit the streets. Besides, he liked working with the machinery. He was good at it, although, his family would cringe to see him working in a print shop.

Before he took the stack of papers, he went to the nipping press. He leaned over and turned the great, spoked iron wheel until the top platen rose to a height of a foot. After he inserted a stack between the two cushioned platens, he turned the wheel counterclockwise to close the press. This one was not a steam-operated machine. Even though it was heavy at 90 lbs for a parlour-sized press, Cecilia could still turn the wheel which moved the platens up and down. But since it was about her weight, she couldn’t move the piece. Sometimes he wondered if that was the only reason she tolerated him. Before the Betterment Through Industry Council attacked the printers’ guild, he had considered asking Cecilia if he could serve as her partner in the bookshop and printing business. After her father died, he saw how hard she worked to manage it by herself. He now relished the smell of ink, as much as of books. Books had been his constant friends growing up. He felt proud when he helped print and bind one and the ink smell seemed permanent somehow. At least until in recent months, when the rail lines changed everything.

The broadsides, were another thing all together, especially in such strained political times. He tried to talk her out of the broadside jobs. After all they ended up in the gutter by day’s end. But in the past she said it was her bread-and-butter money—and she needed it to maintain a shop on the fashionable Kensington Street.

They worked for another two hours. “That’s the last sheet,” Nathaniel said as he handed it to her.

“Wonderful! I’m exhausted.” She inked the roller one more time, slid in the paper, and stepped on the treadle. The clamshell closed slowly and with less harummph, as if it were tired as well. Cecilia turned and leaned against the contraption. She wiped the back of her ink-stained across her forehead to erase all the indelicate signs of moisture, but only plastered more walnut dye on her face. She flung her head back and rested for a moment, her hair falling in disarray around her shoulders, the stays in her corset emphasizing her figure.

Nathaniel thought she looked irresistible in her disheveled state. He had never dared imagine her like this. For a second she looked as enticing and as available as the women from the parlour houses, but once she spoke, the vision dissipated.

“Can we leave the steam engine alone as it cools down?” she asked, still all business.

He shook the vision out of mind and stood with an abrupt upright jerk as if caught. “Yes.” He hurried toward the contraption, “let me release any residual steam out of the additional pipes. The remaining vapors will rise up and out into the back alley, but this late at night with a fog rolling in from the Thames, no one should notice.”

“That is excellent. You head on home, Nathaniel, and thank you so much. I’ll just weight press the last batch of broadsides, and we shall be ready to go tomorrow night.”

“I will not go home and leave you alone at this time of night,” he snapped back in a commanding voice which surprised even him. “You may at times forget your station as a merchant and lady, but I shall not forget mine as a gentleman. I’ll press the last batch while you get dressed and I’ll walk you home.”

“Fine, then, if you must,” she answered, as if she was too tired to argue. “And we shall meet back here tomorrow night after I close the shop at seven when the boys should arrive.”

At 7:00 pm, Nathaniel, always punctual, pulled out his pocket watch, a complicated affair he’d built himself. Not only did it tell the time, but it also calculated the procession of the stars for Greenwich Mean Time. It was a mini astrolabe, partly based on Mayan technology, but also on nautical instruments. He hadn’t revealed it to many, but for all his technical intellect, he held a secret passion for astrology.

Ten minutes later, Cecilia arrived in a rustle of voluminous skirts and heavy breathing. He heard her before he saw the white flounces of her rushed and bunched skirt swirling in the misting night air. She appeared as if dressed for some ball, not a night of high crime and political subterfuge. The collar of her white and navy jacket stood high behind her neck and head, a nod to Queen Elizabeth, but with a truly modern flounce of ruffles. It was another astonishingly bold ensemble, something she found in Paris, no doubt, what with its nautical military coloring emphasized with Parisian flair.

She fumbled for her keys. “Sorry I’m late, none other than Mr. Wheelwright appeared at my door intent on conversation. Idiotic man. He assumes I have nothing to do.”

“Is he a suitor? “ Nathaniel asked without thinking, not recalling the name.

“No, he was an old colleague of my father’s. He wanted to talk scholarly books, of all things, on a night like this. It took all of my wiles and charms to dispatch him!”

As soon as they entered, she lit two candles. “Here. She said handing him one, “be a dear and head downstairs for the newsboy pouches. I brought all the broadsides up, but completely forgot the pouches I sewed out of army surplus material. Please hurry, I want them ready for the boys.”

Nathaniel did as she asked, once again revolted at the thought of his actions, but unable to stop himself from meeting her demands.

No sooner had he reached the bottom of the stairs, than he felt the rush of air and heard the door slam. The lock ratcheted into place. Nathaniel ran up the stairs and tried the door. But it wouldn’t give.

“Sorry, Nathaniel, this is for your own good,” Cecilia yelled to him through the heavy oak door. “I don’t want you implicated. I’ll come back as soon as it is over and release you. I left my neighbor a note to come and let you out in the morning if I don’t return home tonight. I’ve left a picnic basket with food and drink, even a little whiskey for your pains, and there’s a chamber pot beneath the wash basin. So sorry, my dear, but I must rush off. I promise I shall make it all up to you.”

For a second, Nathaniel he balled his fists, intent on banging on the door, but it was no use; few people were about this time of night and Cecilia would never forgive him if the basement was discovered. He slumped against the door, sinking to the top stair in helpless despair, the only answer to his pleas the staccato of her footsteps running out the front door into the tense and noisy London night as it closed with a wooden groan.

What to do? What to do? Halfway through considering his options, Nathaniel realized he may have created an escape route. He raced down the stairs, almost falling in his haste. “Yes, yes—This would do,” he said aloud to himself as he yanked on the large outlet pipe. It didn’t come away easily, but finally the copper broke free of the clay joint. The clay pipe broke into pieces and loose mortar fell at his feet. He could see the alley. The mist had thickened so he worked freely, digging and scrapping in the hole he’d cut open to install the steam pipe, removing the remaining mortar with his bare hands.

The building was old, the mortar almost dust, as he remembered from first making the hole. It only took minutes before he could fit head and shoulders through the opening. He wriggled like a man being birthed from the womb of the earth and emerged just a few inches above the ground. He groveled in the muck and silt of the alley but then grabbed hold of the crates he’d stacked earlier and pulled himself up, while checking both ways to make sure he was unseen.

He ran through the alleys, tempted to call her name, desperately racing against time. If only I can reach her in time, perhaps I can talk her out of it. Why such risk; such danger? His heart banged against his chest wall, as abrupt and regular as a piston in a steam engine, as if the organ would free itself from the flesh and fly to her more quickly than his feet.

Stubborn woman. She’s too resolute. But isn’t that why I hold her in such high regard? And do I really want to stop her? Wouldn’t I have done so by now?

The screech and squeal of metal wheels on rails mocked the beat of his footsteps. The massive freight train carted Ratcliff’s shop away. There is nothing I can do but remain undetected.

He reached the intersection and headed toward the council hall. But how can I? I’m filthy: without hat, coat, or gloves. Coal grit and soot are lodged under my nails and I reek of excrement.

With a sudden realization, he knew how the workingmen felt—in fear, demoralized right from the start because of their position at birth. They never had the chance. What Cecilia was trying to do was to stop all this and give them that chance. Nathaniel altered his course and veered toward the main square.

I’ve got to help her. I can’t let her do this. I can’t lose her.

As he crested the hill, the train moved, as if to challenge Nathaniel’s decisions. As large as a building, it plowed through the center of town, bellowing smoke and steam, its headlamp piercing the night with all the evil of a heavy, black Cyclops as it cut the square in half, blocking out the lights of the council hall.

The cone of light exposed formations of uniformed militia, marching ahead of the train on the tracks, cold, orderly, and vigilant. A few waved signal flags, while many, burdened by their complex guns, kept an eye on the visitors to the square. More shadowy forms marched alongside the train. Nathaniel slowed his pace and walked in step with stragglers to the meeting.

She’s the only one who knows me, who supported me in my maniacal obsessions. She’s the only one who cared, ignoring my nervous fumblings as I disrupted her shop, supporting my inventor’s dreams, searching and hunting down the very documents I needed. Who else has she done this for? What other customers does she encourage to linger in her shop day after day? And who else, in this crowded city has stepped into my workshop and been amazed?

Nathaniel’s self-examination was interrupted by the crash of falling masonry and men screaming in pain. This side of the square was in chaos. Armed men scrambled over the rails, street urchins dodged the sweep of the grate to cross to the dark side of the square. The night was shredded, with the squeal and screech of brakes against metal, echoing agony, as desperate as a woman in childbirth. It made him shudder. What will become of her if they arrest her? Such a woman is rare. But all they will see is a dissenter, one of the underground resistance, another number to eradicate, another rebellion to squash. She’ll just vanish like her father and Cracky and her cousins. She’ll suffer who knows what harm and degradation beforehand. I must stop them, I must find her.

The train engineer, as if oblivious its cargo was collapsing, ordered his boiler men to stoke more coal. Nathaniel knew it would allow the engine to gather a more powerful head of steam and soon the powerful engine would accelerate. He could already hear it in the whoosh of power rushing through the regulators, valves, and cylinders.

The sounds assaulted Nathaniel’s senses. He couldn’t think. The sounds were mesmerizing, hypnotic, a summoning. Heedless of the crush, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed, Nathaniel shook himself back to his senses, allowing his wet hair to slap him in the face to wake him up. He raced ahead, his feet slipping on the slick cobblestones. He gauged the speed of the train by the movement of the side rods and took a chance.

As militia ran in his direction, he attempted to vault over the moving coupler as if it were the pommel horse in the gymnasium, a skill his thinness and agility had helped him master. But he misjudged his weight against the target’s movement, misplaced his foot on the wet stones and slid instead of jumped. He landed hard on his pelvic bone. A few strides longer and his legs would have swung wide straddling the coupler landing him in a dangerously intimate connection with the three-inch screw head. Instead, he found himself riding the coupler side saddle, like a woman on horseback. The sound of metal grinding on oiled and sanded metal was overpowering. He was carried along a few feet, the row of gas lamps illuminating the council steps beckoned as cocky as a duelist. Militia ran ahead of his position and Nathaniel knew he had to jump before the engine accelerated even more, otherwise he’d be swept away to the scrap yard.

Cecilia. Wait, please wait. I’m coming.

He squeezed his eyes closed for a second. As he re-opened them he jumped in a half-fall, half-roll as he’d learned in tumbling exercises. He stood, slightly dizzy, blinded by the rain which had escalated as the train accelerated.

A wave of umbrellas mobbed the bottom of the steps to the council hall. It was impossible to pick out faces. But as he rallied, running and searching at the same time, he could see there wasn’t a woman in sight. Cecilia wasn’t among them.

He drew another ragged breath, pressed his hand to the pain in his side and made another last-ditch sprint toward the entranceway. The train clacked and hissed behind him, as frustrated as a Shakespearean witch losing touch with her quarry.

“Late to the party again?” Fustin asked, stepping out from a hole in the crowd, bold as ever when noticing Nathaniel’s tardy arrival in disarray.

“No time to exchange witticisms. Where’s Cecila?” Nathan asked over his shoulder.

“She said she was going into the hall,” the boy yelled back.

Nathaniel shoved his way past the men standing around the boy as he handed out broadsides.

“What are you doing?” Fustin shouted, spun halfway ’round.

But Nathaniel was already away. He pushed his body up the stairs as if he were Guy Fawkes intent on escape. Without stopping, he snatched the satchel with its deadly contents from the boy. Nathaniel sprinted further up the steps, knocking councilmen aside, toppling bowler hats. Halfway up the steps he saw Cecilia. He forced air into his lungs and plunged upward as if through heavy water, reaching Cecilia just as she offered a broadside to the Commissioner. Blast that audacious woman!

With all the aplomb of a champion accepting a trophy cup, Nathaniel stepped in front of the Commissioner and accepted the paper in his place, careful to keep his fingers at the edge so as not to touch the foxglove-poisoned ink.

“Why, thank you, my dear,” he said to Cecilia, a bit winded but audible. “I think it’s high time we made a return visit to Kew Gardens.”

Before he could register her reaction, Nathaniel twisted on his toe.

“And Mr. Commissioner, we would be quite delighted if you’d join us,” Nathaniel said, shoving the broadside upside down into the stunned man’s hand, allowing the rain to soak the paper. The Commissioner looked at his hand. It was stained dark walnut brown. The old man looked back up as confused as an alley cat caught in the train’s headlamp. Nathaniel returned his stare with a look of confidence, the look of a bird of prey or one of those Bombay cobras capable of hypnotizing their victims. Nathaniel waited for the poison ink to run, its tendrils as subtle and toxic as the council’s take over of London. The Commissioner balled up his hand as if ready to throw the broadside into the gutter, but Nathaniel grasped both of the man’s hands and closed them over the crumpled paper.

“Oh but you must accompany us. I implore you,” Nathaniel said squeezing the Commissioner’s hands as ardently as an admirer, “that is, unless you are indisposed?”

The Commissioner looked at Nathaniel with a quizzical look, unable to make sense of what happened. “We shall see, won’t we?” the politician man said. “At the moment, I have more important matters to consider.”

Nathaniel grinned, thinking of how little importance was left in the life of the egotistical man who stood before him. Satisfied the Commissioner had been dosed with a considerable amount of the foxglove extract, Nathaniel turned. Cecilia was nowhere to be seen. He scanned those milling about.

He was still smiling, heady with the rush of success, as he bolted down the steps carving a path through the growing crowd. Now the deed was accomplished with all the finality of Cecilia slamming the clamshell press closed, he must find the exasperating woman and impress upon her the value he could offer as her partner.

The Curious Tale of Elizabeth Nigel

Patricia Puckett

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The pages of the leather-bound poetry book were bone dry, and Elizabeth was grateful that the poem her mother’s guests had requested that she read was one of the shorter ones. It was impolite for a woman, especially the daughter of a fairly wealthy viscount, to lick her fingers, no matter how hard the damned pages could be to turn. Allowing her bottle-green eyes to move back and forth from the page of the book to her attentive audience, she sighed and enunciated, swayed and gestured, and—most importantly—moved every so often around the parlor room. It was the easiest way to keep the audience riveted, never mind that this was probably the sixth or seventh time that these people—her parents’ friends and fellows—had heard this particular poem. Finally, with a flourish, she concluded the poem, shutting the book closed with a snap. A round of applause from the eight people present—her mother counted amongst them—rose. She inclined her head ever-so-slightly forward.

“Marvelous, Lady Nigel! You truly have the voice of one of God’s loveliest angels!” cried a portly man with a mustache that always made Elizabeth think of a walrus. She could not recall the man’s name.

“Thank you, sir. But my talent comes from Tennyson’s words alone, I assure you,” she said, patting the cover of the book just before setting it on a side table.

But the usual progression of one of Elizabeth’s mother’s salons had already begun. Her part was over. Mary Nigel, her mother, had already steered the conversation to the poem itself, playing the kind hostess. With a slight inclination that was unnoticeable to her guests, she gestured her daughter into the next room to send for Gerald, the Nigel family’s main indoor servant, save for the cook. Elizabeth did just that as Gerald, a man with very little of his black hair left, backed into the room, a wheeled tea tray in his grasp. Mary stood, smiling.

“Thank you, Gerald. That will be all,” she said.

“Ma’am,” he said, exiting just as quickly as he had entered.

“Have you gentlemen seen this newest contraption of our glorious Nation’s scientists? Truly a practical invention,” Mary said, approaching the tea tray.

Elizabeth tried hard to conceal her groan. Her mother was always scornful of new technologies... unless they could be put to any use that she, personally, would find “practical.” This particular tea tray, as the salon was now discussing, was enclosed on all sides, save for the top and a little door on one of the wider sides. Within the door was an abundance of heating coils and pipes that funneled water onto the coils. The water, once it had made contact, would then turn into steam, rising to the underneath of the top of the tray, thus keeping your teapot warm for whenever you should decide to take your tea. As the crowd grew around the tea tray, Elizabeth took her chance. Turning as swiftly as her heavy dress would allow, she swept from the room, mounted her home’s staircase, and stopped only when she had shut herself inside of her room. Sighing, she rested her pale forehead against the door.

Lady Mary Nigel’s salons were the best in all of London. They were always small and quaint, to promote better conversation. So, an invitation to one was coveted. Or so Elizabeth had heard, having never attended another salon in her life. She had no taste for them.

Well, that was not entirely true. She would love to discuss the poems that she was often made to read aloud. But once her “angel voice” had ended the reading, she was ignored. She went from the center of the room’s attention to a silly young woman with no further purpose. She hated both.

She had tried, once, to sit amongst the men, like her mother did, and discuss Tennyson—her favorite of the modern poets. But they had laughed at her, and Mary had shooed her away. But it was just as well. Now Elizabeth could do as she pleased.

Stepping away from the door, she turned and heard her gown-covered bustle brush against the wooden entry. She rolled her eyes. It was hours until supper, and her mother would not disturb her again until then. This was one of the precious little intervals she craved in her daily life between being woken in the morning and doing all the tiny, mindless things that her parents expected her to do.

“Chipper... Bella,” she called, reaching up to her hair.

Her wheat-colored hair was pulled tightly atop her head with only a few locks left to hang, curled like a spring, down her neck. She could not stand to have her hair so tightly bound as was “fashionable,” according to her mother. Mary was always concerned with fashion and properness above all else. Finding all the pins she could, she pulled at them and allowed her hair to fall down to her gown’s tapered green waist. Her hair naturally hung in very loose curls, and she could already feel it beginning to take its form. She shook it, trying her best to help it along.

“Chipper... Bella! Here, kitty, kitty!” she called.

A loud and very direct meow sounded from somewhere around Elizabeth’s bed. She smiled and glanced toward her pillow. Her precious calico—black, white, and orange fur all finding equal representation on the cat’s body—was curled amongst the fluffiest pillows. She yawned, her paws—big for a female—stretching out. Flicking her tail twice, which caused it to thump rather loudly on the bedding, she finally stood and slinked her way to the end of Elizabeth’s bed.

“There you are,” she said, walking forward to scratch Bella behind her ears. “Now, where’s Chipper?”

A small whirring sound, like the one that could be heard when one opened the back of a working clock, reached Elizabeth’s ears. Following shortly after was the chittering of a chipmunk. She smiled.

“We don’t have time to play, Chipper. Where are you?” she asked.

Moments later, a chipmunk climbed up to sit side-by-side with Bella the cat. But, at second glance, one could see that this was no ordinary chipmunk. First of all, it had no fur. But instead of exposed flesh, it was exposed gears under metal casings that formed into a shape of a chipmunk that showed. Its head tilted to the side as if questioning why Elizabeth had been looking for him—as she had decided that Chipper was male. The movement of the clockwork creature was decidedly like that of a flesh-and-blood-and-fur chipmunk, which made Elizabeth very proud. He only had the occasional mechanical twitches, which was to be expected.

Chipper chittered again, turning and climbing up Bella’s back until it looked as if he intended to use her as his stead. Elizabeth chuckled behind her hand. Bella yowled warningly upward, and Chipper climbed down. He reached out one of his tiny metal paws and began to scratch the cat’s ear. His way of apologizing for his little “joke.” Bella accepted, even gracing the little machine with a few seconds of purring. The two had come a long way since Elizabeth had first built Chipper.

“Now that we’ve got that all sorted out,” Elizabeth said, turning toward her vanity. Using the stained oak’s mounted oval mirror, she began to undo the many, many buttons down her gown.

“Stupid dress,” she muttered.

She heard Chipper chitter in agreement with his creator. Elizabeth smiled.

“Chipper, will you please fetch me the Chapeau? If you could just pull it upon the bed,” she said.

Chipper agreed in his own way, with Bella meowing after him. She heard her cat’s paws land on the softly carpeted, pale fern-green floor—colored to match the green-gray color that backed the wallpapering in her room, which she hated. She always felt that the dull pastels of the pink and gray-white flowers on the wallpaper would have been better suited décor for a widow just after mourning. Nothing in this room felt like hers, excepting of course Bella, Chipper, the Chapeau, and the few things she kept hidden away in oaken chests at the foot of her massive, pale-pink canopied bed.

Chipper announced that he had pulled the Chapeau from its hiding place behind the headboard of her bed and laid it in the center of the fluffy bedding. She smiled at her invention-to-be, upon whose top Chipper sat expectantly.

“Thank you, Chipper. You’re most helpful,” she said.

The Chapeau was the second of her personal inventions, the clockwork chipmunk being her first. It had come to her one night as she had begun drifting off to sleep. She had heard Bella, who normally just curled up at the foot of her bed, jump down and begin to meow very loudly. She had lit a lantern and followed her cat to a corner. She had spent hours of her sleeping time trying to interpret what it was that the cat had wanted. She had tried everything: food, water, a toy. Nothing pleased her. Finally, a small, gray mouse darted from some hidden hole and right into Bella’s clutches. Elizabeth had lain back down, muttering that had she simply known what her cat had been saying, she could have been asleep long ago. And that had been the start of it. Combined with her natural love of hats—the one “hobby” that her mother approved of—and her desire to be a great inventor, the Chapeau was born.

She removed the bodice of her dress with a subdued sigh, immediately beginning to unlace her corset. A part of her dream of being a great inventor, a secret part, was that she might, one day, hunt down the inventor of the corset and murder him for making women wear such tortuous things. Once the corset was removed, she heaved a heavier sigh and moved onto removing her bustle. The inventor of the bustle, should her dream ever be realized, would likewise meet the fate of that of the corset inventor.

She made her way toward her dresser—the same dark oak as her vanity and bedposts—pulling out the bottommost drawer, removing it completely. From within the very, very bottom of the dresser she removed her work-suit. It was a one piece, brown leather outfit that fit her natural curves—not the ones given to her by the corset—that zipped up from crotch to neck. She often left a bit open at the top, so that her favorite work outfit did not choke her as her gowns often did. It covered her legs and arms completely, and she often wore knee-high boots made of the same material as well. Once dressed, her corset, bustle, undergarments, and gown tossed carelessly to the floor, she released a bated breath. Now was the time for her work-that-was-not-work. She often figured that she enjoyed it too much to keep on referring to it as “work.”

Bella purred, having climbed back upon the bed to playfully tangle herself in the canopy cloth, and Elizabeth petted her for a moment before grabbing up the Chapeau.

The Chapeau of Animal Translation—or CAT, for short—was to be her prize invention—which made it a good thing she had not programmed Chipper for jealousy. The brainchild of that late night with Bella and her seemingly endless collection of hats, CAT was an old top hat rescued from her father’s disposal. Attached to the black hat were gears from old, broken clocks—of which she also collected, but much more secretly—tubes, and a pair of flight-man’s goggles. And the purpose behind the device was simple. Once completed, using the sound waves that Elizabeth proposed that all animals give off when not making the typical sound—like a meow or bark or chitter—it would allow a human’s brain to process the waves as words, and would do the same for animals concerning human words. Thus achieving the marvel of communication between species. But the actual execution of the piece was giving her some bits of trouble.

She thought she had all her science right, taught to herself from her father’s books in the home’s small library. So, when it had not worked the first time, she thought it must be the gears. Again, it had not proved successful.

Sitting now in a green chair that matched the room perfectly, she motioned for Chipper to retrieve some clock parts she had stashed away in various drawers. Thus she began her rather time-consuming pattern of part-addition and part-removal to the hat. Every so often, she would stop to try the hat on and start it up. Every time, CAT yielded no results.

Chipper was her ever constant companion during these rare hours of inventing. He was always eager to search for the items she asked for, and more often than not, always found them. Bella, being the pampered cat that she was, would always lie upon Elizabeth’s pillow and fall into a deep sleep. And the pattern held for today. Three hours after leaving her mother’s salon, CAT was no further along, Bella was asleep, and Chipper was eagerly doing a little dance upon the vanity, awaiting Elizabeth’s next request.

Sighing, she finally set the hat down beside her. Chipper cocked his head, as if to ask why she had stopped. She smiled and motioned for him to come sit in her lap, to which he complied.

“I don’t know what I’m missing,” she said, absently petting the cold metal of the clockwork chipmunk’s head. “I removed those stupid tubes, nothing. I put them back on, nothing. I removed them and a piece of clockwork. Again, nothing. I’ve tinkered with the power source on the hat... but I can find nothing wrong. I’m missing something... I just know it.”

Footsteps on the stairs just outside her bedroom made Elizabeth’s back stiffen. She motioned for Chipper to hide—for none in the house knew about him, excepting Gerald, who knew far more than he often let on—and quickly grabbed up CAT. She slid her work-in-progress back into its hiding spot just as Chipper went off to his own private spot... which she really had no idea where that spot was. Turning toward the door, she groaned. She knew those steps belonged to her mother, and she knew that she was just outside her door. She had no time to change out of her work-suit... she would hear about that.

A single knock, and Lady Mary Nigel entered the room without waiting for consent—something that Elizabeth would have been scolded for hours for doing. Her mother was barely entirely in the room before letting out a disgusted scoff.

“Proper clothes, Elizabeth. Why must you always insist on not wearing proper clothes?” she said.

Mary, for her part, was always dressed like a “proper Lady.” In fact, Elizabeth could not even recall if she had ever seen her mother with her light brown hair out of its curly, intricate, and tightly-pulled style or out of her proper gowns. In fact, had she ever seen her in her dressing gown? Mary blinked her own bottle-green eyes at her daughter, trying her best to keep them from glaring. She did not think that “proper Ladies” should glare either. Elizabeth lowered her head a bit.

“Sorry, Mother. I thought that I had some time to myself, so I thought I would get comfortable,” she muttered.

“Do not mutter. And you should always assume that you might have guests at any given moment. The only two bits of clothes you should ever wear are your gowns and your dressing gowns. And you are only to be seen in your gowns.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied quite clearly. “May I ask as to the purpose of your visit? Is supper ready?”

“Heavens, no. It is really too early for supper. I came to inform you of tomorrow’s activities.”

Elizabeth fought down a groan. She hated having her life scheduled out for her... but she never hated it more than when it was her mother doing so. Mary always had grand plans for her, like she had had with Elizabeth’s elder sisters. But unlike her sisters, Elizabeth did not agree with Mary’s “vision” of how her life should be. If Mary was informing her daughter of “tomorrow’s activities,” then it was certainly going to be something she dreaded.

“You, chaperoned by Gerald, will be spending the day with Cecil Waltham,” she announced in a grandiose manner.

Elizabeth was right. This was a dreaded event. And, apparently, it showed.

“Wipe that look off your face, Elizabeth. You were the one, not days ago, moaning about not having seen your husband-to-be since you were four. I thought you might like spending a day getting to know him.”

“One day is not enough to get to know someone who one is expecting to spend their entire life with, Mother!”

It was not a traditional “arranged marriage,” per say. It had rather been a bit of general knowledge between Viscount William and Lady Mary Nigel that their youngest daughter would one day wed the only son of fellow Viscount Phillip and Lady Edna Waltham. And four years of age had truly been the last time she had seen Cecil. His parents had spent much of his childhood with him in their country home, providing for his education and the day when he would one day take his father’s title as viscount. Meanwhile, the Nigels had chosen to raise their three daughters in the city, providing for a Lady’s education and saving for their dowries. Elizabeth’s sisters had been married off easily enough, leaving only her left to be wed. And at twenty years old, this, apparently, was no longer an easy feat.

But apparently Cecil was willing enough.

Elizabeth sighed, knowing from experience that her fate was sealed. She nodded and quietly acknowledged what her next day held for her. Mary smiled pleasantly at her.

“Very good. Now, supper’s still a couple of hours away, but if you will please change into proper clothes! And do your hair! You would think you were raised a savage.”

Mary turned to leave just as a thought struck Elizabeth.

“Mother, you said Gerald was accompanying me? Is he busy at the moment? You don’t have need of him, do you?”

Mary arched a brow. “No. Maud will finish the cooking, of course. Gerald is only required when we are ready to serve. Why?”

“I was wondering if I might go out for a bit.”

Mary’s suspicion would not be satisfied so easily.

“Why?” she squawked like one of those exotic birds that could be taught to repeat human speech.

“I... I wish to buy a new hat. You bought me that lovely gown a fortnight ago, and I haven’t a hat to match it.”

Mary’s stern features softened a bit. Sighing, she nodded.

“Very well. But only if you wear one of your gowns. You are not leaving this house in that ghastly outfit. And do your hair!”

“Mother, I don’t have time enough to do my hair.”

Mary groaned. “Fine.”

Mary hated the idea of a Lady leaving her home without her hair properly done, despite the fact that loosely worn hair was the fashion not but a few decades ago. Smiling, Elizabeth thanked her mother.

“Give me ten minutes,” she said as Mary exited the room.

With her hair hanging loose in all its glory beneath a green, wide-brimmed ladies hat that perfectly matched her gown and her eyes, Elizabeth, with Gerald a few paces behind, left her house and started down the cobblestone streets, a small purse hanging from her right wrist—also green to match.

“May I inquire as to our destination, Lady Elizabeth?” Gerald asked as they turned off one street onto another.

Elizabeth grinned. In normal, polite society, servants were not to speak unless spoken to, but she had always thought that rule to be rubbish. They were people, just like anyone else. Glancing over her shoulder, she laughed.

“Well, it’s not the haberdashery. And I told you, Gerald, away from Mother, Father, and all their friends, you are to call me Liza.”

She could see her family’s faithful butler grin. “Yes, Lady Liza. Would it be the docks, then?”

The smell of the salt water grew ever stronger as Elizabeth continued turning from one street to another. She nodded.

“Yes, the Dockside Markets indeed.”

She was the only member of so-called “High Society” that visited the Dockside Markets in daylight, to be sure. Her mother did not approve of her going to such a place, but what she did not know would not harm her. It was a rather sordid place where all manner of markets, legal and not, could be found. Most of the market owners, however, were often on the illegal side. It was common knowledge that Dockside Markets was where all the Sky Pirates came to sell their wares. And there was one particular Sky Pirate that Elizabeth made a point of doing business with.

She, with Gerald having moved a few paces closer for her protection, moved with swift confidence down the salt-air and water-worn wooden docks. The buildings on this side of the city were worn and looked moldy and unused. But despite its dilapidated appearance, Dockside Markets was a rather lively place. Along the edge of the wooden sidewalk closest to the ocean’s water sat several stalls selling all manner of acquired goods. Elizabeth ignored all advertising by the owners until she came to one stall, about halfway down the Markets, whose owner was missing.

Hanging from the make-shift roof of the stall hung various timepieces and gears of all sorts of metals. Jeweled necklaces hung amongst them, gleaming in the afternoon’s setting sun. Upon the stall’s wide table sat lovely clocks, rings, purses, and several other things that did not seem to match each other. She leaned slightly over the table, looking out to the ocean that set the backdrop. A large, lovely dirigible sat, floating in the water as if a boat. A long gangplank extended from it to the dock just behind the stall.

“Russell? Are you here?” she called.

“Oy,” came a voice in loud, clear cockney.

A young man not much older than Elizabeth stood up from behind the stall. His dark brown hair was ill-kept and simply stood out at all angles. Above his head sat a pair of flight-man’s goggles that was not unlike those on CAT, which had left little dirt rings around his hazel eyes. His clothes were simple in a loose, beige tunic shirt that looked at least a size and a half too large for him and brown trousers that were just as loose around his legs. His boots matched the color of his trousers, and other than the goggles, his only accessory was a thin brown leather vest that seemed to serve no real purpose to his outfit.

“You didn’t ‘ave to yell,” he said, sticking a pinky finger into his right ear. “Wot can I do you for, Milady Liza?”

“Just coming to inspect your wears, dear Russell. And to see if any more of your ‘clients’ have work for me.”

Russell grinned a grin that was a bit too wide for his face and held up a finger, ducking back down behind his stall. Elizabeth smiled.

It was true that her parents gave her a decent allowance to spend whenever she wanted, but it was closely watched. They knew of their daughter’s “tinkering habits” and highly disapproved of them. And refused to fund them as a result. So, Russell, who was always eager to keep such a loyal customer, had found a way for Elizabeth to make a little coin on her own.

Reemerging from the bottom of the stall, he laid a small stack of thin, pale papers about the size of maps before her. Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“I’ve never had so many at once,” she said, beginning to leaf through them.

Pictures of machinery and its inner workings decorated each leaflet—schematics that the “clients” had brought to Russell. Often, the sort that the Sky Pirate did business with did not have the... ah, talent to build these machines themselves, no matter how desperately they wanted them. And Russell barely had the time in between his shop-keeping and his pirating to do so for them. Which is where Elizabeth fitted in. For a decent cut of the profits and a discount on all items in his shop, Russell would pass the schematics to her, she would build the machinery, return it to Russell, and both would collect. And often this was more than enough to keep Elizabeth’s own private tinkering going, seeing as she collected the broken clocks of friends and family to harvest for gears.

Sniffling once, Russell thumbed at his nose.

“Well, word’s got around, Liza. You’re good, and that’s wot matters. Oh, and I’ve got sumthin’ else for you.”

He ducked back down behind his stall again, popping back up much quicker than he had before. Holding up a rolled piece of paper, he allowed it to unfurl before Elizabeth’s eager eyes. It was a poster, announcing an Inventors’ Expo to be held in the city in a fortnight’s time. Gasping, she lurched forward—a move that her mother most definitely would have scolded her for—and snatched the paper from Russell’s hand to read further.

Her eyes hungrily took in every word of instruction printed in small type below the artist’s rendering of the building that the Expo was to be held in. The rules were simple. The inventor or inventors in question were to display a completely original design of some kind at a booth to be assigned once registry was completed. To enter, the only other requirement was to have a sponsor pay your way. One was not allowed to sponsor one’s self. Clutching the poster lengthwise in one hand, Elizabeth leaned forward to hug Russell about the neck.

“This is wonderful! And you could be my sponsor, Russell. Don’t tell me you don’t have enough money to!” she squealed gleeful.

Gently prying her off of him, he set her back on her feet.

“Sorry, luv, I’m afraid it don’t work that way. You see, you’ve got to be someone of name within the inventin’ community to be a sponsor. ‘Fraid that’s just not little ol’ me.”

Elizabeth’s bright, bright vision of her future of realizing her one true dream was dashed just as quickly as it had been handed to her. Visibly crestfallen, she felt Gerald move closer in some manner of comfort. Russell scratched at the back of his head absently.

“Now, look ‘ere. It’s not ‘opeless. All’s you’ve got to do is find a sponsor.”

“Russell, if I knew any inventors of name, it still wouldn’t matter. Nobody ever wants to sponsor a woman.”

As a kind of apology, he gave her one of the jeweled necklaces—a simple ruby on a gold chain—to her. She didn’t have the heart to look over any of his other merchandise. Turning to Gerald, she announced their departure from Dockside Markets.

“Where to now, Lady Liza?” he asked.

“To the haberdashery,” she said sadly. “Mother must see me return home with a hat.”

Suppers in the Nigels’ home were rarely a quiet affair. At least, for her parents. Elizabeth rarely spoke, often not finding an opportunity to do so. And when she did, Mary or William would shoot it down as either “silly” or “downright preposterous.”

So, sitting across from her mother at the family’s long, rectangular dining table, Elizabeth ate in silence. Her mother, however, had her head constantly turned to the right, chattering away at the head of the table, where William sat, dressed in a fine gentleman’s suit—in the highest fashion, of course—his wheat-colored hair grown to a precise length and very well groomed, and his sideburns artfully connecting to his thick mustache.

“Well, tomorrow is the first day Elizabeth will be spending with Cecil. Hopefully, the first of many before their wedding,” Mary smiled at her husband.

Elizabeth groaned so low that neither of her parents caught it.

“Indeed,” William answered in his gruff voice. “Might as well get used to the chap, as she’ll be seeing a lot of him after the wedding.”

The two chuckled as if this had been very droll. Elizabeth began to concentrate very hard on her roasted fowl.

“Marriage will do our Elizabeth well,” William said in some all-knowing voice.

They could at least act like she was there. Instead, Elizabeth felt more like she was watching some scene from the play of her life, unable to interact. And it seemed unable to stop.

“I agree, William. It ought to knock all that girlish silliness right out of her,” Mary said, right before taking a tiny bite out of her food.

Elizabeth gripped her fork very tightly.

“Yes, all that inventing nonsense. Her husband will put an end to that, and rightly so.”

Her foot began to tap beyond her control, and she tried with all her might to channel all her growing anger down to it. It would not help her in the least to have an outburst at supper.

“Oh, yes, of course. But you know our Elizabeth, stubborn as a mule! You know she’ll fight us to the very end. You know, her sisters were not that difficult to be married off. They wanted a wedding day.”

“Right, right,” William agreed. “But they were married young. Elizabeth is now twenty. And Lord knows we spent our biggest dowries on the first two. The only reason Cecil is taking her is probably because he too is getting to the age where he needs a wife.”

Taking her? Like she was some sort of horrible pet that nobody wanted? Elizabeth could stand no more. Dropping her fork so that it clattered loudly onto the plate, she shoved herself to her feet. Both Mary and William, shocked, stared up at their daughter.

“If you will please excuse me, I am not feeling well,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Oh, of course, dear. Get your rest. Tomorrow’s a big day,” William said.

Without another word, Elizabeth all but flew out of the room and up the stairs to her own bedroom. Slamming the door, she growled, tearing off her daywear to switch into her dressing gown. She knew, once dressed, that she should go straight to bed. It would be an early morning. But her parents’ careless words coursed through her. Throwing herself into her chair, she sighed.

Bella peeked from her place at Elizabeth’s pillow. She meowed once and with a soft smile, she assured her beloved cat that she was fine. Chipper, from his mysterious hiding place, emerged, dragging an oddly furry looking object toward her.

It was, in fact, a sheet of natural chipmunk fur. She had gathered it all from some dead chipmunks she had found that had died from either cruel little boys or natural causes. It was to be Chipper’s coverings when she was done. Once he had dropped it in her lap, she grinned, petting his metal head.

“I supposed it does always calm me. Could you fetch me my needle, thread, and loose fur?”

Chipper did just that, and then he spent the next few hours watching as Elizabeth—almost mechanically herself—sewed on the pelt that would soon make him look more animal than machine.

Cecil Waltham was not an unattractive young man. And Elizabeth was sure he was quite nice. But as the two walked silently through the blossoming, sun-filled park the following day—with Gerald a few paces behind—annoyance was all she could feel for the future viscount.

Cecil’s chestnut-brown hair was feathery and well kept, with it coming out a little from his head to cast a slight shadow over his bright amber eyes. His face was clean shaven, and his suit was similar in fashion to the one Elizabeth’s father had worn the night before, except cut for a more youthful wearer. The gleam off a golden chain that obviously led to a pocket watch kept catching Elizabeth’s eyes, which she tried to keep downcast.

Her mind was being just pulled in way too many directions today. At the forefront was, oddly, not her impending wedding. She had woken up that morning and caught sight of the poster for the Expo, which had sent her day into a spiral downwards. Coupled with the wedding thoughts that meeting with Cecil again after so many years had brought, Elizabeth had been barely able to utter a greeting. Now, on their third circle about the park, Cecil seemed determined to conversation.

“How-um, I mean, isn’t, no rain,” he muttered incoherently, interrupting Elizabeth’s all-consuming thoughts.

She turned her face toward him as they continued their walk, one blonde brow raised.

“Pardon?” she asked.

Cecil cleared his throat. “Lovely weather we’re having, yes? I mean, it’s so nice not to have so much rain.”

Elizabeth nodded. “Yes. Quite.”

Silence fell once more. But, after a few paces, it seemed that Cecil was not going to give up so easily.

“You’ve, ah, grown into a handsome woman, if you don’t think me too forward to say so,” he muttered.

She fought rolling her eyes. Was she really to marry a man who had so little to say to her that he would resort to weather and her looks? But, the invisible shadow of her mother loomed over her, and she felt inclined to return his compliment.

“And you’ve grown into a handsome man yourself, Lord Waltham.”

He seemed to perk up a bit at that, and it may have been Elizabeth’s imagination, but she thought she had heard Gerald snort a bit with laughter. She hid her growing smile behind her daintily gloved hand.

“Has your mother shared any thoughts of the wedding preparations with you?” he asked.

Elizabeth’s smile was wiped away as quickly as it had come. Pursing her lips, she set her eyes deliberately straight ahead, focusing on the lovely blooms and birds that encircled them in the very green park.

“No,” she said a little too curtly, drawing Cecil’s gaze.

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied quietly.

She spared a slight glance in his direction before setting her eyes once again forward.

“Thank you, Lord Waltham.”

“Cecil, please. Call me Cecil. We are to be married. It is pure nonsense that you should still be calling me such so close to our wedding date. If it is acceptable to you, I should like to call you Elizabeth instead of ‘Lady Nigel’ as well.”

“Actually, I prefer Liza. My parents find it an unsavory nickname, but I like the sound of it better.”

“Liza,” he said, as if trying it out. With a small smile, he added, “I like it.”

The two—three—of them were now in the shade of a great tree. Stopping, Elizabeth smiled at him. As a person, Cecil was nothing horrible. In fact, under ordinary circumstances, she might have been quite excited to marry him. But despite his kindness, she knew that she still did not know much of him. How were two people supposed to live their entire lives together without knowing what to say to one another? Would they always be reduced to tiny compliments?

Cecil looked as if he were about to say more to her when a man, dressed quite shabbily in torn and dirty clothing, approached them. He stopped so close to them that Elizabeth suddenly had to change from breathing out of both her nose and mouth to just her mouth. Cecil arched a brow at him.

“May I help you?” he asked gently.

The man ran his left hand through his equally as dirty hair—so dirty that Elizabeth could not tell if it was supposed to be brown or blond—and his black, beady eyes shifted back and forth. Just as suddenly as he had appeared, he drew a knife from within one of his tattered pockets and held it close to Cecil’s face.

Gerald moved forward protectively toward Elizabeth, and the man shifted the knife warningly toward the butler.

“Easy, please,” Cecil said.

Turning the knife back to Cecil, the man said, “If I could have all the coin in yours and the pretty lady’s purse, Milord?”

Elizabeth clutched her purse, thanking God that she had thought to leave the majority of her personal coin and papers at home this afternoon. Cecil nodded and slowly raised his arms so that the elbows were perfectly crooked.

“I need to retrieve it from my breast pocket,” Cecil said soothingly.

Elizabeth admired this man’s calm. For all her silence, calm was the furthest thing from describing her current feelings.

“Fine. Slowly,” the mugger warned.

And as slowly as he possibly could, Cecil began to reach for the pocket on the left side of his jacket. However, just as his hand was hovering over the pocket in question, he jabbed his hand right in front of the mugger’s face, holding it so that his wrist was stuck out. A small puff of smoke escaped from his wrist, and the mugger fell instantly to the ground, unconscious and the knife slipping from his fingers. Elizabeth’s eyes widened.

“How—?” she asked as Cecil’s arms moved gently about her shoulders, ushering her forth with him. Gerald followed close behind.

“We have to inform the constable, Liza,” he said hurriedly.

“But how did you do that? What was that smoke?”

“A type of knockout gas,” he said, spotting the park’s patrolling constable. “Wait here.”

Cecil rushed forward and talked a moment with the constable, pointing out the location of the slumbering mugger. With a nod, the officer rushed past Elizabeth to perform his duty. Cecil returned with a sigh.

“That was too close,” he said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said dismissively. “But the knockout gas? How did you get it to puff out like it did?”

“Oh. Uh, this is how.”

He unbuttoned the cuff and sleeve of his right arm and rolled both toward his elbow. A long, golden pipe, with an opening that would be hidden just below the sleeve, ran up his arm. At the curve of the elbow it encircled his arm with an equally golden clamp. Attached to the pipe and hidden in the elbow’s curve were two very small vials of the knockout gas—one, of course, being empty now.

“May I?” Elizabeth asked, stepping forward without waiting for his consent.

She eyed the contraption hungrily, fascinated by it. It was an ingeniously simple device. She traced the pipe’s path with her gloved index finger, muttering to herself as she did.

“Liza?” Cecil asked, clearing his throat.

“It’s a pull switch,” she declared. “When you jerked your wrist forward, the pipe elongated just enough so that the seal to the first knockout gas was released, thus allowing it to travel up the pipe and into our attacker’s face.”

Now it was Cecil’s turn to be fascinated. His amber eyes doubled in size as he gently pulled his arm away from Elizabeth’s grasp. He pulled his sleeve and cuff back into place and shook his head in wonderment.

“And may I ask how you know about that?”

She felt herself blush, something she rarely did in response to a person. It was mostly a flush of success that she felt when her cheeks reddened.

“I... am an inventor... of sorts.”

And she paused, holding her breath for a moment. Most the men she knew would laugh at her instantly. A woman fancied herself an inventor? How ridiculous! But Cecil only stared at her for a moment, seeming to be deciding upon some course of action.

“Come with me, if you please. There’s something I would like to show you,” he said, ushering her forth to the edge of the park that met the street.

He threw his hand in the air and signaled for a carriage.

Elizabeth had heard of the manor that Lord Cecil Waltham had somehow acquired of his own means. It was a gorgeous place that was quaint, even in its large size. Flowered vines climbed the two stone towers that attached to the front of the building, its glass windows gleaming merrily in the sun. Its front doors were heavy, oak, and lightly stained. Cecil led her and Gerald into the main foyer, in which Elizabeth had to pause.

“Your home is beautiful,” she said, glancing at the delicately carved handrails to his staircase and the polished flooring.

“Yes, yes, but you’ve yet to see the best part,” he said, not unlike a child excited to receive a new toy.

He led her down a hall that ran beside the grand staircase and passed her by room after room. Finally, he came to a stop in front of a large door that looked similar to the one that graced the home’s threshold.

“Look,” he said breathlessly as he pushed open the door.

And Elizabeth gasped. The room beyond was one she had only dreamed of having for herself. Long, sturdy tables were strewn about here and there, covered in all manner of machinery and gears and tools. Schematics hung from almost every wall, tacked unceremoniously sideways and over older ones. Elizabeth stepped into the room, her boots’ heels clicking on the flooring. Above her hung several finished inventions that, had she been close enough to inspect, she was sure she would be envious of. This, by no doubt, was an inventor’s room. She whirled toward Cecil, beside whom Gerald stood in similar wonderment.

“An inventor? Is that how you bought this lovely home? Have you had anything patented?” she asked, stepping closer.

Cecil nodded proudly. “Yes, indeed. And I’ve had two inventions patented, and three pending. And one showing at the upcoming Expo.”

The Expo! Elizabeth’s heart soared, and she ran forward, stopping a bit too close to Cecil.

“You could sponsor me! I have an invention that I’ve been working on for ages. It still has some kinks, but I can surely have it done in time for the Expo!”

Cecil grinned. “I would love to... but I can’t sponsor something, sight unseen.”

“Of course not. If you could come by my house for tea tomorrow, I could show you some of my work.”

With a polite, small bow, he said, “I would be delighted.”

Elizabeth had spent the rest of that day talking with Cecil about his many complete inventions and a few that were not so complete. He seemed delighted to have someone with whom he could converse about such things, and she, likewise, was just as thrilled.

So as soon as tea at her home was finished the following day, she had lost no time in ushering Cecil up toward her room, Gerald following of course. Once inside, he complimented the décor, which she immediately let him know her utter hatred of it.

“Oh, lovely,” he said with a laugh. “Because it really is quite horrid.”

Standing with her back to the bed and trying her best not to bounce, girlishly, on the balls of her feet, she grinned.

“I’m about to show you something I’ve not shown anyone, save for Gerald here, of course. He was my very first invention!” she whispered almost feverishly.

“He?”

“Chipper! Come out and meet Cecil!” she called.

A little uncertain chitter followed. Elizabeth turned toward its source and began to try and coax her clockwork friend out. Eventually, Cecil stepped forward and said, “Please. I would very much like to meet you, Chipper.”

Scampering forward and scaling her gown, Chipper the Clockwork Chipmunk came to a rest on Elizabeth’s shoulder. Cecil gasped in surprise.

“Amazing!” he said, stepping forward to examine Chipper’s every gear and casing.

“I’m sewing his covering using fur from deceased chipmunks that I’ve found. Ghastly, I know, but poor Chipper deserves proper coverings.”

“I quite agree,” Cecil said, straightening. “And you say this is your first invention? It’s head and shoulders above my silly little walking-stick-that-walks, which was my first invention.”

Elizabeth laughed and Chipper chittered merrily in her ear.

“What is your second invention?”

“Well, I build machines for clients on the side, which I started shortly after I built Chipper. But I don’t count them. Instead, I count this.”

Reaching behind her bed, she snatched CAT from its hiding spot. A meow from somewhere around her pillow sounded, and Elizabeth absently reached over to scratch Bella behind the ear.

“This is Bella,” she said, gesturing to the calico. “And this is CAT. It means Chapeau of Animal Translation.”

“Clever. Talk me through it.”

And she did just that, explaining everything from its inception to the kinks she kept encountering. Finally, she ended with explaining her parents’ feelings on her “tinkering.”

“They don’t believe it’s proper, that I ought to stop. They don’t know about Chipper or CAT, only the failures I’ve had before. They don’t know about my extra coin either. If they knew that I wished to participate in the Expo they would be furious.”

“Nonsense,” Cecil said, still eyeing CAT. “This is a sound device that only needs a bit more rethinking. And Chipper is simply delightful. And luckily for you, you don’t need parental permission, only a paying sponsor. And I, personally, would be honored to sponsor you. And, should you like, I would love to help you work out the kinks in CAT.”

The next few weeks were something of a happy blur. Every day, Cecil would come to have tea with the Nigels and would then go straight from that to working on CAT with Elizabeth. This, of course, the Nigels knew nothing about. The Chapeau’s workings changed almost constantly during the weeks, and a few times ended up with Elizabeth taking Cecil to Russell’s shop at the Dockside Markets—which had fascinated him.

And in the backdrop of all of this were the preparations for the wedding, which was slated to take place the day right after the Expo—again, something that the Nigels knew nothing about. But Cecil and Elizabeth choose not to discuss their impending marriage, instead diverting all talk to that of the Expo and CAT. Eventually, this led to Cecil sharing the whole reason why the Expo was even coming to this city.

“I don’t mean to sound too self-proud, but it is because of me. Some wealthy investors have taken some interest in my works and wished to see more. Thus, they chose to fund the Expo if only I were to show something new.”

Elizabeth had said that she was quite all right with this explanation. She did not care what brought the Expo to her city, only that it came. She had never been more motivated to work on CAT in her life.

Finally, the afternoon before the day of the Expo, after many gear switches and tube replacements and power source checks on the Chapeau, they decided that this was the final straw. If all their work over the past weeks had not succeeded on making CAT operational, then nothing ever would. The early morning birds chirped brightly on a limb outside Elizabeth’s window as Bella sat, attentive, at the foot of her bed. Chipper was sitting upon Cecil’s shoulder, his little gears practically quivering with excitement.

“Here it goes,” Elizabeth said, placing the Chapeau upon her loose curls.

She pulled the goggles of the strange headdress down over her eyes and crossed her arms over her work-suit-covered chest. Cecil’s breath was slow and deliberate as he stood forward and pushed the small, red button at the back of CAT to activate its power source.

The gears whirred, the tube made an odd sucking noise, and the whole hat seemed to hum. Elizabeth waited, staring hard at Bella, waiting to hear her “voice.”

But nothing came. Sighing, she reached up to remove the hat... and paused. Voices, two of them, were coming from outside her bedroom window.

“Oy, get your own branch!” one voice yelled.

“I was ’ere first, mate!” the other cried back.

Her eyes widened as she ran toward the window, glancing about the street below. None stood below her window. Her heart swelled.

“Liza? Is it working?” Cecil asked.

She ignored him for the moment, trying to make her eyes focus in on the source of the words.

“Watch it!” the first voice cried.

The two birds that had been chirping so merrily were now bouncing off each other in the air, fighting. And it was clear. The voices she was hearing... were theirs!

“It’s working!” she cried joyfully, and Cecil and Chipper both made their own celebratory sounds.

She turned her attention back on her cat. Now was the time to test and see if animals could understand her now.

“Bella, can you understand me?” she asked aloud.

Bella’s little head cocked to the right.

“Yes. What’s that weird thing on your head, Liza? And how come I can understand all your words instead of just some?” the cat replied.

Now Elizabeth was bouncing and clapping for joy, repeating over and over, “It works! It works!”

Finally, after a few moments of not having her question answered, Bella the cat sighed. “Fine. Don’t explain it to me. I’m just happy that you will now call me by my name instead of that dreadful ‘here, kitty, kitty.’”

She explained, rather hurriedly, CAT to Bella before removing the invention from her head.

“Congratulations,” Cecil said.

“Thank you,” she blushed, smiling.

“You should tell your parents.”

Elizabeth’s smile vanished. Hugging the Chapeau close, she shook her head.

“They would be furious,” she muttered.

“Perhaps, at first. My parents weren’t all that thrilled when I decided to become an inventor, myself. But success helps, and this is most certainly a success. Perhaps, once they see it...?”

Elizabeth sighed. “They wouldn’t care for my success. All they care about is what is proper for a Lady.”

“But will you try? For me?”

Smiling softly at him, she nodded. “Only once... for you.”

The next morning, the morning of the Expo, Elizabeth descended the stairs with CAT tucked under her arm and Chipper on her shoulder. Needless to say, this was quite a shock to Mary and William.

“What in the name of our Lord and Savior is all that?” her father exclaimed, his eyes looking too big for his head.

With a deep breath, she explained everything. She began, diplomatically, with her deep love of inventing. From there, she moved on to the creation of Chipper, and from there, the creation of the Chapeau—she assumed that they still need not know about her workings for extra coin. Finally, she ended with the Expo. By the end of it all, Mary and William looked like they had both sucked the juice of a lemon.

“Absolutely not,” William breathed, letting out as little air as possible.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. But why was she so shocked? Had she really believed her parents to be as accepting of their daughter as Cecil’s had been of their son?

“You will not show at this... Expo,” William forbade.

Elizabeth shook her head. “This isn’t fair. CAT works, and you’re looking at Chipper. I’m good at this. I should be allowed—”

But Mary cut her off. “‘Should be allowed?’ The only things that you should be allowed to do is what your father and I tell you! Now, your father says you will not show at this silly Expo, and you will not show. To your room! This instant!”

Elizabeth felt the sting of tears in her eyes, but held them back. Whirling, she fled back up the stairs where she slammed her door behind her. With a growl, she fought the urge to throw CAT from her. Chipper slowly slid down her sleeve, jumping the rest of the way to the floor.

“How dare they treat me like some sort of insolent child! Like some insignificant being! Well, I’m going, despite what they say,” she muttered to no one in particular.

Chipper chittered nervously, while Bella stared on in confusion.

Elizabeth allowed the hours to pass, as the Expo was being held in the early afternoon. She had placed the Chapeau upon her head and worked out a plan with Bella as to how to escape the house. She had ordered that Chipper stay put. Bella had assured Elizabeth that she could sneak out, at which point she could meet her two houses down the street. Thus, the plan was made.

As the clocks in the house were chiming three, Elizabeth—with Bella already having snuck out—climbed down the trellis just below her window. Her boots hit the ground with barely any noise and she lost no time in running down the street, careful to keep out of sight as went. Once she had found Bella, she instructed her cat that she would carry her the rest of the way to the Expo. Of course, the pampered animal did not argue.

She arrived to meet Cecil just outside of the Expo, only a few minutes later than planned. He did not seem to mind, and only ushered her gently into line. He explained that since his was the prize attraction, that he should do the talking to gain her a place within the large stone building. Elizabeth was too out of breath to argue.

Finally, they arrived at the table that had been set up outside the building’s main entrance; the hosts of the Expo—two men of obviously high status that Elizabeth simply did not know—gave her a strange look. Of course, she was still wearing her own invention atop her head and held a very grumpy-looking calico cat in her arms. But Cecil coughed, dragging the men’s attention to him.

“Gentlemen, I am Lord Cecil Waltham, and I would like to sponsor this young woman’s entrance into the Expo,” he declared.

There was a brief pause as both hosts exchanged glances. Both men wore similar suits of gray and had similar haircuts and bushy mustaches. The only instantly recognizable difference between the two was that the one on the right had bright red hair and the one of the left had ebony locks. Finally, clearing his throat, the red-haired one spoke.

“I’m so sorry, milord, but she’s missed the entrance deadline. I’m afraid she won’t be able to show,” he boomed so loudly that Elizabeth was sure that the whole line behind her must have heard.

“What?” Cecil asked incredulously. “That’s preposterous!”

The ebony haired one shook his head. “Those are the rules, I’m afraid.”

Elizabeth sighed and went to move out of the line when Cecil stopped her. His eyes were set furiously upon the two hosts.

“And I’m afraid that those aren’t the rules at all. There’s not even an application! All you must do is give the name of yourself and your invention. There is no deadline, excepting of course the close of the Expo.”

Both men looked stunned, as did Elizabeth. The two hosts began to mutter incoherently, looking back and forth between themselves and Cecil. Finally, the red-headed one spoke again.

“Very well. If we must be quite frank, sir, we do not want a woman to show here,” he explained.

“What?” Elizabeth hissed.

“What’s going on?” Bella asked, turning her furry head up at her mistress.

“Nothing,” Elizabeth whispered, petting her. “I’ll explain later.”

This garnered strange looks from the hosts, but both Elizabeth and Cecil ignored them.

“That is positively ludicrous! I, myself, have seen her invention at work, and you just witnessed it yourselves! To not let her show on account of her gender is... is...”

“Be that as it may, we believe that a woman inventor would simply be a waste of space, if you do so pardon my wording. I mean, who would want to buy any sort of machinery from a woman?” the ebony-haired host said, something of a laugh forming deep within his throat.

Cecil’s mouth moved like a fish who had been pulled out of water. Finally, he closed his lips tightly together and smiled a smug smile.

“Very well. Then I will not show. I herby withdraw my name.”

“What?” the two hosts and Elizabeth said in unison.

“That’s right. And what will your dear sponsors think of that? The one person they came here to see, and he’s pulled his name. Tell me, just how much would you be expected to refund to them?”

The two hosts looked as if their heads might explode. Finally, inevitably, they allowed Elizabeth to give her name to show at the Expo.

They placed her in a small booth close to Cecil’s, who wished her the best of luck as he went to show his own invention. She was a bit nervous at first as people—a little more than what she had truly expected—stopped by to hear of CAT and give it a little go themselves. After the first hour, however, Elizabeth had never felt more at home. She had even managed a couple of buyers interested in investing in her Chapeau—which was a couple more than what she had expected. She had been by no means the hit of the Expo—that title clearly went to Cecil, whose booth was barely ever empty—but she had gained a proper amount of attention. And she could not have asked for more.

So that night, when Cecil dropped Bella and she back at her house, she felt as if she could dance on air. She entered her home, forgetting entirely the means by which she had left. This lapse in memory was indeed momentary. She had gone no further than six paces when she came face to face with the angry forms of her father and mother.

“Deliberately disobeyed us,” William Nigel hissed.

“Absolutely disgraceful,” Mary put in, spitting the word from her lips.

But Elizabeth would not let her night be ruined.

“I don’t care,” she said firmly. “The Expo was wonderful, and I’m finally getting what I want for myself. If I had the chance, I would do it all again.”

This seemed to anger them more than her sneaky escape had. Mary strode forth.

“How dare you! After we’ve spent all day, slaving away, decorating to give you the most fashionable outdoor wedding!”

“I don’t want to get married.”

Both parents paused.

“Pardon?” William asked.

“I do not wish to marry tomorrow. I barely know Cecil. We are just now comfortable around each other. I do not want to marry him.”

Elizabeth had never seen her father so livid. Rushing forward, he shoved a thick finger into his daughter’s face.

“Now listen here, young lady. You will do what we tell you, when we tell you. You are our child, and until such time that you are taken in by your husband, you will obey our rules. Now, to your room! You will marry Young Lord Waltham tomorrow, if I have no choice but to force you down that aisle myself!”

Her chin quivered, but she would not cry again. Turning slowly, she ascended into her bedroom. She allowed Bella to jump from her arms to the floor, and gently placed CAT upon her dressing table. And she paused.

Sitting there, in the center of the room upon a body form, was her wedding dress. It was beautiful gown of white, its corset body lightly embroidered. Its long train was arranged carefully about the bottom of the dress, some lace playfully showing behind. Walking toward it, she paused.

“Everything they say I must do, I must do. But who says that I must do it in the same way?” she muttered. Turning, she called for Chipper.

Once the chipmunk had appeared, she had him retrieve all the sewing materials and loose gears she had in her room. Removing her dress from her form, she sat upon her chair, needle poised and ready.

“If I must marry tomorrow, then I will do so in my own way for once in my life,” she said to Chipper as he looked on curiously.

And that night, Elizabeth would get no sleep at all. Finishing her newest project was far more important.

The next day, all the guests were ready and seated in the Nigels’ beautiful rear garden. The bridal procession was ready, with tradition dictating that Elizabeth walk first. However, she decided that, for the big reveal of her little project, it would be best if Cecil went first. He did so with no complaint and only mild confusion. Arm-in-arm with Lady Mary Nigel, he approached the altar where he gently allowed the woman to go to her seat. He turned, staring back up the aisle as a little furry creature emerged and ran toward him. Upon closer inspection it was a tiny chipmunk, its fur gleaming and silky in the afternoon sun. It scaled Cecil’s trousers and sleeve to come to rest on his shoulder. Then, a small whirring noise was heard as a tiny compartment open on its back and produced two wedding bands. Cecil’s eyes widened, as did those of the guests.

“Chipper?” Cecil whispered.

Chipper answered by petting Cecil’s earlobe. At the back of the aisle, Elizabeth allowed the rest of the bridal party—her two sisters and Cecil’s two groomsmen—to enter before her. Finally, she dismissed the young flower girl from her duty, sending her to sit with her mother. William, alarmed, leaned down to his daughter.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “This is completely out of line! Tradition states that the order is—”

But Elizabeth cut him off.

“I’m breaking with tradition. Father, please take a seat.”

For a moment, William looked as if he was going to argue, but decided against it, following his daughter’s wishes. Then, her white dress gleaming in the sun and her bouquet smelling of the freshest flowers, Elizabeth took exactly five steps down the aisle.

And there, she stopped. Unseen by the guests, she hit a small button that led to a machine she had rigged into her bouquet. Immediately, two spouts of flower petals began to spring forth upon the ground like some lovely fountain. The audience was pleasantly awed. Grinning a sly smile, she removed one hand from her bouquet and hit a hidden button on the left-inside sleeve of her wedding down, moving the bouquet so that it hung limply by her side. This audience had already seen two of her projects from the night before—the bouquet and Chipper’s fur. It was time to reveal the third. The dress itself.

Gears whirred as the dress began to transform before everyone’s very eyes. Gasping and muttering, the audience watched as the front part of her skirt slowly lifted to hang, gathered, just in the middle of her thighs, revealing the knee-high white, laced boots and white fishnet stockings beneath her dress. The solid satin of her sleeves pulled up and tucked themselves under at her elbow, revealing nothing but a laced white sleeve instead. The chest of her dress lowered to reveal the full neck cuff she had put on and some of her cleavage. And finally, the satin covering her upper-back rose—leaving more lace behind—to form a high collar around her neck. From the place where her bustle should be, she removed a small top hat, all in white and decorated with golden clock gears, and placed it upon her head. With her dress fully transformed, she finished her walk up the aisle, where Cecil stood, stunned.

The audience was not thrilled by this reveal. Several of the guests had already stood, indignantly, and taken their leave. Finally, only a handful of people—among them, the parents—remained.

“Elizabeth!” Mary screeched shrilly.

“Mother, I told you and Father both that I did not wish to marry. So, if I have to marry, I wish to do so in my own way. That is the end of it,” Elizabeth said proudly.

Lord Phillip Waltham stood, looking so much like an older version of his son, and said, “This is simply scandalous! We will not have our only son wed to this... this... harlot!”

William and Mary gasped, and Cecil stepped forward.

“Please! If truth be told, I do not wish to marry either. I... am fond of Elizabeth, and perhaps we shall marry in the future. But as of now, I am more interested in the partnership we could develop as fellow inventors,” he said.

Phillip and Edna looked nothing short of shocked while Mary and William looked like they had died and returned from a surprising afterlife. No one spoke for a long while. Finally, Mary cleared her throat.

“But... you will marry her... one day?” she choked out.

Cecil and Elizabeth exchanged glances, and she smiled to see Cecil blush at her dress. Turning quickly back, he nodded.

“Yes, Lady Nigel. After we have gotten to know of one another.”

With the remaining guests and parents grumbling that that answer was “good enough,” the garden emptied of all but Cecil, Elizabeth, and Chipper.

“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, tossing her bouquet carelessly to the side. “Not many would have stood up for me like that. I knew I was taking a great risk.”

“Ah, but Liza, isn’t that the very soul of invention? Risk? I think that one day we will marry... but for now... explain how you altered your gown. We might be able to find a very lucrative market for self-changing clothes.”

Hours passed and the sun had long set before either noticed. But, by the end of that day, neither had married, but both had made a commitment to the project of Self-Changing Clothes.

A Cat’s Cry in Pluto’s Kitchen

James Chambers

––––––––

The fleeing boy hurdled a pile of rotting trash then dashed toward a hole in the brick wall at the end of the dank, theater district alley. Darting ahead of Detective Daniel Matheson and three of New Alexandria’s finest, Morris Garvey leapt after him, skidding on slick garbage as he landed, almost falling, but then racing faster when the boy dove for his escape route. Garvey, a man who acknowledged few limits, poured it on then skidded to a crouch and snatched the boy’s feet before he passed all the way through the hole. He yanked him back and lifted him. In the boy’s tight grip dangled a burlap sack stuffed with cash, plucked only minutes ago from a crack in the foundation of the Fullerton Street Burlesque House—ransom placed there this hazy Sunday morning in hopes of recovering Brazilian virtuoso Felipe Sandeman’s stolen violin. One glance told Garvey, who had handled rough street children before, that the struggling, kicking boy, about twelve years old, was not the thief they were looking for, only a simple courier, or worse yet, a naïve patsy. Now he needed the boy to gather his wits and focus on what he had to say before Matheson’s coppers caught up and put the fear of God into him. The detective’s hand-picked squad was a trusty group, but they believed intimidation was the only way to deal with children.

“Boy,” he said. “Look at my face. Do you know who I am?”

The boy glanced at Garvey but kept struggling. When awareness lit up his eyes, he took another look. The fight bled out of him.

“You know me? Yes?” Garvey said.

“You’re the steam sweep man. Everyone knows you.”

It was true. In New Alexandria people said that if you built a better chimney sweep the world would beat a path to your door. That was because Morris Garvey had made a fortune by building a better chimney sweep, enough money, in fact, to create the city’s most profitable and best-known business: Morris Garvey Steam Sweeps and Machinations Sundry. But steam-powered, automatic chimney sweeps were only the beginning for Garvey, who had grown Machinations Sundry into every field of mechanical and magical endeavor, garnering an international reputation for embodying the height of modern ingenuity, all before age 30.

“Then you know my reputation for dealing with alley rats like yourself,” Garvey said.

“Yes, sir. I do, sir.”

“Good.” Thudding footsteps warned that the police were approaching fast. “Under no circumstances will you leave this alley with that bag of money. I trust you understand that. But you may still choose where you wind up today, either locked in The Tombs or sitting down to a hot meal and a chance for a future. So make the best decision of your life, now, son. Trust me. Go along with everything I say. Can I count on you?”

The boy nodded.

Garvey stifled a laugh at the frantic blend of awe and confusion in the boy’s face. Given the child’s involvement in the ransom pick-up, Garvey suspected this was not the first time his world had been turned upside down in recent days. He only hoped the boy was bright enough to seize the opportunity being offered him.

“Excellent. What’s your name?” Garvey asked.

“Andy Parker, sir.”

“Nice to meet you, Andy.”

Detective Matheson reached the end of the alley in a thunder of footfalls and a flapping bluster of overcoat.

“Damnation, Morris, but you run like a jackrabbit,” Matheson said, catching his breath. Then with a sneer at the panting police officers arriving behind him, he added, “At least someone in this lazy urban blight can still stretch their legs, all right. Here I am, a fifty-two year old cowboy outrunning three of the New Alexandria’s finest, and our little rabbit would’ve been down his hole if not for you.”

The broad, Texas drawl in Matheson’s voice made everything he said sound much larger than life, even “Homeric” as Garvey had described it the first time the two met. That Matheson had appreciated the reference had secured in an instant the friendship between the two men, who could not be more different. Where Garvey had grown up on the streets of New Alexandria and built a fortune through his wits, intelligence, and hard work, the older Matheson hailed from a cattle ranch in Texas, where he had at times carved out a living as a sheriff, a gunfighter, a blacksmith, a sportswriter, and a even a schoolteacher. He had come north to New Alexandria to study modern police techniques and risen to the top of the city’s police force.

“The money is secure,” Garvey said. He stood Parker on his feet and dusted him off. “If you would do the honors, Mr. Parker.”

With only a moment’s thought Parker handed the cash sack over to Matheson. “Not a cent less than when I snatched it, sir.”

Garvey was pleased to see his snap judgment that Mr. Parker was cleverer than not had been correct.

“Now, don’t try playing on my good nature, son,” the detective said. “Thievery and ransom aren’t pursuits to be taken lightly, no matter how young you might be. I’ll be sure and tell the judge how you turned this in after you were caught, but I’m afraid you’ll be bedding down in The Tombs tonight.”

“Detective,” Garvey said. “I can save you a lot of trouble and work in that department. You see, Mr. Parker here is, in fact, a member of my Sundry Troubleshooters. In training, of course, and still wet behind the ears, which is why he didn’t recognize me right off and ran. It was only last week I gave him his first probationary field orders to find mischief, get mixed up in it, and report back to me. He was headed to my offices, directed by his inflated sense of loyalty to turn this money over to me rather than take his chances with your uniformed colleagues. I’m certain he can give us valuable information about who put him up to grabbing the ransom. We both know it was no common street wretch who engineered the theft of Felipe Sandeman’s violin. Consider our good fortune that the perpetrators recruited one of my lads for this exercise.”

“Our good fortune, you say.” Matheson removed his hat, wiped sweat from his brow, and let out a long breath. “And what say you, young Mr. Parker? Is that how it really is?”

“Yes, sir,” Parker said. “Like Mr. Garvey tells it.”

Garvey’s reputation for rescuing lost children was common knowledge in New Alexandria. It was born after he hired many of the young chimney sweeps his steam sweep machines had left jobless. Since then he often recruited capable boys and girls from the streets into his Sundry Troubleshooters, giving them a chance for a future doing everything from lab work to serving as his eyes and ears out and about in the city. More than once Garvey’s Troubleshooters had lent Detective Matheson a helping hand.

“Really, now?” Matheson said.

“Most definitely, sir.” Parker dug his dirty hand into a tattered pocket and pulled out a handful of shining coins and a gold pendant on the end of a silver chain. “The coveys what put me up to grabbing the money gave me these, sir. That’s evidence there, right? They gave me my instructions in Pluto’s Kitchen, sir, down where all them cats is running wild. I can show you where it was.”

“Can you now?”

“Yes, sir,” Parker said. “I’d be doing my civic duty and living up to the chance Mr. Garvey’s given me.”

Garvey swallowed another laugh and felt his esteem for Andy Parker double. The boy fell into the role of Troubleshooter as if born to it. He had handed Matheson what amounted to a fortune for a street urchin, exchanging it for a chance at a better life. Mr. Parker, Garvey decided, was even cleverer than he first estimated.

Matheson took the coins and pendant. “What were you to do with the money?”

“Keep it, sir,” Parker said. “They said they didn’t need it. If I got away, it was mine for services rendered.”

“You were right, Dan,” Garvey said. “The thieves have no interest in profit. This was a snipe hunt.”

“One we couldn’t ignore,” Matheson said. “Sandeman surely runs hot-blooded for a music man, and I believe he’d have popped a gasket if we hadn’t at least tried to buy back his fiddle.”

“His fiddle,” Garvey said. “Indeed.”

“Now we know the truth, I like this business much less than when we only had a hunch,” Matheson said. “This here episode was meant to send us chasing the wrong herd. Hell and damnation, the whole morning wasted. And it’s not like I haven’t got my corral cracking already what with the Expo closing and that Egyptian exhibit drawing crowds over at the Nestor Museum.”

Garvey grasped the detective’s frustration. Time was short. Sandeman was set to perform tomorrow night at the closing of the World Expo, and he refused to play with any violin other than his own. Sandeman was famous not only for his musical skills, but for his stamina in intense performances that often lasted several hours. His concert would close a month-long conference dedicated to improving international relations, and there were rumors of assassination plots afoot against foreign leaders scheduled to attend. The Expo had stoked the city’s underworld activity to a fever pitch in the past weeks, making the violin theft seem too opportune to be mere coincidence.

“Maybe not wasted,” Garvey said. “What’s that bauble Mr. Parker brought us?”

Matheson dangled the pendant by its chain in the alley’s misty gloom. It was a finely wrought piece of gold, fashioned with delicate, intertwined flourishes around its edges. Its engraved face depicted the bust of a beautiful, fierce, cat-faced woman dressed in a loose, flowing gown clasped at the shoulders with a Usekh collar: the ancient Egyptian goddess Bast.

Detective Matheson squinted as he studied the pendant. “Feel as if I’ve seen something like it only the other day. Don’t you?”

The carving was similar to a cameo on a bracelet worn by the Irish opera singer Maureen McCalla, Felipe Sandeman’s wife. Garvey had noticed it when Matheson introduced him to the couple two nights ago. He reminded the Detective.

“One cat-headed lady is chance, two a mystery,” Garvey said. “Perhaps Mr. Sandeman has been less than honest with us.”

“Could be,” Matheson said. He tucked the pendant into a vest pocket, and then he offered his hand to Parker, who stared at it for a second before he shook it. “Well done, Master Parker. You’re off to a dandy start as one of Mr. Garvey’s Troubleshooters. Make sure you stick to the straight an’ narrow, and you ever think about giving real police work a go, you come talk to me, y’hear?”

The path to Morris Garvey’s laboratory was calculated to give visitors a tour of Machinations Sundry’s most impressive features. It led them through the vast steam sweep factory room, where a hundred men and women assembled and shipped the machines that had made Morris Garvey famous. From there it cut through the railroad and street car engineering studio, then along a corridor that passed open rooms where workers built many of the gadgets and appliances Garvey had invented, and finally up to the company’s rooftop hot-air balloon port, which offered a stunning, 360-degree view of New Alexandria. A brass and glass elevator brought visitors down to Garvey’s lab, which was a complex of indoor and outdoor research stations and offices built within the facility’s expansive courtyard. The Machinations Sundry building occupied a full city block, and Garvey’s lab took up half that space, an area filled with the constant noise of industry and experimentation. By the time Detective Matheson, who knew the route well, guided Felipe Sandeman and Maureen McCalla there, the big Brazilian man was sweating bullets and his delicate wife was dazzled. At the tour’s end, a bearded elevator operator escorted them into the car and down to the laboratory level.

“Brilliant though Mr. Garvey may be, how can a tinkerer such as he help us?” Sandeman asked while they rode the elevator. “Why do you not have all of New Alexandria’s police force combing the streets and cracking some heads, as they say in the dime novels?”

“Cracking some heads, you say?” Matheson lifted his hat and smoothed his hair. “Well, now, Mr. Sandeman, I’ll surely take that suggestion to heart, right after clue-finding and fingerprinting.”

The elevator car jolted to a stop and the gate clanked open. The operator led Matheson, Sandeman, and McCalla through the maze of Garvey’s lab. The clang of metal striking metal, the hissing of steam, and the occasional crackle of electricity drowned out Sandeman, who carried on explaining to Matheson—for possibly the hundredth time in two days—how if he did not recover his violin in time to play at the World Expo finale then Argentina and South Africa would almost surely go to war over the Antarctic dispute. The more he talked, the more Sandeman sweated and reddened, becoming almost inarticulate by the time the elevator operator ushered them into Morris Garvey’s office.

“And where on earth is Mr. Garvey?” Sandeman cried in a burst of spittle-laden breath. “We are international musical stars. He should be here to meet us!”

“I’m right here, at your service,” Morris Garvey said.

Detective Matheson sighed in relief. Sandeman and McCalla stared in disbelief at the elevator operator who had seated himself behind Morris Garvey’s desk. Garvey removed his operator’s cap, pulled away the false beard he had stuck to his face, and unbuttoned his uniform jacket.

“It’s enlightening to hear conversations when people think I’m not present,” Garvey said. “You, Mr. Sandeman, speak far too much for someone with so little to say.”

“How dare you?” Sandeman said, his already cherry-toned face brightening. “You have insulted my honor, sir.”

“Any insult to your honor has been inflicted by your pomposity. I recommend you don’t now compound your error with arrogance or stupidity, not if you wish to recover your magic violin and protect your life and that of your charming wife.”

“I will not listen to this!” Sandeman shouted.

Ms. McCalla stepped between the two men, took her husband’s hand, and massaged it. The effect on the virtuoso was immediate: Ms. McCalla captured her husband’s attention and soothed him. The beautiful woman had said little since Garvey met her, but she carried herself with the grace and confidence of royalty, and her composure seemed unassailable. Garvey wondered what hidden qualities of Sandeman’s commanded her affections for the match seemed entirely unjust to him, and he envied the obvious dedication she shared with her husband.

“Felipe,” she said, working Sandeman’s hand in hers. “Don’t be foolish, my sweet. The man said he’s going to get your violin back and save our lives. Why not listen to what he has to say?”

Sandeman calmed as if the storm inside him had given way to its eye, and his face resumed its natural blush. He kissed Ms. McCalla’s hand then bowed to Garvey.

“I apologize, Mr. Garvey, for allowing my emotions to run away with me,” Sandeman said. “Passion is the great fault of those of us who have given our lives so fully to music. I am a lucky man to have a good woman to bring me back to earth. If you can forgive my outburst, I would be most grateful for your aid.”

“No forgiveness is needed for such a natural reaction to your situation.” Garvey stood and exchanged the elevator operator jacket for his own, which hung on a coat rack behind his desk. He straightened his hair and checked his appearance in a mirror. “It is I who should apologize for my deception. But it was necessary because until this moment I suspected you and Ms. McCalla of lying about the nature of the crime committed against you. I now realize you are only lying about your magic violin.”

“You have called it that twice,” Sandeman said. “But my violin is not magic.”

“Then why will you play no other?” Garvey said. “And why is it desired by the Cult of Bast?”

“Whoa, hold on there a second,” Matheson said. “A couple pieces of cat-lady jewelry doesn’t necessarily mean the Cult of Bast is back in town, does it?”

“I’m afraid so. Our morning was not as misspent as you thought,” Garvey said. “One cat-headed lady is chance, two a mystery, indeed, but three? Or four? That’s a pattern, a trail to follow.”

Garvey led the others to a cluttered worktable beneath a row of tall windows where he had arranged several recent newspapers. The open articles covered several events: the opening of the Egyptian exhibit at the Nestor Museum, the theft of a ceremonial cloth from the private collection of the city’s foremost scholar on ancient Greece, and the sudden preponderance of cats in Pluto’s Kitchen, a downtown, waterfront neighborhood. The last was played for its headlines’ comic effect, but it remained unexplained why every free-roaming feline in the city seemed drawn to the Kitchen. Also on the table were a record of a title exchange for the purchase of an old apartment building in the same neighborhood and a shipping manifest.

“You see? It’s quite obvious,” Garvey said.

Sandeman and McCalla regarded him with bafflement. Matheson pushed his hat back on his head.

“Obvious to you, Morris, but for those of us without the time and resources to track and study every last worm that turns in this city, it might yet be a bit of a leap,” Matheson said. “And how in the hell did you get that title record on a Sunday?”

“Called in a favor,” Garvey said. “Let me explain. The Egyptian exhibit opened last week at the Nestor. Here is a copy of the shipping manifest, which includes three unusual canopic jars, ceremonial containers normally used to store human organs for burial. These jars bore the effigies of cats and were dated to about 200 A.D., long after the fall of the Ptolemaic dynasty, the last Egyptian empire. They never reached the museum. The stolen Greek cloth was known as the Shroud of Ailuros, the Greek’s name for Bast, and was said to have been woven in Bubastis on the Nile River Delta. Lastly, there is the purchase of a decrepit property in Pluto’s Kitchen by the Sistrum Company at the same address where Andy Parker was hired to collect the ransom. A sistrum is a rattle favored by Bast. Since its sale, the property has become the epicenter of the Kitchen’s present feline infestation.”

“I confess it does paint a particular picture,” Matheson said. “But what has the cult got to do with Mr. Sandeman’s magic fiddle?”

Sandeman gasped, and then said, through clenched teeth, “My violin, sir. And it is not magic.”

Garvey held an open hand toward Ms. McCalla. “Ma’am, may I borrow your bracelet? You can guess which one.”

Ms. McCalla slipped a gold bracelet from her wrist and handed it to Garvey. “It can only be this one,” she said.

Garvey displayed the carved ivory and alabaster cameo inset into the gold band, its depiction of Bast was similar to the image on the pendant Andy Parker had provided.

“Where did you get this?” Garvey said.

“In Egypt. It was a gift,” Ms. McCalla said. “Sent to me a few months ago when I concluded my last tour of Europe and the Near East.”

“A gift sent by whom?” Garvey said.

“The wife of the mayor of Cairo.”

“Well, there, you go. The mayor of Cairo has been a widower for two years now. I was with him, consulting on a steamship program for Nile shipping, when his wife succumbed to a fever.”

Garvey crossed the room to a workbench where a brass tank was mounted on a wooden stand. He opened a porthole door, placed the bracelet inside, and then clamped it shut. Working the device’s intricate control panel, he said, “Please watch the lamp on top. The brighter the light, the stronger the magic.”

The mechanism vibrated and hummed. It clicked and whirred and puffed out weak blasts of steam from its release valves, and then the lamp came to life with a faint bronze light. Garvey checked his pocket watch, noting the time, counted down a few more seconds, and then switched off the device. The lamplight lingered then faded out. Garvey removed the bracelet and returned it to Ms. McCalla.

“Ma’am,” he said. “Your bracelet is imbued with a weak magical field, sufficient for someone to locate you with a properly attuned scrying device.”

“I had no idea.” Ms. McCalla stared at the bracelet as if she had never before seen it.

“My magic detector doesn’t lie,” Garvey said.

“So you finally got that thing working,” Matheson said.

“Even better, here’s the prototype for something to make life easier for you and your men.” Garvey picked up a tool that resembled a hammer forged from brass tubing, tiny gears, and pieces of gemstones. A smaller version of the magic detector lamp was affixed in the claw position. Garvey waved it over Ms. McCalla’s bracelet and a faint light flickered. “Ms. McCalla, I believe you were given that bracelet by the Cult of Bast so they could track you until they saw an opportunity to steal your husband’s violin.”

“But why?” Matheson said.

“Only its owner can tell us that. My guess is it has to do with the Thirteen Cats of Bubastis. Am I correct, Mr. Sandeman?”

Sandeman flopped into a nearby chair. A rivulet of sweat ran down one side of his face, and after meeting the three expectant stares directed at him, he shrugged and dropped his gaze to his feet.

“I have never heard of these cats of Bubastis,” he said. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“The truth ought to do,” Matheson said. “We’ll sort out the rest.”

“Felipe,” Ms. McCalla said. “I am certain we can trust Detective Matheson and Mr. Garvey to be discrete. Is that not correct, Mr. Garvey?”

“Most correct, ma’am,” Garvey said.

“All we’re looking to do,” Matheson said, “is get back your fiddle, make sure your show goes on as planned, and keep y’all and everyone else at the Expo safe. Unless you’ve committed a crime, what you tell us won’t go beyond these four walls.”

Sandeman emitted a resigned blast of air. “Then I have no choice. I must take you gentlemen at your word. I have not lied. My fiddle is not magic—but its strings are. The spell has nothing to do with my musical ability. They only give me great endurance, allowing me to perform for many hours without fatigue. But I keep it a secret because it would be very difficult to explain that distinction to the public. What that has to do with cats, I do not know.”

Matheson said, “Fiddle strings are made of catgut, ain’t they?”

“Not literally,” Garvey said. “The intestines of goat or sheep are most often used. But where magic is involved, the necessary materials are often unorthodox and sometimes quite literal. Mr. Sandeman’s violin strings may be made of actual catgut taken from one of the Bubastis cats.”

“Sonofagun, doesn’t anyone ever just rob a bank in this city?” Matheson said.

“I have told you everything, gentlemen,” Sandeman said. “I know nothing of these cats or their cult. I do not see how this will help me recover my violin.”

“It won’t,” Garvey said. “Not if we sit around here talking. Now, we must act.”

“In Bubastis, the legends say, the goddess Bast often dwelled for a time among the many temples and shrines consecrated to her honor,” Garvey said.

He sat pressed in the back of a speeding coach with Detective Matheson, Sandeman, and McCalla. The horses’ hooves tapped out the rhythm of their urgency. They were racing toward the Sistrum Company’s building in Pluto’s Kitchen. Matheson had summoned a police squad to meet them there.

“She guarded and nurtured the town as if its people were her children. Whenever the spirit moved her, she blessed random cats there with immortality and imbued them with magic. She did so thirteen times, creating a pack of cats endowed with enough magic power to have made Bubastis the seat of a new empire if only the townspeople had understood the nature of the enchanted animals among them. Alas, they did not, and soon the thirteen cats wound up scattered around the world by chance and Bast’s enemies. As centuries passed, they died, one-by-one, because Bast had not made them invulnerable to accidents or violence.

“Only one is believed to remain today, sheltered by Bast’s cult. They seek the remains of all the others, so they can resurrect them through magic. They can only do that while at least one still lives. If they believe the violin strings are the remains of one of the cats, then they want them. They may have stolen the Egyptian exhibit’s canopic jars for the same reason. It’s rumored some of the Bubastis cats were mummified. And I’d wager the Shroud of Ailuros factors into the ceremony they plan to undertake.”

“If they succeed, what could they do with the magic cats?” said Sandeman.

“Damn near anything they want to,” Garvey said. “But don’t worry yet. They need the remains of all the cats for the resurrection ceremony, and they’ll want to do that in Bubastis, anyway. So we only have to stop them leaving the city with your violin strings if they haven’t already.”

The coach tilted as it took a corner and then jolted over cobblestones. They were in the Kitchen, heading to the Sistrum Company’s building. The police had cordoned it off, and Garvey had assigned a handful of Troubleshooters to neighboring rooftops and sewer tunnels to monitor the less obvious exits. When the coach stopped, Matheson instructed Sandeman and Ms. McCalla to wait inside, and then he and Garvey stepped into the street.

Cats roamed everywhere. Black, brown, and gray. Calico, Siamese, and tabby. They wandered around and rubbed against the legs of police officers. They came and went from adjoining alleys and strolled in and out of the Sistrum Company building. They mingled with the police, purring and indifferent to whether or not they were in the way. Garvey, who was allergic to them, sneezed three times and kept clear of the largest clusters, while he waited for Matheson to choose half a dozen men for the raid.

The detective then led the way into the run-down building, which was filled with still more cats. The first floor was gutted and what remained was falling apart. The black gaps of missing steps riddled the stairs to the upper floors. Gloom filled the space, lit only by daylight creeping in through the grimy windows and cracks in the walls. Matheson halted Garvey there and ordered three men to investigate upstairs and three others to take lanterns and check the cellar. Garvey tried to follow the cellar group, but Matheson held him back.

“No need for you to take unnecessary risks,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the din of cat noises.

“Simply setting foot in this building is a risk,” Garvey said.

“And if it weren’t for the Cult’s involvement and time a-wasting,” Matheson said, “I’d have ordered you to wait in the wagon with our favorite fiddler. But I may need your expertise on the spot. So, stick close to me, now, y’hear?”

An alarmed shout came from the basement.

Matheson and Garvey rushed there, Matheson pushing ahead on the stairs. The detective lit a small lantern he carried on his belt, and the two men followed the beckoning cries of the police officer. They entered a large room, where three officers stood, their lanterns illuminating a grisly scene. Four men lay dead on the floor, each with their throat slit deep across the width of their neck. Blood dribbled from the wounds; the smell of it hung rich in the air. Cats circled around the bodies, eyeing the intruders with hostile curiosity.

“Those wounds are fresh,” Garvey said. “The killer may still be here.”

“The entire cellar is only this room and the other,” one of the officers said. “No one’s down here.”

“Not in the open at least.” Matheson sent an officer upstairs to put the others on alert for a murderer, and then he asked Garvey: “What do you make of it?”

Garvey crouched beside one of the bodies and lifted its dead hand. A ring gleamed on one finger: a silver oval engraved with the cat-faced likeness of Bast.

“Dead cultists make no sense.” An uncharacteristic edge of anger sharpened Garvey’s voice. “None of this does. They took the violin two days ago. Why stay in the city? Why bother with the phony ransom? What kept them here? These men wouldn’t be easy victims for a common cutthroat. Either they were taken by surprise or by trained killers.”

“Assassins,” Matheson said. “Damnation, I’ll have to warn Ridley at Expo security.”

“Shh,” Garvey said, rising. “Do you hear that?”

“What?” Matheson said.

The sound came again, almost inaudible: a faint mewing and the twang of a single violin string, like water plinking into a tin cup. Garvey paced the room, seeking its source, but Matheson pinpointed the hollow section of the wall. Closer inspection by lantern light revealed a series of discolored bricks, which operated a secret door. It swung open onto darkness. A cat leapt out and raced for freedom. The plucking sound grew louder. The men lifted their lanterns and shed light on a fifth cultist, who lay on the floor, curled into a ball, with a violin clutched to his chest. He lingered on the edge of consciousness and smeared with blood from knife wounds. The police dragged him beside his dead brothers. The cultist’s eyelids fluttered. He mumbled through quivering lips.

“That’s Sandeman’s fiddle,” Matheson said. “But what’s he saying?”

Garvey knelt beside the wounded man. “Sounds like, ‘Betrayed.’ Who? Who betrayed you?”

The man’s glassy eyes met Garvey’s intense stare. He released the violin and drew a finger across his neck in a forceful slash. Then he fell unconscious.

“We’ve stumbled into the middle of a double-cross,” Garvey said.

“They were working with the assassins?”

“Or the assassins were using them, taking advantage of their surveillance of Sandeman. The question is why? In either case, at least we’ve got the violin.”

Matheson ordered an officer to go upstairs and blow his whistle, and in minutes the entire building shook with activity as police conducted a top-to-bottom search. Several carried axes in anticipation of finding further secret rooms or hiding places. While they worked, Garvey wiped the blood from Sandeman’s violin and carried it outside to the coach. Garvey traced his fingers over the strings; they felt smooth and perfect, as if they would never wear down or break. He plucked random notes and was immediately refreshed and energized, but he also felt a dark undercurrent in the tone that reminded him of the source of the strings’ power. A hundred feet from the coach, Garvey stopped.

He was surrounded by purring, mewing cats that stared at him but would come no closer than a few feet. The animals gathered around him from every quadrant of the neighborhood. The violin possessed a measure of Bast’s magic, a power that even New Alexandria’s most contentious alley cats respected. The cultist's clumsiness puzzled him. He had driven them out of New Alexandria once before, and they would have known he would be on watch for their return. He could not understand why they had not, like the cats, shown proper respect for a greater power. The trail to the violin seemed too straight now, as if events had been manipulated for the illusion of challenge rather than the genuine experience. Because the cult never would have returned the violin, the staged ransom must have served someone else’s purposes, someone who wanted the violin to be returned, but not too easily. Garvey felt a nagging sense of having missed some small but important thing.

From inside his coat, he produced his prototype portable magic detector and passed it over the violin. The light flared to brilliant life, flickered, then brightened and popped in a spray of glass. The cats scattered with startled cries. Garvey reeled from the sudden blast but steadied himself. A haze of dusty light surrounded him. The instrument possessed much greater magic than Sandeman had described. Fragmented thoughts gnawed at the back of Garvey’s mind.

McCalla’s bracelet.

Andy Parker’s cat-faced pendant.

The dead cultist’s ring.

He recalled that on the second day of the World Expo, France had hosted a Night of 1,001 Gifts, a festive twist on the traditional exchange of goodwill tokens among diplomats. Garvey had read the list of presents in the paper; the Egyptian deputy ambassador had given the other diplomats jewelry carved with images out of ancient Egyptian myth.

Garvey stared at the violin.

Felipe Sandeman must not play this.

Then people were shouting at him, warning him, and Garvey spied a dark flash of motion on a nearby rooftop in time to drop to his knees and roll before two gunshots cracked the air. Something bit into Garvey’s shoulder and injected pain through his body. The street came to life with police men rushing in every direction, firing on the shooter, and Garvey saw some of his Troubleshooters dashing into the fracas too, converging from neighboring rooftops. He tried to stand, but his strength deserted him. He held onto consciousness—perhaps even his life—by a tenuous grip, as if a force outside him was bolstering him.

Matheson’s hand clamped onto Garvey’s shoulder and rolled him onto his back. Garvey drifted through a cloud of agony. Matheson tried to take the violin; Garvey refused to let go. Still, he felt it inching from his powerless fingers.

He shook his head.

“Sandeman must not play,” he whispered. He clutched uselessly at the violin. “The 1,001 gifts hide a death trap.”

Then the instrument left his grasp, taking the world with it as Garvey blacked out.

The shocked nurse leapt from her seat when Garvey snapped awake and shouted that Sandeman must be kept away from his violin. When he realized where he was, and the nurse regained her composure, Garvey asked, “How long have I been out?”

“Eighteen hours, sir,” the nurse told him.

“Then there’s still time.”

“Now, sir, please, lie back and rest,” the nurse said. “You’re injured.”

“Best do as she says,” Detective Matheson said. He was sitting in a chair by a window, half-hidden in shadows. “Nasty poison on the slug that clipped you. Seems the rejuvenating power of Sandeman’s violin saved your life. So, of course, like a greenhorn, I took it away from you.”

“The violin!” Garvey said. “Dan, listen, keep Sandeman away from it.”

“Calm down,” Matheson said. “It’s all rounded up now. I’m capable of solving a case or two without your inspired intervention. But I’m grateful for your ingenuity. After I saw your magic-finding doohickey pop, I confiscated Sandeman’s fiddle—which, of course, gave me no pleasure whatsoever—and I turned it over to the thaumaturgy squad. Turns out more than the strings were magicked up. Sandeman swore he knew nothing about it, and I believed him, so I put that together with what you said about the gifts. I arranged with Ridley to have them all checked and found a magical match: a pocket watch engraved with the face of Bast, given to the ambassador from Argentina. If Sandeman had played within a hundred yards of it, the magical backlash would’ve killed everyone in the vicinity. Damn ambitious bunch of assassins we’re dealing with. The one that shot you poisoned himself soon as we caught him.”

“They used the cult of Bast to get the violin so they could rig it with magic. And if they’d simply ransomed it back to us, it would’ve been too easy. It would’ve tipped us off.”

“They were planning for us to find it like we did, but we got there early, thanks to you. I figure they were trying to take you out of the game to even the odds,” Matheson said. “The Egyptian contingent claims someone slipped the pocket watch into their bag of gifts without their knowledge. Ridley doesn’t believe them, but he’ll never prove it. There must be someone else involved, but I can’t suss out who.”

“You’ve got a hell of an investigation ahead of you.”

“That’s no lie.”

“So, that’s it? No show for Sandeman?”

“Hell, no, that ain’t it. Sandeman huffed and puffed all the way to City Hall, so we got his fiddle strings cleared out of evidence. He’s putting them on a new violin, and the show must go on.”

“Good news, I suppose.”

“Better news is you pulling through.” Matheson stood, removed something from his pocket, and set it on Garvey’s nightstand. “Ms. McCalla came by to thank you. I told her I’d deliver the message. She said she didn’t think she’d have a chance to see you again before she leaves town, so she left you a gift. Get better, now, y’hear.”

Matheson tipped his hat and left.

Garvey settled into his pillows and stared at his gift from Ms. McCalla. He frowned. She had left him the magic bracelet given her by the Cult of Bast.

Deception

C.J. Henderson

It is in the ability to deceive oneself that one shows the greatest talent.

—Anatole France

––––––––

Five Minutes Ago

“It’s not working!”

Gordon Steadwater Biggleton, Master of Extraordinary Weaponry to the Crown, threw the three switches he knew so well in their proper sequence once more.

“Do something!”

Red then yellow then white—the sequence which should have made everything good and proper.

“For God’s sake, I’m trying!”

Red then yellow then white—the sequence which should have opened the siphon and begun the entrapment process as it had a thousand times previous.

“Well, try something else, mate, because whatever it is you’re trying now, I’m telling you true, it is in no way oilin’ the gears!”

Red then yellow then white—the sequence which should have thrown out the usual containment field and snared that which would have insured the domination of the British Empire over all the world.

“Oh, my God... Mr. Biggleton, is that... is that... it?”

All eyes followed Filimena Edgars’s delicate, gloved finger outward through the forward observation window of the Gibraltar’s gondola and tried as best as they could to focus on the mind-blasting horror filling all of time and space before them. His throat going dry, eyes bulging, mouth dropping open in startled fear, Biggleton found his jaw shaking, lips unable to form words.

Witless, helpless, he turned to his alien machine and fumbled with its three switches, throwing them in their proper sequence once more. Red then yellow then white—the sequence he had tested more times than he could remember.

The sequence which had never failed.

The sequence which had made him famous throughout Britain.

The sequence which had been somehow rendered utterly useless.

Thus condemning the good ship Gibraltar and all aboard her to a fate beyond the damnations of Hell.

Three Weeks Ago

“Captain Dollins,” said the young woman in the sensible gray ensemble, all but her quite pleasant face demurely and properly hidden away from public viewing, “may I present Mr. Gordon Steadwater Biggleton.”

As the two men shook hands in the center of the swirling gaiety which was the Royal May Day Observance, the older of them responded, saying, “Why, would be my pleasure, sure as sunshine is welcome in the morning. Any friend of my dear Miss Edgars ’ere is a friend by me. What’s your game, Biggleton?”

The two men could not have appeared more different on the surface. Whereas Dollins’ thinning white hair announced how rapidly he was approaching his senior years, Biggleton’s healthy, if unruly, blond mop advertised the fact that he was barely thirty. There was more. Where Dollins was ruddy, stout and robust, Biggleton was pale, slender and perhaps even a touch frail.

“Science, actually... applied as it is needed for the defense and aggrandizement of our beloved England.”

But, the easily measured physical differences separating the two men did not begin to match the brobdingnagian distance between their internal dissimilarities.

“Now Captain,” interrupted Filimena, “as you must suspect, I haven’t brought the two of you into proximity for nothing more than polite after-dinner conversation.”

Dollins was a friendly, open and genuinely warm individual who took each day as it came, thanking the Lord God in Heaven for every additional breath he was granted. His counterpart, however, was a reserved, priggish, and unaffectionate person who planned his every move with the forethought of an Alexander and the calculations of a Leibniz.

“Your charming Miss Edgars is correct, Captain,” verified Biggleton. Carefully manipulating his lips into a smile meant to convey equal portions of envy, respect and friendliness, he explained, “I’ve heard tell of your recent adventure over the Dasht-I-Kavir. If even half of what the rumors say is true, then you and your crew are the only possible choice for a mission I have been commissioned to undertake by the Crown itself.”

Dollin’s eyes went slightly wide. Signalling across the room to his pilot, Applejack Stevens, to join them, he replied, “I can’t say as to what you’ve ’eard about our little larkabout with Xibor, but sir, since I’d be willin’ to wager that quite a good portion of it is probably correct, no matter how outlandish, perhaps we should disengage ourselves from the roar of the crowd and find us a more quieter place to further consult with one another.”

Stevens, a larger man than either his captain or the scientist, had been waiting for the proper moment to join the trio ever since he had seen Biggleton enter the room with Filimena on his arm. It had not been all that long since the young librarian had become attached to the Gibraltar and her crew, and indeed, when first they had met the pilot had found her as insufferably arrogant as she had found him unbearably bull-headed. But, time has been known to change many things, and in the short amount of it the pair had been around each other since their voyage to the Dasht-I-Kavir, they had found much to admire within one another beyond what they had first thought possible.

“I quite agree, Captain,” answered the scientist.

Not noticing Stevens’ harsh glare, Biggleton moved them all off into a side drawing room. Then, after further introductions were made, the scientist got down to his proposition. Or, at least, presenting enough of an introduction to it to attempt to interest Dollins and Stevens in listening to more. The two airmen took seats, the captain in a well-stuffed chair with finely rounded armrests—his favorite type of seat—and his pilot on a comfortable-looking, but quite hideously-colored pink and green striped divan.

His choice of places to park himself had nothing to do with aesthetics, but was made solely on the basis that Filimena had chosen to alight there, politely sitting somewhat to one side so as to indicate that she would not completely mind the pilot’s company. Still upset over having seen at least two of the librarian’s delicate gloved fingers making contact with the scientist’s bare wrist, Stevens actually threw propriety to the winds and boldly seated himself within a foot of the young woman.

As Filimena blushed at such a shocking advance, somewhat across the room Biggleton placed his snifter on the desk in front of which he had positioned himself, then asked, “You’re a military man, right Captain?”

“Applejack and me both, sir, served in India, we did. Me in Africa before that.”

“Then each of you understands what it means to be given a commission by her majesty. To explain, I have been charged with the creation of a new defensive office, the Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons.”

“Well,” responded the pilot, “that’s a mouthful. What’s it mean exactly?”

“Good question, that. No hesitation, either. I like that, Mr. Stevens. Enough so as to answer in kind. The Crown is quite open to anything that might help keep England on a par, militarily speaking, with the rest of the world’s major powers. England is—as I’m certain you are all aware—in an arms race at this moment in time. Germany, France, Spain, Russia, all of them are stockpiling weaponry. All of them are pouring vast amounts of capital into military research.”

Dollins and Stevens both found themselves nodding unconsciously. So far they had heard nothing with which they could not whole-heartedly agree. Filimena allowed herself a slight smile of satisfaction. It was through her family connections that the newest ministry department had learned of the Gibraltar and its epic battle with a horror from beyond over the deserts of distant Persia. For some reason she was certain would be revealed soon, it was the nature of their enemy itself which had intrigued Biggleton so.

“Gentlemen, Miss Edgars, I am not, nor have I ever been, a soldier. Although I have always greatly admired those blessed with the temperament to do so, my fate led me along another pathway. As I stated earlier, I am a scientist. Approximately a year ago, a device was brought to my offices which had been uncovered in the Sudan. After extensive study, I have learned three things about it. The first is that it is something not of this Earth. It runs on a power source we do not understand, utilizing machinery our best minds can not comprehend.”

“That’s a pretty big ‘first’.”

“And it gets more interesting, Mr. Stevens,” responded Biggleton, his smile for once a thing of genuine pleasure. “Second, in experimenting with it, we have found the device to be capable of capturing, harnessing, and then releasing with quite devastating results a unique form of energy. And third, after having worked with this machine for some months, I have discovered that it can provide us with an almost limitless repository of power.”

“My,” said Filimena softly, her breath racing with her excitement, “my Heavens.”

“Indeed,” said Biggleton. Taking a small sip from his brandy, he placed his snifter on the desk once more, then continued, saying, “Which is why the Crown, most gratified by the tests they have witnessed, has authorized me to begin a program that will, in all probability, make Great Britain the dominant power of our world.”

“And how exactly would you be doing that, Mr. Biggleton,” asked Stevens, not at all comfortable with the manner in which the scientist was staring at Miss Edgars at that point. “And while we’re talking such matters, what—exactly—would any of it have to do with us?”

“I would do so, Mr. Stevens,” answered Biggleton, “by capturing the greatest source of power ever imagined. And you would help me do so by providing transportation for my device and myself to the place where this power resides.”

“And where, sir,” asked Dollins, beginning to not only understand, but share his pilot’s trepidation, “exactly would that be?”

“Why, beyond the wall of sleep.”

Then, as eager as Biggleton had seemed when first he had begun his speech to talk about his Ministry, he suddenly put those gathered off almost immediately after gaining their attention. He did, however, promise them a demonstration he felt would do far more than any collection of words toward enlisting their aid. Giving them a time and place—specifically, the London mansion of Sir Jeffery Mach, at seven in the evening two nights hence—he had then taken his leave, claiming to have much to prepare.

Understandably flummoxed by such behavior, Stevens had merely asked Filimena if she would care to surrender a place on her dance card to him, while Dollins returned to the bar where several other elder military types were waiting for just such an officer as himself to join them. Those in attendance had been telling outrageous stories to the newly commissioned officers present, all fine young men, but all certainly in need of being taken down a peg or three by impossible stories of outrageous valor made believable by the respectability of age and the disruptive effects of distilled spirits.

Two More Days Later

“I see you’ve brought someone else along,” said Biggleton as he greeted the Gibraltar crew, not paying any of them much attention as he stared upward at the parapet of the Mach mansion, checking the time according to his pocket watch. Nodding unconsciously, he turned his focus toward an unusual apparatus on the ground before him. As he checked it over, Dollins offered, “This ’ere is Spitz. Chief mechanic of my crew, a quite-rightly acknowledged master tinker, and England’s acknowledged Steamsmith to the Crown, no less.”

When Biggleton looked up, finally focusing on the newcomer, his eyes went wide as he practically shouted;

“What in the name of... he, it... that... he’s a chimpanzee.”

“I know,” offered Stevens, doing his best to hide his smile, “Brilliant cog and gear bloke he is, but have a care if he tries to get you into a game of chance.” The pilot lowered his voice, then added in all honesty, “He’s a terrible card cheat. Took Lord Holtz for eight thousand pounds, he did.”

“Don’t forget the old boy’s yacht,” added Dollins, “and those chests of tea and silks fresh back from Cathay.”

As Biggleton stared in a combination of suspicion and perplexity, Spitz ambled forward to inspect the scientist’s machinery for himself. Biggleton’s first reaction was to deny the simian mechanic access to his wonder, but a voice from the back of his brain whispered a reminder to him. He had heard tales of some of the bizarre insights a master steamsmith named Spitz had shown. And, after all, he told himself, if the mechanic—chimp or not—had been favorably received at court, who was he to refuse another well-considered opinion.

“Well, what do you make of it,” asked Stevens as his shipmate and best friend studied the device.

“Ook, ook.”

The machine was a simple thing, no larger than an average pumpkin—made of a silver metal, highly polished, adorned with but three switches set in a triangle. If one were to position the nondescript machine on its flattest side, the toggle at what would then be considered its summit would be the red one, its base consisting of one on the left which was yellow and one to its right which was white.

The device had several sliding panels which Spitz uncovered in less than a tenth of the time it had originally taken Biggleton, a fact which impressed the scientist to no end. As the Gibraltar’s chief mechanic got lost in examining Biggleton’s machine, the scientist motioned the others off to the side. Out of earshot, he asked, “I must admit, that’s one deuced clever little chap, this Spitz of yours. He’s really a chimp, though? Not just some hairy fellow from the subcontinent?”

“Our Spitzie takes a bit of gettin’ used to for some, ’e does,” offered the captain fondly, “but trust me, there’s no better mechanic in the empire, or outside it, either, I dare say.”

“Fine enough for me, Mr. Dollins,” answered Biggleton with an honesty which surprised Stevens. “The Good Lord gives out talents as He sees fit, and that, my friends, is exactly why we are here.”

“Does that mean the suspense is about to end?”

“You’ll forgive my theatrics, Mr. Stevens, but I do believe the demonstration I have arranged here will explain all quite nicely.” Biggleton checked his pocket watch once more, then announced, “Yes, it’s almost time. These things aren’t exact, of course, but if you would turn your attention to the parapet above...”

As all did as instructed, Biggleton pointed out a slight indention just beyond the red toggle to Spitz which, if considered from a certain angle, could be thought of as a sighting guide. While the others stared upward, the scientist explained, “The Mach mansion is one of the oldest in the London area, and as such suffers from the same type of invasive manifestations as many in England—”

“Mice?” asked Dollins.

“Ghosts,” responded Biggleton. His eyes were focused on the device, his attention completely absorbed by lining up the center of the parapet. He continued without looking up, “For the past one hundred and thirty-seven years, the disembodied spirit of an unknown young woman has drifted along the rampart above, each evening from the hours of eight to ten. No one knows why, but thousands have witnessed the occurrence.”

Then, as if on cue, a ghostly luminescence formed at one end of the parapet and began to move forward. The shining form moved slowly, not in the manner of a body being propelled by animal locomotion, but gliding instead. After only a few seconds, the random light congealed into a recognizable form—that of a young woman. The form did not speak or make any other noise. Nor did it take notice of those below it. Instead it simply moved from one end of the parapet to the other as it had for over a century.

“I’ll be fried for Sunday mornin’ bacon,” said Dollins, his jaw hanging somewhat slack.

“Butter me with the toast,” whispered Stevens, his own mouth hanging a touch open as well.

Biggleton did nothing during the apparition’s first pass or its second, allowing his audience to become comfortably familiar with the phenomenon. But, as the ghostly shape began its third sally along the rampart, the scientist spoke, his hands poised over his machine as he told the others, “Ghosts, as many of our leading scholars in the field have told us, are made up of ectoplasm—a pure form of energy. And tonight, I will show you all...”

The shimmering form moving directly into the path of Biggleton’s machine, the scientist threw the red switch—

“Exactly what...”

Then the yellow—

“Can be done...”

And then the red—

“With such power!”

As the first toggle had been thrown, Biggleton’s device had begun to hum. As the second had followed, the noise had grown dark and shrill even as a previously unseen portal had opened in the front of the machine directly below the sighting line. But, as the third had joined the others, a beam of shimmering light had snapped forward, slicing the air, burning it, leaving a slight trace of roasted ozone as it bathed the rampart—

But no trace whatsoever of the apparition, which had vanished utterly when the scientist’s iridescence made contact with it.

“Ook!”

“Gor, bang a hammer—you said it, Spitzie,” agreed Dollins.

“What just happened?”

“My dear Miss Edgars,” answered Biggleton as he swung around to face the others, his smile as wide as the channel, “you have just witnessed the reduction and capture of an ectoplasmic entity. But, allow me to show you something further which will finally reveal what it is about this device which has captured the Crown’s attention.”

Returning all three switches to their upright position, the scientist then moved the white and yellow to the opposite setting from the one he had just used. As he did so, a different aperture opened on the opposing end of the device from the first. Pointing out a stack of blocks and other old masonry off toward one end of the Mach mansion’s front lawn, Biggleton said, “Remarkable as capturing such energies is, so too is the use to which they can subsequently be put.”

And, so saying, the scientist depressed the red toggle once more, and the two and a half tons of granite and marble Lord Mach’s servants had spent some sixteen hours assembling for Biggleton’s demonstration were vaporized in less than a heartbeat.

Two and a Half Weeks Later

“All right now, Jackie, me lad, out with it... why the long face? You can’t be worried about this lark of an expedition ol’ Biggleton’s got planned for us, could you?”

The night at the Mach mansion, the scientist had explained the reason for his demonstration to the Gibraltar’s crew. The power derived from ectoplasmic energies, he informed them, had so far proved to be immeasurable.

“Lark?” Stevens eyes went understandably wide for an instant, after which the pilot narrowed them to slits, indicating he was willing to believe Dollins had gone completely mad. Giving him a chuckle, the captain admitted, “All right, the lark might not be the right bird to describe what ol’ Biggie’s got lined up, but tell me now, crazy as it is, it ain’t got you spooked none—has it?”

After the scientist had demonstrated such to the Queen, she had immediately created the Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons so that Biggleton might be able to search the world for more unique means with which to defend the empire. Experimenting with the Sudanese device had shown him things beyond his wildest dreams.

“No, I’m not going soft on you, Captain. Honest. We’ve shipped out into plenty of worse scrapes than this. Well, maybe not plenty of them, but...”

Capturing simple repeating vapors, such as the long dead young woman he had snared and used as cannonade that evening at Lord Mach’s had been the type of demonstration he had produced for her majesty. But, as he had experimented with other types of supernatural manifestations, the scientist had discovered that greater power could be gained.

Far greater.

“Then it’s Filimena, isn’t it? And all the attention what Biggleton’s been payin’ her.”

Capturing a poltergeist, for example, generated fifty to a hundred times the energy as a simple recurring phantom. Taking his machine to exorcisms and grabbing hold of the expelled demons brought him force enough to shatter mountains.

“I’d be lying worse than a Frenchman if I claimed different.”

And, it had been exactly that level of might the scientist had demonstrated for the delicate Miss Edgars more than once over the preceding weeks. Always careful to present himself as nothing more than a friend interested in the librarian as a colleague, he had finally revealed himself as having other intentions one afternoon when they met for a luncheon after which Biggleton had promised to give Edgars a tour of the Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons.

“You think ’e might have... intentions?”

He had done so as promised, taking her through the building’s series of laboratories, testing centers and assembly rooms. When they ended their exploratory junket, however, they found themselves not in Biggleton’s office, but in a slightly smaller one directly adjacent to it. When the librarian asked why they did not return to the scientist’s own office, he told her, “Because, I thought you might fancy seeing your own office, Miss Edgars.”

The young woman was greatly taken aback to say the least. Certainly she had always felt she deserved a place in the world of men. But, knowing one should be accorded an honor, and actually being in the proper vicinity when Fate came knocking to bring it around, she knew were two entirely different matters. Moreover, before she could even begin to suspect that Biggleton had some sort of devious ulterior motive, the scientist had quickly explained his intentions.

When the alien device he had demonstrated for Miss Edgars and the others at Lord Mach’s had been delivered to him, it had not been brought by itself. Another unidentifiable contraption, discovered at the same site, had been delivered unto him with it. Pointing toward a slender metallic cylinder on a work table in the corner of the office, he said, “That is it, there. And that is why I call this office yours, because I need someone with your particular talents to work with me to bring this operation forward to success.”

The librarian had moved toward the table as in a dream, scarcely conscious of having moved at all. Once both of them were standing next to the metallic device, Biggleton tapped a button built into its side. Immediately a sound filtered into the room, a type of nervous chittering which made the hairs along the base of Filimena’s neck itch intensely.

“My dear Mr. Biggleton, wha-what is this thing?”

“I must confess to being not entirely certain,” admitted the scientist. “The device, it speaks, as you can hear, but in a language I’ve never encountered. Sometimes, however, it chatters along in a tongue you know exceedingly well... the language of mathematics.”

The librarian’s eyes went wide, then relaxed. As she began to make the proper connections, Biggleton explained, “I’ve spent endless hours here, talking to this device, straining to understand it. What little I have learned of the machine which I demonstrated to you and your companions, I admit freely I was led to by this thing—whatever it is.”

“But... what does this have to do with me?”

“Miss Edgars, it is your particular combination of talents which is key at this juncture. As an accomplished linguist with a stunning knowledge of mathematics, I’m certain you will be able to break the last barriers necessary toward understanding what this thing is trying to reveal. Considering its proximity to the other device when it was discovered, I’ve begun to think of it as a sort of instruction manual.”

When the librarian simply stared, her mind reeling over all she had heard, Biggleton said, “Your expedition to Xibor, you encountered a horror which could pass through the barriers which separate existences—yes?”

When Filimena agreed, the scientist continued on, telling her, “This is what I meant when I mentioned the wall of sleep. This is where I want the Gibraltar to take me—take us—to a point beyond our own world, to the shade between Heaven and Limbo, where dwell creatures such as your Xibor... creatures we shall be able to reduce down to their basic elements and then transform into overwhelming power—power that shall make Great Britain the strongest nation in all the world!”

And, properly entranced with the notion of helping to make her home the mightiest sovereign authority in existence, Filimena had accepted the offer of employment with the Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons. For days on end she worked feverishly, sometimes not sleeping for fifty, sixty hours at a stretch. She listened to the clicking machine voice, spoke to it, studied its speech patterns, learned its nuances, sang to it, and joked with it. After such an extended period of time within the ministry walls she could not remember actually when last she had seen the sky, Filimena Edgars achieved the breakthrough which would throw the Gibraltar and all aboard her into a series of cataclysms so preposterous that even a writer of grand opera would not dare attempt to present them as believable.

Three Days Ago

“Mr. Biggleton, Mr. Biggleton—come quickly!”

The scientist had raced to the office next door, not daring to hope that Filimena’s excited cry could mean what he obviously hoped it meant with all his soul. Slamming open the doorway, he bolted to her side, his eyes widening.

She exclaimed, “It’s been done. The wall of sleep is pierced.”

“You mean...”

“I mean, our little friend here,” she said, gently patting the cylinder next to her on the table, “and I have become quite conversant. He understands us, knows what we want, and is ready to lead us to our goal.”

“Are you certain?”

*I am ready to lead you to the destination you wish to reach*

Biggleton stared at the cylinder, his eyes wide, his mind frozen in astonishment. Yes, he had communicated with the thing over the months, had even come to name it Roger in a moment of anthropomorphic weakness. But, to that date their discourses had been things constructed from the most broken of fragments, struggled together from the tiniest of shreds.

*you wish to use the triempalator to capture Bugg-Shash*  the odd, static-filled machine voice sounded again. *we can depart whenever you wish*

Biggleton staggered, overwhelmed by the moment. Visions of a knighthood dancing within his brain, he smiled weakly at Filimena, finally after several long moments managing to ask her to contact Captain Dollins and have him prepare the Gibraltar for departure. Brushing a long strand of perspiration-drenched hair away from her face, the librarian nodded and left the room, even as the head of the Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons collapsed into a chair and closed his eyes, laughing softly at nothing in particular.

One Day Ago

“Well, that’s the last of it.”

Spitz nodded his head energetically, agreeing that everything they could possibly need had been loaded aboard the mighty airship Gibraltar. Stevens stared from one end of the great dirigible to the other, searching for some flaw or complication which he might use to delay their lifting off. The pilot was no coward. He had faced numerous, overwhelming dangers in his time, both human and otherworldly, and triumphed on every occasion. Like his friend, Spitz, he was not one to worry about his skin or what became of it.

At that particular moment, however, it was not his skin about which he was worried.

“Captain,” shouted Stevens as Dollins drew near, “do you really think it prudent we take Miss Edgars on this voyage? I mean, well... you know... a woman on board, and all.”

“Oh, Jackie,” responded the older man, his understanding smile draped sadly across his face, “now don’t go gettin’ all ’earts and flowery on me. Our Miss Edgars proved herself just fine last time out. Don’t you worry about ’er none.”

And, before more could be said, an official government carriage arrived, from which Biggleton disembarked first, offering his hand as he did so in aid to the aforementioned Filimena who exited directly behind him. A ministerial flunky followed, bringing the triempalator—as the other mysterious artifact, the one named Roger, had identified it—and Roger as well. Before long, the crew had boarded their airship, the ministry’s machines had been loaded, the flunky had departed and, with nothing further standing in their way, Captain Dollins had given the word, and the Gibraltar had gracefully lifted off and headed for the clouds above.

Once a proper altitude had been acquired, Dollins had asked for a course heading to which Biggleton had replied, “Ask the machine.”

Quickly Filimena explained what had been learned about the second device. Struck by the marvel of it all, the captain simply instructed Stevens to point the Gibraltar in the direction indicated by the chittering box, amazed he had lived long enough to witness such an age of marvels. For some hours the great ship plowed the airways without incident or interruption, despite an ever-darkening of the sky. Below the ship the ocean churned violently, some manner of monstrous gale building at a frightful speed, but when the Gibraltar finally arrived at an area well out over the ocean—a spot with no sign of land in any direction—the machine sputtered slightly, then announced;

*the breech nears... you must prepare for entry*

Having positioned the triempalator at the front of the gondola earlier, Biggleton moved forward to utilize it so they might reach their goal. The shattering of the ethereal membrane that separated their slice of existence from all others was a tricky business. With Roger’s guidance, the scientist had learned that one might transverse from one side of the veil to the other only in or near areas of great meteorological disturbance. The monstrous gale building far off the coast of Wales was a perfect disrupter of the local ether for them to be able to stick their metaphorical foot into the opening inter-dimensional door and keep it there until they might pass through to the other side.

*you must descend three thousand feet*

“That’s crazy,” shouted Stevens. “That’ll bring us down too far into the storm.”

“It will indeed do so,” agreed Biggleton. “But only for a moment. Once we reach the proper depth, use of the triempalator will slide us out of this world and into the next.”

“Is anyone looking at where we’re being asked to go?” queried Stevens. Pointing out the front windshield of the gondola, the pilot noted, “If the sun’s gone black at this altitude, we’re looking at quite a tea party if we start to descend.”

“We took the money, Jackie,” said Dollins quietly. “And the Queen’s money at that.”

Gripping the proper controls, Stevens muttered a silent prayer and slowly began to ease the Gibraltar into a steady, measured descent. After the first thousand feet a frosty rain began to coat the windows. The sound of thunder increased all around them, while occasional bursts of far-off lightning made the maintenance of smiles increasingly difficult among the various voyagers. At two thousand feet, the heavily reinforced skeleton of the airship began to vibrate, the growing winds outside working to slam the Gibraltar off course.

At three thousand feet, the ever-growing cacophony of clacks, clanks and rattles echoing throughout the ship had everyone’s nerves strained to the edge, when suddenly, Roger announced, *search for the opening now*

“And, my fine box of gears and cogs,” snapped Stevens, barely able to hold the ship’s wheel in place against the pounding force of the maelstrom outside, “just what in all the roasted Hells is this opening supposed to look like?”

“I believe,” sputtered Filimena weakly, her one hand pointing out the window to their left as her other hung onto a stanchion for dear life, “what grows there before us might possibly be that for which we’re looking.”

As all eyes turned, they found a silvered crack in the air, hissing purple sparks from some far beyond into their own atmosphere. Wild with excitement, Biggleton snapped, “That’s it—take us in and through to the other side!”

Gritting his teeth as well as grabbing hold of his failing nerve, Stevens pulled on the large ship’s wheel and tilted the Gibraltar in the direction of the cosmic rift. The pulsating impossibility appeared to drift toward them even as they fought the growing storm to reach it. Then suddenly the fluidity convulsed and expanded, swallowing the great dirigible in a spasm which cut the airship off from not only the storm, but from light, sound and sensation.

“What the bloody ’ell’s ’appening to us?”

“Captain, I can’t... can’t seem to breathe... I—”

Before Filimena could finish her sentence, however, the atmosphere around the Gibraltar rushed inward once more, revealing an entire new world about the explorers.

“Where in blazes are we?”

“As suggested earlier, captain,” offered Biggleton, staring out into the vast, unbelievable vista of oddly shifting colors before them all, “we have traveled beyond the wall of sleep, we have marched past dream and imagination where we will snare the energy needed to make our beloved England the mightiest nation in existence.”

*no... you shall not*

All heads turned toward the cylinder known as Roger. As each in turn tried to imagine what the machine voice could mean, it saved them the effort of doing so by explaining, *you shall do no more than bring death to your species... as was intended*

“Ummmmm, well,” responded Stevens, his hands still gripping the ship’s wheel as tightly as he had during the storm, his anxiety now even higher, “I’m certain these intellectual types know what you’re talking about, but if you wouldn’t mind... could you throw a bit of an explanation in with that statement? Just call me curious.”

*the triempalator was placed on your world to be found... I am of the Mi-Go... my race mines worlds for elements we do not possess ourselves*

Spitz entered the bridge at that moment, but none gave him any notice, their entire attention focused on Roger.

*we have done so here, many times throughout your history, but human interference has become simply too unbearable... you must be eliminated... thus you were given the triempalator*

“But how does giving a tremendous weapon to one’s enemy make any sense,” questioned Biggleton.

*your type is always greedy... as soon as you found you could use the device to acquire limitless power, you threw all wisdom aside and rushed to where you were told you could find power*

Roger made an almost smug sound, a chittering chuckle as it were, after which it continued, saying, *I offered no proof, merely implied that you would find ultimate power here, and thus here you raced... you are idiot children compared to the Mi-Go*

“So you mean,” asked Biggleton ruefully, “that there is no Bugg-Shash?”

As Spitz strode forth, listening to the cylinder with curiosity, the machine answered, *there is a Bugg-Shash... that is him, coming for you even as we speak*

The human contingent turned their attention toward a point far off the Gibraltar’s starboard side, all of them moving as one, all of them overcome with the horror of what little they could discern of the thing closing on their position. Vast was the approaching darkness, an inky morass spread across the alien background, a writhing nightmare of boiling energy, a thing covered in bleeding eyes and screaming mouths, a mass sliding hungrily forth to envelop them all—only as a beginning.

*And you are helpless to do anything... we Mi-Go learned long ago how to transfer our consciousness from our bodies into containers such as the one from which I now speak to you... you are powerless to resist my voice... I shall merely hold you in thrall until Bugg-Shash has reached your vessel*

Each of the crew knew the voice they were hearing spoke the truth. As all of them attempted to resist, struggled to do more than simply stand and stare out the window, Roger told them, *he is a creature of infinite appetite... as he flows over this conveyance, he will consume you all, then follow the trail you have left back to the doorway to your world*

Dollins shook with rage, his mind filled with curses as he attempted to move, to shout, to scream, to do anything but simply listen to the droning voice—

*normally he must be summoned, a beckoning which allows him but one soul at a time. You, however, have provided what he has always wished for, an open invitation to feast on all of humanity*

Filimena trembled, shamed at having been blinded by her own ambition, terrified at what destruction her hubris might cause her world—

*he will glide across the face of your planet, unhampered, removing every last bothersome one of you*

Biggleton filled his mind with mathematical formulas, desperately trying to seize his attention away from the hypnotic influence of the brain within the cylinder—

*and then, when you are removed...*

Stevens went in the other direction, attempting to distract himself from the voice by flooding his mind with anger, hatred for the cylinder and its Mi-Go—

*we shall mine your world in peace, taking what we want, as is our right*

And then, as eight human eyes stared unblinking as the horrific mass of Bugg-Shash grew ever closer, as Roger’s voice laughed within the four human minds its carefully modulated pitch held completely within its sway, suddenly a tremendous crash of metal on metal was heard, and the eight human eyes all blinked as the four human minds were released from their imprisonment.

“Spitz!”

“Ook!”

Realizing the others were being held captive by a force which apparently had no effect on him, the simian mechanic had grabbed up the heaviest tool available on the bridge and brought it down with shattering force on what he felt would prove to be the cylinder’s weakest point.

*no... no*

Again the spanner crashed against Roger, and again and again, until finally the chittering voice faded, and all the others in the room blinked once more, suddenly realizing what had befallen them. Rubbing his eyes, then staring out through the forward windshield, Dollins cried out, “That blasted thing of yours, Biggleton, it pulled a ’oodoo down on us, it did, and brought us straight to that thing what you wanted!”

“Yes,” admitted the scientist contritely, “but now that thing wants us, and not just us, but the whole of humanity.”

“But,” insisted Filimena, “it’s not your fault. As the captain said, the creature within the cylinder had the power to make others do as it wished.”

“Maybe,” answered Biggleton, “or maybe it only had the power to drag others down the road to hells of their own choosing. Whatever the truth of the matter is, the reality before us is that we’re in an acre of trouble with naught but a yard or two of escape before us.”

“We’ve gotten out of worse, we have,” shouted Stevens. Giving the Gibraltar’s wheel a tremendous spin, he brought the airship about, pointing it away from the approaching horror, shouting at the same time, “Spitz! Get down to the engine room. Get those jackanapes down there working!”

“Ook, ook!”

As the mechanic exited at a gallop, Dollins roared into the engine room tube for as much steam as possible.

“Biggleton,” roared Stevens at the same time, “what are you waiting for? Use that stupid machine and swallow that damn thing up! That’s what we came here for—right?”

Gordon Steadwater Biggleton, Master of Extraordinary Weaponry to the Crown, threw the three switches he knew so well in their proper sequence once more, but to no avail.

“It’s not working!”

“Do something!”

“For God’s sake, I’m trying!”

“Well, try something else, mate, because whatever it is you’re trying now, I’m telling you true, it is in no way oilin’ the gears!”

“Oh, my God... Mr. Biggleton, is that... is that... it?”

The scientist fumbled with his machine several times more. Then, realizing Roger must have somehow made certain the device could not reduce the monstrosity heading for them into its basic atoms, instead turned his attentions toward Filimena, asking, “My dear Miss Edgars, did you follow enough of how that thing led us here? Could you map our way free, figure coordinates back home from inside this morass?”

“I—I believe so,” answered the librarian, “but which coordinates? And worse... no matter where we go, won’t that thing out there simply follow us?”

All eyes turned toward the port window. The horror which was Bugg-Shash was moving toward them with all the speed it could muster, its very motion a thing of diabolical hunger. Its million eyes stared at the Gibraltar, straining, glaring. Its million mouths drooled over the thought of its inhabitants, screamed at them, its hideous sound echoing through the corridors of the ethereal nowhere to which they had been led.

Stevens could feel the airship beginning to surge forward, but the motion made him wonder—what did it matter? They could not lead the horror back to their world. But, where else could they go? What else could they do?

Applejack Stevens was not a coward. He had stared down the length of a rifle into the face of marauding hordes and had not flinched. He had not worried about death when on the line with the regiment, and the idea of giving up the ghost to save the entire world actually had a certain amount of appeal.

But, he could not bear the thought of Filimena Edgars sharing such a fate, having to make the same sacrifice. Then, just as he began to ask Dollins what he thought of the idea of his taking out the Gibraltar’s scout balloon in an attempt to distract the trailing monster so the others might escape, Biggleton shouted, “Miss Edgars, the coordinates we need to reach are latitude 6• 6’7.2”S by longitude 105• 25’22.8”S.”

“But, sir,” the librarian cried out, “the creature will follow us.”

“Then that will be the end of him.” Turning to Dollins and Stevens, the scientist said, “Gentlemen, I have an idea. I do believe we can destroy that creature. I propose this only because these Mi-Go want our world. If we sacrifice ourselves, they will simply try the same stunt repeatedly until they succeed. This is no time for the cowardice of nobility. We must fight back, for the lives of every man, woman and child on the face of the Earth. Are you with me?”

Giving Biggleton a smile, Dollins asked, “Do we ’ave to save the French?”

With the captain’s quip breaking the tension on the bridge, everyone snapped into action. Working completely within her mind, Filimena translated the swirling currents of the ethereal dimension through which the Gibraltar was traveling, plotting the course they would need to follow to reach the coordinates Biggleton had requested. Knowing his pilot could handle the airship on his own, Dollins abandoned the bridge and headed for the engine room to help Spitz keep the crew in line, aware that the sight of him pitching in would help keep any who might be losing their grip to hang on a bit longer.

At the same time, as Stevens and Filimena worked to get the Gibraltar to its necessary destination, Biggleton had taken the triempalator to the lower level of the main gondola. Throwing open the bottom hatch, he stared out into the swirling eddies. Great spiraling whirls of color and disaster pulled at him, cascading arcs of greenly orange lightning splattering wickedly from horizon to horizon, whispering to the scientist, urging him to step off the platform edge, to join in the oneness of the cosmos beyond, to free himself of flesh and breath and the useless weight of his hindering soul—

“Stevens,” Biggleton roared, calling into the communication tube leading to the bridge, “are we there yet?”

“Soon,” came Filimena’s voice in response. “I assume there is some manner of disturbance there that will open a gateway back to our world?”

“I believe so,” answered the scientist. Closing his eyes against the nightmarish atmosphere outside the airship, he continued, saying, “Before our departure the ministry received a quite routine report from our people in the area of Indonesia. Seems there was some volcanic activity going on in the area. If it’s enough to match the disturbance a typhoon can cause, then—”

And, opening his eyes, Biggleton shouted, “Yes! It is! There’s a rift opening ahead of us. Head for it, Stevens. Go straight into it, fast as possible. And once we’re through, don’t stop for anything!”

The Gibraltar lurched forward, moving as fast as it ever had, Applejack Stevens’ steady hand manipulating the wheel ever so slightly left, then right, making certain the airship would slip through the expanding crack he could see growing in the distance. He was not certain how such things were happening, why no one had ever reported observing one before. But, he did not care. All he knew was they had one chance for survival and he threw all his concentration into making certain they succeeded.

Below the pilot, Biggleton prepared the triempalator. Moving it to the very edge of the hatchway, he held the machine as steady as possible, leaning over the opening, watching, waiting for the moment when they would pass through the dimensional rift, needing to time his next actions to the precise split-second which would mean the difference between victory or defeat for all mankind.

Behind both the pilot and the scientist, however, the swirling madness known as Bugg-Shash was drawing ever closer to the Gibraltar. The creature was not in a tremendous hurry, the meal offered by the racing speck before it was little more than a mote. But still, eternal hunger being what it was, the thing continued onward, relaxing in the knowledge that in no more than a few more seconds it would overcome and consume the fleeing appetizer.

Staring out the opening, Biggleton made certain the triempalator’s three switches were in their upright position, then moved the white and yellow to the opposite setting. As he did so, the device’s opposing aperture opened once more. Then, suddenly the atmosphere changed, the dark and screeching ether all about them shifting to the familiar steamy blue of home. Smelling heat, tasting smoke, the scientist watched for the volcanic mouth he knew would have to come into sight at any second.

And then, sensing the boiling red glow before he could actually see it, Biggleton depressed the red toggle once, and released all the remaining ectoplasmic energy his device contained into the raging mouth of Krakatoa.

Several Weeks Later

Although they had been able to transverse thousands of miles quite quickly within the jurisdiction of the other dimension, once returned to the world they knew, those aboard the Gibraltar found themselves once more bound by the natural laws to which they were more familiar. Reaching England once more, the airship’s crew had bid a civil, if not fond, farewell to Biggleton, sending him off to make his report to the Queen, and reminding him of the debt still owed to the Gibraltar Company, Ltd.

The scientist acknowledged his debt to them all, taking enough time to make certain Filimena knew that he felt she could still be very valuable to the Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons. Letting her know that her office was still hers if she so desired it, Biggleton made proper goodbyes to both the captain and to Stevens, told Spitz he expected a chance to win back the one hundred and fifteen pounds he had lost to the mechanic playing cribbage, and then had taken his leave.

Resting after their adventure, sharing a much needed dinner in a quiet restaurant where they might be waited upon, and pampered in a manner which might actually allow them to forget some of the horrors they had so recently escaped, Dollins, Filimena and Stevens ate with hearty appetites. Relaxing afterwards with brandy and cigars, an activity which would have shocked Filimena’s family if they were to discover her indulgence, the three amused themselves with attempting to blow smoke rings at one another. Finally, however, the librarian turned the evening toward the somber, informing the others, “I had a communication from Mr. Biggleton this morning. Seems news has been coming in from the East.”

“About the volcano?”

“Yes. It seems the entire island was disintegrated by the blast. It was so powerful it created a tidal wave that swept over both Java and Sumatra. Hundreds of towns were destroyed. Tens of thousands lost their lives.”

“Well, that’s the way of things,” said Dollins matter-of-factly. “Those Mi-Go blokes what targeted the Earth, Biggleton was right in the end. It’s a shame all them innocent blokes ’ad to meet their maker premature like, but like ’e said, even if we would’ve sacrificed ourselves, they’d just’ve found some other chump what would ’ave gotten the human race right back in the soup all over again.”

“It’s true,” agreed Stevens. “Sometimes sacrifices have to be made. Don’t forget, we almost died with them Sumatrans and the such ourselves, you know.”

“I know,” admitted the librarian.

“That being the case,” asked the pilot, “tell me, what else do you know? Are you going to keep on at the ministry?”

“Oh, I think not,” answered Filimena. Teasingly, she continued, saying, “I mean, look at its name—the Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons. Those initials, M, E, W... why, every time someone abbreviates the name there, they sound like cats calling to one another.”

Dollins smiled at the young woman’s comment. Stevens chuckled in relief. Then, just as their waiter returned to inquire as to whether or not they would require anything else, Filimena asked, “Gentlemen, I’ve been wondering, why is it Spitz was able to act when none of us could?”

“My guess is, my dear,” answered Dollins, “that that there Roger thing ’ad set itself to controllin’ human minds and ’adn’t counted on anyone like Spitzie bein’ aboard.”

“Lucky we were to have him along once again, I suppose,” admitted the librarian. “He certainly did know the right thing to do.”

“Yeah, clobbered that thing good, he did.”

“By the way,” asked Filimena, crushing out the last of her cigar in the table’s ashtray, “what kind of tool was it Spitz used to destroy the cylinder?”

“Why, what else,” answered Stevens, preparing to duck, “a monkey wrench, of course.”

The Ghost of Løve VanMeek

James Daniel Ross

––––––––

In the beginning there were the words. A million jumbled collections of letters lit up behind my eyes like endless stars. I felt them move, rotating inside my personal universe as each shed a feeble light which combined to form the mighty dawn of my awareness. The sound of metal on metal tickled at what could be called my ears. I did not open my eyes—I had no eyelids—but I became sensitive to the world beyond me.

All at once the rickety old shack clicked into focus. I observed the dirt floor, the piles of scrap metal everywhere, the abused tools and dog eared books. Mostly I noticed the teenage girl cranking at the handle in my chest and folding it back into place.

Her denim overalls were covered in splashes of oil and grime, with knees and elbows heavily patched and nearly black. Her red, wispy hair fought testily against her pigtails. Something inside me told me her name was Esmeralda.

“Hello?” She tapped me on the eye and clicked her fingers, “You there?”

An incessant background whir began between my ears as I moved for the first time. I gently reached out with a golden hand and Esmeralda lurched away from me, spilling tools in all directions. My first... instinct? My first reaction was to lunge forward to catch her, but instead my numbed legs tangled on one another and sent me for a spill against the floor. I made a sound like a clumsy cupboard of pots and pans.

I pressed my hands against the ground and pushed upright. Esmeralda scuttled to the corner of the shack and snatched a large hammer from a slightly rusty pile and cocked it back for a swing. I reached up to the surface of the table, but my hands gave me no sense of texture or warmth. I could feel the resistance against my arms, but nothing more. As I levered myself to my feet I could sense something loosen inside my head. A dizzying sensation hit me for a moment, but when it passed my feet were directed dependably downward, my head upward. With a desperate grunt Esmeralda swung the hammer at my eyes.

My body unleashed a strange shriek. I felt strange as the world lurched for a moment. Without effort I plucked the blunt instrument from her hands before she even finished the swing. The metal on metal scream ended and she squeaked loudly as her face paled and she dodged out of my reach.

Her reactions connected in my head in some mysterious way. I knew they meant something but I could not make the words fit in my mind. I shook my skull in case something had gotten stuck, but without context many of the words carved into my mind were like runes of a long dead god.

I set the hammer safely down on the table, feeling her trembling body dive for the door long before she moved. It took until she yanked the portal open before I could find the bridge between my inner and outer self and say, “Esmeralda?”

She froze, sunlight streaming in from the world beyond and turning her golden red hair into a flaming halo. Freckles faded into the embarrassed flush of her face as she turned to me with a mouth that formed a perfect little ‘o’. It took another moment before she gathered her courage again, “Did you say something?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Esmeralda.”

“You clockwork jerk!” She half shouted, half laughed as she hurled an oily rag at my face. I intercepted it, but Esmeralda was already all over me, adjusting, pulling, tweaking, and twisting. “I thought I had put a spoke in the wheel and you’d gone all funny.”

Her phrases caught hooks in my head, pulled to little grooves in tiny copper tubes, whispering their meaning as she exclaimed, “Lordy! Looks like the Edison tubes are scratching away like mad. You remember what the first thing I said to you is?”

That sentence took a moment to deconstruct, “Hello? You there?”

She paused in her work, “Really? Is that what I said?”

“Yes, Esmeralda.”

“Esme.” And though she said her name like an accusation, when she sat down in front of me, her eyes held only wonder, “You work. You really work. I’m a real gearsmith, Leo.”

Leo. That meant me. I could see it written inside of my head. I looked down at my hands with unblinking eyes. They were nothing so much as a collection of steel rods, brass pinions, miniature gears and clockworks. Feather-delicate webbing wrapped around complex pulleys, attached to brass plates and iron rods. Gears whirled behind my eyes, crunching together as every second was captured on Edison drums of copper with needles of iron.

“I’m not real.” I said.

Esmeralda laughed as she stood and grabbed another rag, wiping her oily hands across its grimy surface and redistributing the dirt, “You’re real all right. At least I hope you are. I’m going to need you.”

“Need me?”

“I’m going on an adventure.” She reached behind the table, which I now recognized as a work bench, and pulled out a bronze blade as long as her forearm and just as wide, “You are coming with me.”

She attacked me with an intensity that made me want to shy away, but in the end I saw her methods and remained still as she began to attach what she joyfully referred to as ‘my equipment’. While she worked I focused on the books strewn about the workbench.

There was a long flat case that took up most of the table. It looked like nothing so much as a child’s coffin, but only half as thick. A seal on the side, broken, said:

South- -ning Company, Ironton Ohio. Next to it a handwritten label said, 1907. A metal plate set into the scored and chipped wood said: LEO.

With brass fingers I gently flipped page after page of complex diagrams and tightly packed print. An urge built inside me, and it took a moment before the plates connected the word curiosity to the compulsion.

“What is this?” I asked.

She paused from connecting the sword to my arm and looked over my shoulder. “That’s your voice box.”

I turned page after page backwards through the book, now seeing the common theme. Edison drums scratched like mad as I found plans for fingers, toes, arms, and legs, exploded views showing every part attached to every other. There was more, more things like me and others not at all like me.  I passed the table of contents, but the next page contained a dedication:

‘To my darling wife. Though without children, the world can now build a bright future forged from our love. Our true legacy shall be discovered in the furnace of our dreams.’

I closed the book, revealing ‘Artificial Theology by Løve VanMeek ‘ in gold lettering barely visible on the stained and battered cover. In tiny print on the bottom it said ‘Third edition, 1887.’

Esmeralda moved to my left arm, where she attached a small shield. She did not talk while she concentrated on the gears, pulleys and screws, and I became convinced that she was used to working without an audience. I picked up another book, and another: Metallurgy of the Nonferrous by D.B. Smith, Gearworks Obscura by HG Wenns.

“Are these your books, Esmeralda?”

“Esme.” She said, “They are my dad’s. He was a gearsmith before the iron ran out in the mines.”

“The iron ran out?”

Esmeralda affixed me with an intensity that struck me to the core, “Years ago. But we’re going to fix that.”

I shook my head, hoping the Edison tubes had missed recording for a second, “How are we going to get iron into the mines?”

She grunted as she finished putting the final bits of torque on the central bolt to the buckler. “Well, not iron, but we’re going to fix Ironton.”

“What’s wrong with Ironton?” She picked up a complex gear and crank arrangement, shouldered a backpack, and pushed open the door to the rickety shack. I took my first steps into the larger world.

“I told you, there’s no iron in the mines.” The sun stared downward upon a city where glory had fled. Tall houses stood proudly in working class rows, but the reason for their vanity was long forgotten. Most had been boarded up, weeds encroaching closer to the house like an army of leafy green barbarians. Even the house closest to the shack, not boarded up and so presumably the one in which she lived, had a distinctively disheveled look.

Apparently inured or untouched, Esmeralda hitched up her pack and started off calling over her shoulder, “Come on, we need to make the Bone Orchard before noon.”

Without even questioning why, I followed. The houses were awash with soot spat from the sky, and the trees looked sickly and brown. Even the dirt was silty, wasted, with rusty overtones. I saw no sign of life anywhere. Every once in a while we would pass a home even worse than the others, with a roof caved in or damage from some long gone storm. A strange, lonely, crushing sensation pressed in upon me from all sides. I glanced down at the tools with which I had been outfitted: an extendable sword and buckler.

“Where are we going?”

“Wilson’s.”

That name, either as a place or person, did not exist in my head, “And that’s going to save Ironton?”

“We need supplies.” she said brusquely, giving me a strange look, and I decided not to press the issue. I did not have long to wander as the houses grew closer together and taller, becoming far more urban but no less deserted.

Wilson’s Goods and Provisions was less distressed than the buildings on either side, but one could spend weeks cleaning and only barely take the scab off of the grime. A bell hung over the door rang cheerfully as we entered the largely denuded store. Mostly empty shelves created deserted isles where a crude iron gearworker like me limped, clanked, whistled, and ground his way as he straightened and cleaned.

“Hello.” I said to it. It stopped for a brief moment and then went back to its work, shifting dust from one spot to another. I waited only another second before repeating myself. Again he paused, then unsteadily grabbed a box of corn flakes and held it out to me. When I didn’t take it, the poor thing put the box back on the shelf. I felt a connection to this, my progenitor, but I didn’t think that he could speak, or really understand what I was saying.

Suddenly Esmeralda was there, next to me, her arms full of various bric-a-brac. “You found Stony. You two getting along?”

I looked back and forth between the teenager and the metal man, “I don’t know. I think it’s broken.”

Esmeralda peered at my face, looking for some kind of clue, for what I could not say, “You sound... upset?”

I shrugged in response, but springs and pulleys throughout my body had gone taut and uncomfortable, “I don’t think it’s right.”

She blinked and frowned, but dismissed whatever odd thoughts she had in her head as she dumped her armload of stuff into my hands. Without fleshy arms, everything wanted to go everywhere, so I didn’t get to watch her pop open his rear service panel. As I desperately tried to keep a pair of apples from bruising on the floor she produced a bound leather wrap filled with tools and spread them on the deserted shelf next to the metal worker. She took out a metal cap from her pocket and put it over the end of a turning axel. The little device gently slowed Stony’s inner workings to a stop, and he sat there, completely and totally inert.

The whole experience of seeing someone so fundamentally like myself reduced to an object so easily caused my own gears to grind and certain springs to over-tension and whine. Esmeralda made quick work of it, though. Stiff brushes cleared out accumulated dust and grease that had become a paste. One hip was barely in the joint, and a quick tap from a mallet and tightening of the socket fixed the limp. She worked quietly, as if she were alone with her task, until she removed the cap, attached the wrap to her belt and brought out a new tool from her pack. The end was similar to the cap, but it was attached to a forearm-long pole that terminated in a gear attached to two pedals, like those on a bicycle. She pumped it for a few minutes, shut its panel, and then let the old servant go. It definitely went about his business with appreciably more speed.

She glowed with pride, but when she turned to me she affected the air of someone talking to a spoiled child, “Is that better?”

I nodded mutely, but our moment together was interrupted by a call from behind, “Esme Kuhn! You can’t tell me your father finished off that bottle already?”

The gearsmith blushed furiously as she turned and demurely walked to the man who had appeared behind the counter. Her voice dripped with honey as she batted her eyes innocently, “Good morning, Mr. Goins.”

But dark clouds had collected around Mr. Goins’ bushy brows. His dark skin was shiny around a black beard that jutted pugnaciously from his chin. Even half hidden by his moustaches, the frown was evident, “Never mind that, young lady. No more rum on account for your father!”

“Oh, no, Mr. Goins. I’m here to...” she motioned me forward so that I sat the armload of stuff on the counter. She popped six quarters next to the pile, “I just needed to pick up some things for myself.”

Goins slapped his big, brown hand over the quarters, “Esme, your father owes me for his rum. That is money I need to eat. Now I find out you have money—”

Esmeralda was blushing furiously now, staring hard at the floor as her hands made angry fists, “That is my father’s bill. This is my personal money.”

“I understand, dear. But you don’t think that you should make good your father’s debt?”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she blinked them away and nodded with as much angry grace she could muster. Goins pressed buttons on a dinging box marked ‘Incorruptible Cashier — National Manufacturing Company’ until a drawer opened and he dumped the coins inside. They clunked hollowly, the only occupants of the coin tray. But even though he was taking her money, he was moving slowly, eyes averted. One of the words written on my mind came forward and whispered: shame.

“Thank you, dear. Now run along, I’ll put this stuff back for you. I have to find out what whoever sent this clanker wants.”

But as he reached for the pile of miscellaneous goods, I stopped him with one, bronze hand. “She repaired your servant.”

My touch startled him, but my voice shocked him. He drew back from me, eyeing my shiny bronze surface suspiciously. “What did it say?”

I would have frowned, but I found I did not have the ability, “I said: she repaired your servant.”

Goins pointed at me, but addressed Esmeralda, “Is this yours.”

“No—” She began.

“My name is Leo.” I interrupted.

Goins set his jaw even more stiffly, hands on his hips, “He can’t pay me for his food or drink, but he can send his daughter in with twelve bits and a new clanker?”

“No, I swear, Mr. Goins he doesn’t even know—”

I moved in front of her, a golden wall between her and the huge adult form of Goins. The blade on my forearm was begging for release, trembling in the forearm sheath, “She did not buy me, she built me.”

His eyes were wide now, he again looked from Esmeralda to my unmoving face. Then he called out, “Stony? Stony, come here you dirty clanker.”

And the mechanical servant, feet clanging against the wooden floor responded immediately. He double timed it to the counter, obviously in far better health than anyone there could remember seeing him, and saluted smartly.

“You did this, Esme?” She nodded. “And this one?” he asked, jerking a thumb at me.

“My name is Leo.” I insisted again.

“My father made the parts years ago. I just put him together.”

“Kind of mouthy isn’t he?”

She shrugged, unsure of the direction of the conversation, “Dad redesigned his Edison tubes. They’re huge. They’ve got lots of needles, lots of layers. He’s got more memory capacity than I’ve ever seen and half of it was already full of instructions. There’s room for a whole mess more Edison tubes, but I installed all that was in his box.”

This caused Goins to hold up a hand to pause her for several seconds, “How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“I remember your father was one of the best gearsmiths, springsmiths, or steamsmiths that could be found for a hundred miles in any direction. Of course that was before your mother passed, before the iron ran out...” Goins rubbed his fingers through his kinky beard, fluffing it into even more expansive grandeur as he remembered, “Impressive lineage or no, I can’t say I’ve ever heard of a woman, let alone a girl, ever becoming a gearsmith.”

Something inside her went off like a firecracker and she pounded the counter with her little fist, “But I—”

She was interrupted by Goins slapping a quarter from the Incorruptible Cashier in front of her, “I seem to remember people telling me I was a fool because no Negro could run a shop profitably in a white town. Nobody would buy anything from him, they said. Yet here, I am, nearly the last man standing in this sooty little town. Well, I guess if you are a gearsmith, then you deserve to be paid.” He smiled graciously as he pushed the quarter toward the girl and began collecting her pile into bags for her. “Is there anything else you need?”

She blinked furiously at the change for a moment, then pointed to a black cape hung high up on the wall. He looked at her askance, but smiled and nodded when she slid the quarter back to him. She put the bags of candles, rope, apples, bottles of Coca-Cola, and other miscellany into her pack with trembling hands. She spun and with great flourish put the cape across my shoulders and affixed the clasp. She was breathing short and quickly, feeling the weight of this moment of validation with her entire soul.

She had shouldered her bag when Goins spoke again, his voice again somewhat abashed by the words, “Esme, you know that now don’t have to stay in this town.”

She looked at him with open eyes, clear eyes acting as windows to a soul that could only see in absolutes, “But what happens to Ironton?”

“Ironton is dying, Esme.”

“It’s not dead yet—”

“You have skills. You could go anywhere: Detroit, New York, Porkopolis, and support yourself. Maybe even your father, too.”

“—and they say there’s treasure in LøveSlottet.”

Goins looked left and right, expecting someone to jump out and announce the gag at any moment, “LøveSlottet? Those stories go back for years. He was even more talented than your father. He built the entire mansion as a giant gearwork, meant to act as his personal servant until the day of his death. Nobody has ever gotten into the place and then gotten out...” I felt the world alive hang in the air, “Trust me when I say there is no reason VanMeek would leave anything for anyone in Ironton in that building, young lady.”

She cinched down the straps to her pack and lifted her chin, “Someone has to try.”

“Esme! Esme! Don’t go to LøveSlottet! Esme!” Goins called, his voice obviously uncomfortable pleading, but we were already out the door and crossing the street.

We were a block away when she stopped me and, with tears in her eyes, she hugged me fiercely, holding on for dear life and breathing shallowly. She only let go after several minutes, wiping her eyes on her cuff, “Thank you for believing in me.”

I shrugged and held up my hands, flexing them in front of my eyes, “Thanks for putting me together.”

“Don’t mention it.” She smiled and began to walk again. I could feel her trying to shove her tears back inside. I was content to let her try as I followed. After less than a block she affected a light tone, “He was right, though, you’re pretty talky for a—”

“For a clanker?”

She shrugged. “I don’t think of you as a clanker. You’re a lot more advanced. You’re my friend Leo.”

“Friend?”

She hit me playfully on the arm, and then hissed and shook her hand while she giggled at herself, “You can’t tell me that word isn’t written in your head.”

“No, it is. But it does beg the question, why just us two?” and the question couldn’t have come at a more perfect time. The streets were becoming more broken, the abandoned businesses seedier, the streets even less swept than elsewhere.”Isn’t there anyone else we could call for help?”

And without meaning to, I had pushed her back into her melancholia, “They’re all gone, Leo. Their parents moved on to new towns, to find new jobs.”

The silence that was left behind had too many tears hiding in the folds to just stand alone, “You miss them?”

She smiled, but without warmth or humor, “I miss them all, even the kids I really never liked much.”

And we walked a few more blocks in silence, her shoes scuffing the road in counterpoint to my ringing brass feet.

“So what’s in LøveSlottet?” I asked to fill the void.

She pounced on the change of subject, immediately becoming more animated, “Nobody knows! VanMeek was the richest man in Ironton during the boom, and that’s saying something. He had the most mines, the best furnaces, the biggest mansion, the most beautiful wife, and an entire clockwork house for a servant.

“He became richer and richer, but when the iron ran out the whole town hit the skids. My dad says VanMeek was trying to find a way to save the town when his wife died. He stopped going anywhere, or doing anything. For a while his fortune kept the town going, but then he died.” But as her mood improved the neighborhood continued to degrade, “No heir. There were just instructions for lawyers to set the boiler to the house running, release the safties, and seal up the house.”

She went on as we passed a mostly empty bar, doors and windows thrown open. Someone inside was playing a sobbing harmonica, melting notes underscoringd the day’s heat. A few men loitered outside talking bitterly with one another. They all wore simple clothes made of hardy fabric, with worn work shoes or boots dusty from inactivity. They watched us with slitted eyes as we passed, and for some reason I desperately wanted Esmeralda to pitch her voice lower as we passed. Yet she continued, at full force and full speed, “He never got a chance to spend the rest of his money. So that means it has to be in there somewhere. Sacks of money. Chests full of treasure. Maybe even gold and silver ingots!”

We passed to the side of the bar where a crude ring was constructed. Under a huge, faded banner which proclaimed ‘NIGHTLY CLANKER BATTLES! PLACE YOUR BETS!’ A few men were working on big, brutish spring automatons. I caught the eye of one out of the gearsmiths. He had a face like a rat, and teeth like a fist full of broken glass. He immediately found much more interesting things inside the chassis of the tall iron gearworker he was fussing with. He was paying so little attention to us, I wished I could have done something to keep an eye on him after we left.

“But why not pass it out upon his death?” I asked.

Esmeralda pursed her lips as she gave me a ‘not you, too,’ look, “Maybe he was too old and forgot. Maybe he spent it all on whatever he was working on to save the town, but no matter which one it is we can save Ironton.”

I nodded, but inside I could not call myself convinced. The way the men had looked at us was entirely too predatory. Esmeralda had not noticed. She was trapped in visions of gold and jewels in improbable chests. It probably made coming upon what she had called the Bone Orchard all the more shocking for her.

The stone gateway was impressive in its austerity. It was marked only Woodland Cemetery in block letters, with rusting iron gates, doubtless taken from these very hills, hanging loose in the breeze. We passed through with the gravity of its purpose pressing on me, but amongst the thousands of ornate headstones I saw the remnants of toys and signs of disturbance.

“Someone has been here.”

“Someone is always here, well at least until recently. We always used to come here to play.”

“You play in a graveyard?”

“Nowhere else to go. It was far from the saloons and such, and there never was anything to do once the iron ran out.”

I nodded, but I wasn’t sure why, just as the idea of children laughing and chasing one another amongst the monuments to the dead made me uneasy, but I couldn’t say why. I jumped a little when Esmeralda grabbed my arm and pulled me along, “Come on, Let’s go visit Mom.”

And so we did, weaving in and out of the headstones to that of a pair of weeping angels. The one on the right read:

Shannon Kuhn,

1878–1906

Beloved wife and mother.

Esmeralda screwed her eyes shut and her lips moved feverishly. I reached out to her, but stopped short when the word prayer surfaced in my mind. Instead, I looked to the next weeping angel, and was surprised to see the inscription:

Agatha VanMeek.

1852–1906

In memory of my darling wife.

The world shall never know the future
it robbed to build an imperfect present.

Our legacy shall only be discovered
in the furnace of our dreams.

And I remembered reading that in the book back in the shack where I was... Born. It was the word I wanted, but I didn’t know if it fit. But Esmeralda tugged me back over to the grave of her mother and I stopped trying to figure out why it was important.

“This is my mom. Mom this is Leo. I put him together out of some project Dad had started a long time ago. I think you would have liked him.”

And then we just sat there for a minute as the wind meandered through the bushes and grass. Finally, I said, “Thank you Esmeralda.”

She flapped her hands in frustration, “Why do you insist on calling me Esmeralda?”

“Because that’s the name written down in my head that means you.”

She thought about that, and it sucked all the fun out of the moment, “I guess my dad wrote it that way.”

Then she stared at the grave for just a few seconds longer before whispering, “I’ll fix it, Mom. I’ll fix it all. I have to go now.”

She waved to the dirt at the base of the headstone, and I did the same before we were off again. I felt the need to wait until we were no longer in the graveyard before I asked, “Why is your mother buried next to Mrs. VanMeek?”

She shrugged, “Because they are both dead?”

The answer was so obtuse I dared not ask it again, but instead we walked in silence along gravel roads until Esmeralda decided to break for lunch. After partaking of her Coca-Cola, apple, wax paper bundle of crackers, and a slice of summer sausage, Esmeralda took out the contraption she had used on Stony and attached it to the axel I had not known protruded slightly from my back.

When she attached it I felt a little funny, slowed even, but as she spun the pedals with her hands I felt strange new vitality replacing the fatigue I had not even known was there. In a few minutes she had worked up a lather, but I was full of energy.

“I’m happy for you,” She said without feeling, “You get to carry the pack.”

And so I did. It was a good thing, for while the young gearsmith knew the way in the abstract, what seems a paltry nine miles on paper becomes a never ending affair under the feet. She started chattering about the kids she used to know, her teachers in grade school, reading her father’s gearbooks as a child over and over and over. Yet as the sun continued to beat down, the pauses between sentences become longer and longer. Soon she only had breath for her steps.

Though she wilted and drooped like a flower plucked from a field, she never complained or faltered. Even after she drank her remaining Coke and emptied her canteen, we just kept putting one foot in front of the other. We were constantly headed uphill toward the abandoned mines, the old pig iron furnaces, and LøveSlottet.

The hills became less friendly, more rugged, a craggy kind of beauty like an Indian astride a Palomino. We started up a long gravel path from what I assumed was the main road, and the terrain glowered at us even more deeply. To either side of the cartway trees had been planted to flank travelers and cast shade from their boughs. Now many stood dry and dead, still others bore blackened fruit that stained the rock and squished with the smell of decomposition underfoot. Still others had run wild, limbs choking out the light and sky and creating rings of brown grass and bare dirt underneath. It was in the shadow of such unfortunate things that we approached the mansion called LøveSlottet.

What Ironton was, so was LøveSlottet. It lay broken and battered like the victim of a crazed mob. Where the solid blocks of stone and planks of Ohio ash had fallen, perhaps they had not fallen as far as in town. Where they had been stained, however, they were nearly black. The windows were opaque with filth, all covered by bars but one. That one had a shutter of iron down over it, and a swath of black leading from the window away from the building. Grand carvings of lions rearing, roaring, and prancing had been broken or degraded to lumps of vaguely feline stone. It was as if it possessed a cancer of pure evil, eating the place from the inside out, and my metal guts fluttered to think about what we might find inside.

Esmeralda walked up to the front door without fear, and perhaps without noticing the sinister stains on the wooden porch. Even from where I was I could see no keyhole on the door, only an ornate doorbell to the left.

“Esmeralda—” I said as she brazenly twisted a knob held between the lips of a bronze lion’s face, setting a bell inside ringing.

Instantly the face split along the jaw line, gaining a demonic appearance as it exposed seven intertwined gears spinning like mad with the sound of giant insects feasting on flesh. She stared at it in shock and I watched two of the pillars, a section of ceiling, the floor behind her... more and more places began to iris open like the petals of deadly flowers, exposing blades and spikes, mallets and deadfalls. There was a gong that sounded extremely judgmental.

“Esmeralda?” I called, and then nothing more. I felt my system hiccup, then again harder. My hands snapped into fists with a musical tone. Hidden doors were nearly open, traps showing hungry teeth. She looked around, saw the coming doom, and then produced her toolkit from off her belt and flipped it out like a long brown tongue. The gong sounded twice.

She brandished a chisel from her kit as doom descended on all sides. The gong rang once as she pressed each gear, mumbling frantically. I desperately tried to shake my paralysis as the second gong sounded and she wedged the metal lever under a cog—seemingly at random. But the gear was still turning, traps on all sides still opening, somewhere in the wall there was a striker cocking back to signal the end of her life.

There was a shriek, and a toothed circle of metal cart-wheeled in the air. Without the drive gear, the rest of the cogs reversed course, giving up their kinetic energy as the traps slammed shut like nightmares faced with the morning. Esmeralda reached into the hollow left by the drive gear and pulled a lever, unlocking the front door and causing it to swing in with a long, squeaking sigh.

She turned, a witty quip forming on lips that twisted, and then parted in surprise. I spun on a brass heel but the club was already moving.

The wooden bat connected with my midsection, sending me sprawling. Inside me the Edison tubes skipped and scratched, recoding events as white splashes of panic and corrupting unrelated lines of memory. They reset to their proper alignment in time to record Esmeralda shout “NO!”

Three men were approaching Esmeralda. I recognized them as loiterers from the bar. I pulled myself to my feet. The one talking was the rat-faced man. He had his hands spread in mock helplessness, saying something in a calming tone, but my recorders did not note it. Next to him another roughian, whip thin with cruel eyes, was fondling his baseball bat, rubbing a splintered crack in the end with ill humor. I did not waste time with any more detail. Instead I captured every line of Esmeralda’s stricken face, her defensive posture, and the meaty hand of the largest of the thugs grabbing her by the arm.

All four of them jumped and turned as a hellish noise exploded from me. Her words, the tone, the voice tripped complex decision switches inside my head, pulling me forward faster and faster as augmented springs engaged internal flywheels and cogs geared up to provide strength and speed. I wasn’t just running, my inside was accelerating, faster and faster. Gears wailed like an army of swords creating a tunnel of wind that flapped my cape like a pair of wings, stirring dirt from around my feet and rippling the grass like a summer squall. The men just had time to turn, only time to turn, as I leapt. With a mind of its own, the sword sprang from its sheath.

The burly man who had trapped Esmeralda threw a meaty back-hand toward me, a clumsy attack devoid of much power until focused upon my sword. I placed the needle tip in the path of the blow, and blood blossomed messily as he impaled himself. The important thing, the only important thing, was that he let go of Esmeralda, but she was shouting and pointing behind me. The burly thug started to howl as the thin man came from behind, readying his bat for another swing. I kicked the burly thug in the knee, messily toppling him off of the porch.

The thin man drew far back with the hickory club, aiming for the back of my head as he had once before. He closed his eyes with the effort of putting every tendon behind the strike, but to me he might as well have been swimming in molasses. To him, I spun in a blur and his swing stopped midway, ringing off of a buckler that came from nowhere. He pushed off and swung at head height, but I had already ducked and then jumped back from him. Only then did he realize I had put my sword through the top of his left foot, and he started screaming. I smashed his nose with the buckler, sending him over the banister and out onto the lawn.

The rat-faced man retreated, hands empty and pleading, mouth working to no avail. I could not hear him talk, I could not hear him beg, all I could hear was the constant shriek of my gears turning at the speed of sound. He bounced off a pillar on the porch, but as he came off of it I had his shirt balled up in my hand, my right arm pulled back, clicking offset teeth in the gears until it could trip the spring and shoot forward with the force—

“LEO!NO!” Her final word was snatched by the doorway of the abandoned mansion and set free to echo through the rooms within. It was not overcome by the screeching of my body, because my body had stopped.

At her command, over gears had slipped from position, clockworks had reengaged spring limiters, and safety catches had turned themselves on. I held the talking thug upright against the pillar with my shield hand, and the bronze sword point had entered his mouth, the tip well past his ramshackle teeth but just barely pricking the top of his mouth.

“Let... let him go.” Esmeralda said.

My sword tried to disappear into my forearm but the last few inches stuck, but nonetheless I set him down gently. He immediately fell over and crabbed away, leaving a trail of urine behind as he joined his injured mates down on the overgrown front lawn. They stared at me as if I were the ghost of VanMeek.

“It would be best if I did not see you again.” I said. Reflexively, I tried to retract my sword again, but it was still stuck. The effect of the sound of metal on metal was immediate, however. The Burly thug, ruined arm cradled, and Rat-face, still dribbling a yellow tail, picked up the thin one, who had a hole through the top one foot, and beat a hasty retreat toward town.

Only then did I understand the concept of weary.

I wavered on my feet a bit as my body went from spring to spring and found no kinetic energy left in the store. I put a hand out and grabbed a pillar as my internal gyro stuttered for a moment. Instantly, Esmeralda was there. She hooked up the winding contraption to my chest and began working the mechanism fiercely. I felt new power flood through me and into my storage coils.

“Thank you.” I said.

She frowned, shook her head, frowned more deeply, and pedaled faster. I was unsure if I should pry, or simply let be, but the silence became a weight between us. The more it pressed upon her, the more she was determined to ignore it until finally she erupted, “You were going to kill him!”

“If necessary.” I barely had to calculate the answer, “Yes.”

“Why?”

“They were a danger to you.”

“But you can’t just go around killing people!”

I felt several Edison tubes grind in error as those words were recorded, “I do not go around killing people. We have met or passed dozens of people I have not tried to hurt or kill. I attacked those men because they were going to hurt you.”

“You don’t know that!”

“By the time I found out for certain it would be too late to stop them.”

“But they just wanted the treasure like everybody else in Ironton. They are poor, and hungry.”

I nodded, “You are poor. Soon you very well may be hungry. Would you attack someone in order to get food?”

But even though every point was calmly spoken, gently phrased, and logically sound, it only made her more and more angry. “You are not allowed to kill people, Leo. Promise me you won’t kill people.”

I considered her words deeply, needles going crazy across drums in my head. I looked from the bent end of my bronze sword to the gleaming gears and metal tendons of my hand, to her exercise flushed face and pleading eyes.

“I can’t. Not if you are in danger.”

“It’s an order!”

I shook my head and whispered, “I cannot follow that order.”

“Clankers don’t say things like that. Clankers follow orders, Leo.” She stopped turning the windlass. Endless seconds were filled with nothing but the metallic clicks of my body. She hesitantly started up again, “You aren’t normal.”

I looked at my hand again, very certain she was correct. “Are you unhurt?”

“Yes? No? Whichever one means I am fine.” I nodded gratefully, feeling the increased potential inside my body indicate she was nearing full tension on my springworks, “You smell like burnt oil.”

I shrugged. “I probably burnt most of it off.”

She tensioned the last little bit of torque into my storage springs and pulled the windlass away. She took a small bottle of oil from her wrapped belt tool kit and sprayed it inside my body. “Your sword is bent.”

I considered the dangerous, deformed hunk of metal. then I offered the arm to her, “You had better take it off, then.”

She took up her tools once more and attacked the blade until it was straight enough to slide home smoothly. I looked from it, to her.

“Thank you for saving me, Leo.” she said.

“You are very welcome, Esmeralda.” I replied.

Then we stood together and entered LøveSlottet.

Esmeralda noticed there was no knob on this side of the door and sat her pack to block the door as we walked inside. It was a wise idea, for a hidden switch in the floor would have had the thing swing shut. We congratulated ourselves on our cleverness, but it was short lived, pride sucked out of us under the weight of forgotten majesty.

LøveSlottet was built of huge hunks of stone, with lions peering from every corner and flourish. The grand entryway was just as old man VanMeek had left it, if he had left it as a spider sanctuary. Thick, dusty webs hung from the ceiling in curtains, and the once golden yellow rugs were black with mold and rot. The fireplace could have once roasted a side of cow, if the iron grid work had not been reduced to red slag by years of incoming rain. Dark passageways delved more deeply into the grand home, and rickety staircases flew from the floor like a broken winged bird up to dangerous looking balconies. The chandelier, a time-frosted affair of crystal and glass, was barely holding onto the ceiling by its fingertips. But what caught both of us flat footed was the-

Esmeralda gasped, “Leo, it’s—”

“Yes.”

“—A clanker voicebox.”

“My voicebox.” I said, with no doubt. Way back in the shack I had seen the schematics for the complex resistance vibrator that I used to speak. This was the exact same design, but the size of a rain barrel.

“Is that the voicebox for LøveSlottet?” she asked, but it seemed to me she was actually asking the mansion itself.

I walked down into the main entry chamber and looked closely at the device, noting the two long poles extending from either side. I grasped one gingerly. “We can find out.”

Ignoring webs, dust, dirt, and the accusing eyes of a hundred lions, she came down and grasped the other pole on the far side. Lips pursed, she nodded and we pushed.

Half a decade of accumulated crud snapped free in an instant, and the poles began to turn on a ring situated around the voice box. Electric lights along the wall began to light feebly as we pushed, and water started to fill the hollow tube basin of the box itself.

Then it began to speak. The sound at first was blurred and unrecognizable, but then it started to reveal itself as the voice of an older man. He was a foreigner, with a thick accent, leaving little doubt it was VanMeek.

“You came here for my wealth, like all those that came before, but now I am dead, and I am free to do what I should have then.” Esmeralda stopped pushing and gasped, but the poles continued on inertia alone. I felt danger in the air, and safeties disengaged within my chest as the wind took me again. The voice continued, “My tears have become suffused with power and can kill with a single touch.”

Hatches opened in the base of the contraption and water flushed along the ruined floor in a great wave. Even without full comprehension I vaulted the pole in front of me and picked Esmeralda from off the floor. I heard a mechanical snap as a corded electric light was ejected from the wall and I tossed my friend up onto the stairs just as it touched the water.

I do not know what pain is. Perhaps I did not know what pain was. When my Edison tubes started working correctly there were a few minutes of memories so vile, so corrupted by the burst of electrocution I felt an immediate revulsion of the experience. I would do anything to avoid ever repeating it.

I heard the splash of water before my eyes cleared, but when they did she was there. Tears streamed down her face even as she sobbed with relief. “You’re alive! I was so afraid, Leo.”

I sat up and shook myself slightly as my gyroscope stuck, amazed that the water was already draining away through gates that opened in the floor. “Are you unhurt?”

“You saved my life.”

If I could have blinked, I would have. “I would never have lived without you.”

She took that in, her eyes going wide as she looked at me, and the voicebox, and back again. “Can you go on?”

My internal gears ground together as I remembered being electrocuted, but she was asking, pleading, “I can.”

Esmeralda stood and tried to brush the water borne mold from her overalls. “How did you know it was a trap?”

I repeated VanMeek, “My tears have become suffused with power and can kill with a single touch to their misery.”

She thought it through and nodded, “Can you do it again next time?”

I shrugged as I stood, my gears feeling a little less crisp and tempered than they used to be, “I don’t know.”

“You know what is at stake here.”

I nodded, “Your father.”

She tried to explode, “NO! It’s the whole town—”

But I laid a hand on her shoulder, and could sense the pure emotion pouring through her and making her tremble, “It’s your father, and that is understandable. It is human.”

She flipped her hair from her face and set her dripping jaw determinedly, “How do we do this?”

“You have to push. I’ll keep you safe.”

And she pushed. VanMeek shouted again from every wall, “Tyranny is an easy thing to accept when it comes as a pauper. But the begger’s bowl is as much a weapon when it refuses to take no as an answer.”

Three rounded protrusions carved into the décor of the wall flipped downward and three darts were coughed from three holes. I felt my system scream into action as my buckler deflected them from the young gearsmith’s body.

“Only gifts of an open heart carry mercy or grace, the rest is theft and it creates hatred and sorrow. Mercy is a shackle when forged to a soul with rivets of iron.”

I leapt onto the voicebox and with one hand pulled my companion up after as poles sprang up from the floor. I wrapped my arms around her and we ducked into the empty chamber of the box as long lengths of chain came from the poles and spun maniacally. The whistling was like something from a preacher’s sermon on hellfire, leaving no doubt that they would have cleft flesh from the body even as they broke bones like sticks. They spun and spun until they unscrewed themselves from their bases and fell noisily to the floor. But then we were out, and she went to push again. I laid a hand on the lever.

“What is it?” she said, looking around for danger.

“I don’t understand.” I said, “What is the point of this? Why the complex mechanisms? Why trap after trap?”

“Because we are getting closer to the treasure!”

“Are we?” I asked, “Everything VanMeek has said so far has said that he despises people who come for something they are not owed. Why would he leave this here, where everyone would come looking for his treasure, and then try to kill them over and over?”

Esmeralda’s eyes lit up, “Maybe he isn’t trying to kill the same man over and over, maybe he’s trying to kill many people.”

“Everyone, maybe he’s trying to kill everyone who comes for the treasure. He wants to kill each and every one who seeks to take what they are not owed.”

“But that’s insane, what would make a man turn into such a monster?”

“I don’t know, but Esmeralda the treasure isn’t here.”

The strange voice caused us both to jump, “Oh it’s here.”

It was the rat-faced man. He had changed his pants. He had changed his attitude. He had also changed tactics: a gun clicked dangerously in his hand. My sword sprinted from its sheathe and I felt my organs immediately begin to scream, but he pointed the gun at Esmeralda and shouted through crooked teeth, “I’ll shoot her now, clanker!”

It took constant concentration to bring my body back under control, but I think the added effort only made it sweeter for him. Behind him came the limping form of the thin man, who carried a shotgun, and the hulking brute who only had to bring himself. They glared at me sourly, still nursing fresh wounds. The brute absently kicked the bag that held the door and it closed and loudly latched.

The talker pointed his revolver at me, “You, get back, clanker. I don’t know how you move so fast, but I’m going to get rich finding out.”

The thin thug snickered, “Richer.”

“Yeah,” Rat-face said, “Richer. We’re taking the treasure. We’re taking you. We’re going to spend old man VanMeek’s riches, and then become rich again scrapping off your little golden ass.”

I put myself between him and Esmeralda, pushing her back into the relative safety of the fireplace. Still she stuck her head over my shoulder to shout, “What about Ironton?”

“Ironton is dying. Your father saw to that.” Relishing the expression on Esmeralda’s face, he nudged the brute, “Look at that. Don’t reckon he ever told her. Go work the machine.”

The brute looked annoyed at the order, then glanced meaningfully at the bloody bandage on his right hand, but Esmeralda would not be ignored, “What? What about my father?”

“Git down there, Lewis!” Rat-face barked, then turned his attention back to Esmeralda, enjoying twisting the knife, “It was years ago that two women fell sick in Ironton. One doctor to see to their cases.” The hulking man picked his way past the chains and poles to the voicebox as Rat-face continued, “Both of them sick on a stormy night. Old man VanMeek’s wife all the way up here seemed to be improving. That’s when your mother took a turn for the worse and your father called the doctor all the way back to town to see to her—LEWIS ARE YOU GOING TO TURN THAT THING OR SIT THERE LIKE A DEADBEAT?”

Lewis’ thick brows puckered angrily, but in the end he reached out and tested the mechanism. The pause allowed the young gearsmith to get her head of steam going, which erupted out of her mouth, “You don’t know me, my mother or my father you hard case!”

Rat-face sneered, “Know you? Don’t have to. The whole town knows what happened. Doctor’s cart took a spill on the way back to Ironton. Both women die. VanMeek already hated the town for hitting the greedy bastard with tax after tax to keep the town alive once the iron ran out. Now he’s got no interest in nothing. So he brings your father here and he rebuilds this damn house for him.”

I glanced back at Esmeralda, “And gives your mother his burial plot, the one next to his wife.”

The whip thin man cocked his shotgun, “Quiet there!”

And it was then Lewis, mountain of a man that he was, put one hand on the poles on the voice box and pushed. I hustled Esmeralda back into the firepit as VanMeek continued, “For what man can benefit when he does not provide for himself? What growth is there without the toil for survival? Sacrifice is not made to leeches. Parasites never thank the host they kill for their livelihood, but only complain that death has robbed them of their largesse.”

I barely saw it coming in time, and only shoving Esmeralda into the corner and covering her with my entire body saved her a worse fate. Seven lions heads opened to roar, and inside each a tiny spring driven turret started spitting out shards of metal at a fantastic rate. All three thugs cried out, and they looked like they had been savaged by miniature porcupines. Esmeralda cried out and I soon found she had caught five or six in the shin. I was relieved to find out they had not gone deep, and were easy to pluck out. The thugs discovered the same and they started to pluck the tiny needles from their skin. I held one up, and noticed it was quite hollow.

Rat-face shouted at the ceiling, “Stupid old Norwegian! You’re not going to shove us off that easily! Lewis, push!”

But Lewis was less than sure. He had plucked the hollow needles from his front and arms, but he couldn’t reach the ones on his back. They were acting as straws, each siphoning off a drop or two of blood at a time. The hulking man looked into Rat-face’s wild eyes, down to the pistol, and then started pushing again, leaving a silent rain of blood down his back.

Van Meek continued, “What life has society? What breath draws community? These are but shadows of many individuals. They are lies that dissolve in direct light. There is only the individual, and the choices—good or ill—that are made. And yet the grave robbers will come still, releasing poisonous vapors even as they hack up our corpses to sell for their pies and steaks.”

Lewis paused, his back dripping blood. The thin man pointed his shotgun into every corner, perhaps expecting to blow the next trap to bits. The rat-faced man shifted from foot to foot, but nothing came.

I could feel the whole thing building, the end coming fast and deadly, now. I glanced up through the huge chimney over the fire pit and hoped I could move the grate at the top. I whispered to Esmeralda, “Hold your breath.”

And the whole of LøveSlottet shuddered and started to scream. Immediately I guided Esmeralda’s hands around my neck and leapt up into the rough stone throat of the chimney. Below I heard the chandelier give way from the ceiling and land on Lewis. His bellowing only added to the chaos. Though he probably stopped pushing the box, VanMeek continued to crow, “And so I curse you, Ironton: city I built. I curse you to ruin and rubble, to despondency and death.”

My sharp, nimble hands found cracks easily and we rocketed up to the iron grate. With years separating it from any loving hand, the bars turned into red ash in my hands, giving way and releasing us from the trap closing below. Van Meek’s voice continued, “For you shall never kill my dream, steal my children, nor discover the furnace that birthed them.”

I pulled us up out of the stone tube and shimmied down the outside to the ground. Esmeralda tried to stop and catch her breath, but I pushed her on, “No! Run!”

And run we did as one thug desperately tried to shatter a window, and only succeeding in releasing a thick steel plate that sealed it tightly, “But you shall never even get the chance to try, for your greed has stolen your breath, and God himself shall scour you from the world with fire.”

Someone tried shouldering the front door once. But it held.

Still we ran.

They tried shouldering the door again, then hammered with something hard.

Still we ran.

Probably choking on gas that was odorless, colorless, and tasteless, whoever was at the door tried one last ploy and discharged a firearm at the front door.

There was no sound, it was too big for that, there was just a rumbling feeling that was so big it enveloped the world and bruised everything within reach. Esmeralda and I were picked off of our feet and tossed underneath the boughs of the last healthy tree on VanMeek’s land. The mansion around which his legend revolved flew apart as if made of matchsticks. Flames lit up the twilight sky like the breath of the Devil before quenching themselves.

It was a quarter of an hour before pieces of house stopped floating down out of the sky. It was longer before we got up and walked over to the smoking crater that used to be LøveSlottet.

Esmeralda cried quietly, with dignity, at the sight. Finally, when her ears quit ringing, she decided to break the silence. “So... I guess that’s it, then.”

I started and turned to her, “No. It isn’t.”

She laughed mirthlessly, “What is there then? Search the hills for a treasure that obviously never existed?”

“We go find VanMeek’s children.”

“His children?”

“He said it in his book and on his wife’s gravestone: ‘Our legacy shall only be discovered in the furnace of our dreams.’ Then he just said it just now ‘For you shall never kill my dream, steal my children, nor discover the furnace that birthed them.’ The treasure is in his furnace.”

“Which furnace? There are dozens around Ironton.”

“Which was the first one he owned.”

“Vesuvius furnace off of Storms Creek.”

I took her hand in mine, “Then let’s go.”

Night had fully taken the world by the time we reached Storms Creek. The Vesuvius iron furnace was a tall, narrow pyramid with a gaping mouth hungry for ore that would never come again. The building around it had been salvaged for scrap, and only the dross of the smelting process and the narrows of Storm Creek in the distance gave any hint that this was not some relic of a forgotten race.

The furnace had been gagged with a bronze plate which read:

Vesuvius Iron Furnace

Year Built: 1833

Went into Blast: 1834

Blew out: 1896

Daily Tonnage: 10

Though I sought to feed you, you ate my seed.

Though I sought to clothe you, you would not weave.

Though I sought to employ you, you would rather steal.

So upon this place I put my seal.

We nodded to one another, and Esmeralda took out the only piece of property she had left through the whole adventure, her leather wrap of tools. She brought them forth and selected a spanner alongside a bottle of oil. She applied one, and then the other to little effect. Wordlessly she beckoned for my help, and I gripped the little wrench as well as we heaved together. The bolt screeched, and gave. The next three followed suit, exposing a cramped spiral staircase hidden inside the old furnace.

The moment was too big for words. She gazed pleadingly toward me and I nodded an oath to follow until the end of the world. We descended into the cool, then cold, earth until blackness enveloped us. We went down perhaps fifty feet, but without images from the eyes, only the click of my internal gears marked time. It seemed forever we put one foot forward and below the other but then, there was light!

Against all odds there was a ghostly glow that gained resolve as we continued. A sizzling sound skittered across the walls in echoing waves. Esmeralda recoiled and I put a hand on her shoulder, “What?”

“Something died here. I can smell the rot, but it’s real old and faint.” She said. I did not ask her if she wanted to go on. In any case I would not have had the time. She pressed on to the base of the stairs where the flickering lights played against the wall. Ahead, glass balls contained fire that moved like smoke or water. Thin tendrils of blue and red flickered in all directions. Esmeralda touched the glass and the snakes of fire kissed her fingertips, crackling silently.

“It’s electricity.” She said breathlessly.

I reached forward to a large manual switch and threw it forward, causing row upon row of incandescent lights to spring into life. “A lot of electricity.”

“But what’s making it?” She asked, but my eyes were sharper than hers. I pointed deeper into hall cut into the native rock.  The sound of running water rose from a whisper to a little less than a roar as we followed the thick cables that ran all the way back to the rear of the artificial cave where we found the source.

It stood as big as a house and shaped like a giant pot bellied stove, with one arm clearly made to shovel rock, the other holding a massive reciprocating iron spike to shatter rocks in its way. The colossal gearworker turned its head lazily to look at us, then dismissed us as unimportant.

“Is it a miner?” I asked loudly enough to be heard over the sound of water, some instinct telling me I was wrong.

“No, look!” And she pointed where water runoff from Storms Creek above was funneled down a sluice and into the back of the massive gearworker. The flow exited the expansive belly just above a grate in the floor dug just to catch the flow. Now that I knew what to listen for, I could hear the massive turbines inside the clanker turning. “It’s a hydroelectric dam.”

“It’s amazing.”

She nodded, “And it’s mobile. It can carve its own dam and settle into the flow of any stream. It can bring electricity to any town near water.” Esmeralda fairly leapt to a table in the corner where documents were protected in leather bound books. She pulled out the schematics of the beast and flipped through them faster and faster, “It’s here, it’s all here! We can build them. We can build them here in Ironton. Jobs, money, it’ll all come back, it will all be back!”

But in her excitement, she did not notice the side passage carved out next to her. I caught sight of two shoes attached to two deflated legs, sitting ominously still on a waist high table. I touched her shoulder and she made a small cry, holding the schematics to her chest like a holy writ. I passed her as her victorious face fell, entering the chamber as quietly as brass feet would allow.

The table was a simple affair. Once it had been covered with padding, but the wet air had long since eaten it away. In fact the clothes were stained beyond recognition, though they were obviously once of an expensive cut. The skull was showing through the black, sludgy skin in places, and electrical wires trailed from the mass to a complex machine made of dozens of rods, gears, motors, and etching needles.

The result of all this effort, a handful of tubes lay forgotten on the floor. I picked them up. Some had been carved clear through. Others had been carved so quickly that the tube had melted and deformed. Still others had torn the tender copper foil that held the instructions. They felt like dead dreams laying in my hands.

“What are they doing here?” Esmeralda asked.

I picked up the last one off of the table. It was perfect, immaculate, and it bore the name: Agatha.

“I am so sorry.”

The words prompted a scream from Esmeralda, but when I turned and saw the man who spoke them, I felt very strongly that I should know him.

“Daddy!” Esmeralda criedand dove into his arms.

He was tall and once powerful, though drink and despair had robbed him of much of that. Now he was like a mountain crumbling under the weight of the weather. His hair was greasy and dirty, his beard unkempt and grown through sloth instead of fashion. I stood to face him as he moved his daughter around to place himself between us as if I were a danger.

“I am sorry.” He said again.

“Daddy? What are you doing here?”

“He knows this place.” I said, instantly feel it resonate inside me as the truth, “He has been here before.”

Red eyed, blinking fiercely, Lucas Kuhn turned to his daughter and whispered, “You should go now, honey.”

“No! Daddy, we found the plans for that giant gearworker.” She held up the book, “We can get you your job back! We can save Ironton.”

But Lucas was glancing at me furtively as he tried to push his daughter back into the hall, “No, honey, you have to go honey. You shouldn’t take that.” And with each word he was getting more and more afraid, more and more insistent as weight and guilt and time pressed down upon him with more force than all the rock that lay between us and moonlight. “Put it down and go, honey. Just go. You should not have come here, go, go, go. You have to go.”

I pointed a finger at him, spearing his remorse to the wall. “You built me.”

And Lucas shook his head.

I wanted to take a deep breath, but I was made of brass and bronze and gears and levers. I wondered where I would ever get the desire to breathe. I affixed the old gearsmith with eyes that did not—could not—blink, “I built me.”

“Yessir.” Tension thrummed through Lucas like overwrought strings on an instrument.

“I dug this cave, had it excavated.”

“Yessir.” He pressed Esmeralda back further, waiting for the blow to land.

“And here’s where I died.”

And the fear of the father had finally been instilled in the daughter. She backed out of the room on trembling heels. Suddenly a stranger in this play, she looked back and forth between her father and I, “What are you two talking about? I don’t understand. Clankers break, they cannot die!”

“I am the brass ghost of Løve VanMeek.”

But this pushed Esmeralda from fear into anger as she exploded, “The brass ghost? Are you insane? That makes no—”

“Yes.” Her father said.

“You never assembled me.”

“You were always so angry since our, since your wife died. You hated the town for taxing you out of the money you were trying to use to save people’s jobs. You hated that people would rather sit than work. You hated so much—”

“I would have made you promise me.” I said.

“Half of your memories were gone! Slagged or torn or broken. Your body was going to be faster than mankind could ever imagine. I had no idea what kind of monster you might become if I put you together.”

I raised the tube marked ‘Agatha’ between two brass fingers. “Put it in.”

“No!” he recoiled, “No!”

I reached around my own skull and opened the access plate, exposing all the thinking parts of me to the world. I held out the tube again, “Install it, gearsmith.”

“No, you old bastard, I won’t! I remember what you were like I remember it.”

“I am not complete.” I reached over and with a horrible yank I pried the casing off of my right arm and tore the sword from its bracket. I held out the battered hunk of bloodthirsty metal in one hand and the simple copper tube in the other. I went down to one knee, bending my head to expose myself completely, “I need to be complete. I am not a person unless I can remember. I must remember. Install the tube or break me completely.”

“No!” Lucas shouted.

“CHOOSE.”

“NO!” There was a sound of a leather bound book containing all the hope of Ironton, the fabled VanMeek treasure, hitting the floor. And then Lucas cried, “Esme! No!”

A coolness washed over me as I remembered.

She died, and she took all of the best parts of me with her. The way she wrinkled her nose when she laughed. The way she stretched every morning like a Persian cat. Her fondness for birdcalls and how she liked me to dress in my best every day of the week. The feel of her lips against mine, and the crushing loss when we learned she was barren. The oath I made myself from that day forward to love her even more every day from that day forth. And she died. She taught me to dance, and she learned Norsk, and she reached into my stingy old heart and taught me generosity and softness and faith. And she died.

I wanted to burst I wanted to cry, but all I could do was tick and whirr as a God damned clanker.

“Leo?”

And I looked up into eyes that understood loss and understood pain and had braved every bit of my rageI had imagined and crafted and sharpened to a point. She had survived the traps, and the trials. She had assembled me and believed in me and treated me like a person.

“Leo is it true?”

I stood, slowly, wobbly. I looked around for my cane, but remembered I didn’t need it anymore. “Yes. It is true. I am the remains of Løve VanMeek. It is true that your mother and my wife died on the same night, sharing a doctor from too far away. It is true I spent far too much of my last years hating.”

“What will you do?” she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

I looked back at the rotten corpse on the table, then I walked past the humbled and frightened form of her father. I picked up the schematics for the giant clanker and pressed them to her. “I died, young lady. But I have learned a lot since then, so I make one, last, willing donation to the town of Ironton.”

I turned to leave, but Esmeralda tossed aside my gift and embraced me in a fierce hug. “Will I ever see you again?”

I gently pulled away and brushed a tear from her face, “You never saw me now, dear. I died long ago.”

And I left her and her father there, where I imagine they made it back home. For myself I walked through the night, feeling springs inside me give up their store of precious kinetic energy, driving gears, flywheels and gyroscopes that kept me lurching over the broken terrain all the way back to Woodland Cemetery.

I made it to the grave of my wife, and I sat down there at the foot of the weeping angel. I wrapped the tattered black cape more tightly around myself. Then my gears went silent.

But Ironton lived.

Author Biographies

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Jeff Young is a bookseller first and a writer second—although he wouldn’t mind a reversal of fortune.

He received a Writers of the Future award for “Written in Light” which appears in the 26th L.Ron Hubbard’s Writers of the Future Anthology. He’s been published in: Realms, Neuronet, Trail of Indiscretion, Cemetery Moon, The Realm Beyond, eSteampunk and Carbon14. Jeff has contributed to the anthologies By Any Means, Best Laid Plans, In an Iron Cage: The Magic of Steampunk, Fantastic Futures, The Ministry of Extraordinary Weapons and the upcoming anthology Gaslight and Grimm. Other short stories are available in ebook form online. He is the editor for the Drunken Comic Book Monkey line for Fortress Publishing as well as the anthology TV Gods. He has led the Watch the Skies SF&F Discussion Group of Camp Hill and Harrisburg for thirteen years.

Richard Marsden is the author of over fifty short-stories and novels in the science-fiction, fantasy, horror, and historical fencing realm. He earned his Bachelors degree in Secondary Education, holds a Masters in Land Warfare from AMU, is a historical fencer, and has a loving wife who tolerates his many eccentricities.

Matt Dinniman is an artist and writer. He is the author of The Shivered Sky, Trailer Park Fairy Tales, and The Grinding. He lives in Seattle, Washington with his wife, his family, and his zoo of animals. He is also the owner of Collage-O-rama, LLC which creates and sells original art online and through licensing agreements with greeting card companies and other retailers. He may be found at www.facebook.com/mattdinnimanauthor.

Bernie Mojzes resides in a drab suburban neighborhood outside of Philadelphia with an improbable menagerie of creatures, some of which are neither human nor glass. He's responsible for a number of stories in such venues as Daily Science Fiction, Dead Souls, Crossed Genres, and Whispers in Darkness, and has a short, illustrated book entitled The Evil Gazebo. In his copious free time, he publishes and coedits Unlikely Story (www.unlikely-story.com). In the truly stupendous amounts of free time remaining, he reads, studies swordfighting, and tries to occasionally fit in a bit of sleep. To learn more (and/or register a complaint) visit http://www.kappamaki.com.

R. Rozakis has the amazing superpower of causing professors and technicians to stare at her lab equipment and say, “I’ve never seen it do that before!” Her current job in marketing in New York City seems so much safer, really. Her biggest argument with her exceedingly patient husband is in what order they should show Star Wars to their brand new baby. Previous work has appeared in Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, From the Asylum, Every Day Fiction, and the anthology Substitution Cipher.

Angel Leigh McCoy loves good story, and if it has Love in it, all the better! She's a tried and true writer, having written professionally for over two decades. At her day-job, she tells stories in the magical, mythical world of Guild Wars 2, an online fantasy game. Go visit her at www.angelmccoy.com.

Patrick Thomas writes the fantasy humor series Murphy’s Lore, which includes Tales From Bulfinche’s Pub, Fools’ Day, Through The Drinking Glass, Shadow Of The Wolf, Redemption Road, Bartender Of The Gods, Nightcaps and Empty Graves — as well as the After Hours spin offs Fairy With A Gun, Fairy Rides The Lightning, Dead To Rites, Rites of Passage, and Lore & Dysorder. His Mystic Investigators paranormal mystery series includes Bullets & Brimstone, From The Shadows, Once More Upon A Time, and Partners In Crime. He co-edited New Blood and Hear Them Roar and was an editor for Fantastic Stories of the Imagination and Pirate Writings. Patrick’s syndicated humorous advice column Dear Cthulhu includes Have A Dark Day, Good Advice For Bad People, and Cthulhu Knows Best. A number of his books are part of the props department of the CSI television show and have been spotted on the show. His urban fantasy Fairy With A Gun was optioned by Laurence Fishburne’s Cinema Gypsy Productions. Drop by www.patthomas.net to learn more or find out about The Patrick Thomas Show mockumentary.

Gail Gray, Greenville, SC, is the author of a novel, Shaman Circus and two collections of short stories, Dark Voices and Memories and Monsters. Her short stories have been published in numerous national and international magazines and anthologies. She is the owner of Shadow Archer Press.

Patricia Puckett is a graduate of the University of North Alabama with her degree in English.  Her works have appeared—and are scheduled to appear—in the publications of Pill Hill Press (no longer available), Spencer Hill Press, Pink Narcissus Press, Wicked East Press, Hydra Publications, Lights & Shadows, Scribblers and Ink Spillers, and The Pedestal Magazine.

James Chambers’ tales of horror, crime, fantasy, and science fiction have been published in numerous anthologies and magazines. In 2011 Dark Regions Press published his collection of four Lovecraftian-inspired novellas, The Engines of Sacrifice. Publisher’s Weekly described it as “chillingly evocative.” In 2012 and 2013 Dark Quest Books published his zombie novellas, The Dead Bear Witness and Tears of Blood, the first two volumes in the Corpse Fauna novella series, as well as his dark, urban fantasy novella, Three Chords of Chaos. Chambers is also the author of the short story collections Resurrection House, published in 2009 by Dark Regions Press, and The Midnight Hour: Saint Lawn Hill and Other Tales with illustrator Jason Whitley. His stories have appeared in the award-winning Bad-Ass Faeries and Defending the Future anthology series as well as Allen K’s Inhuman, Bare Bone, Deep Cuts, The Green Hornet Chronicles, Hardboiled Cthulhu, In an Iron Cage, Mermaids 13, The Spider: Extreme Prejudice, To Hell in a Fast Car, Walrus Tales, and many other anthologies and magazines. He has also written numerous comic books including Leonard Nimoy’s Primortals, the critically acclaimed “The Revenant” in Shadow House, and The Midnight Hour. He is a member of the Horror Writers Association, the chairman of its membership committee, and the recipient of the 2012 Richard Laymon Award. His can be found online at www.jameschambersonline.com and https://www.facebook.com/ThreeChordsOfChaos.

N.R. Brown has a passion for books. During the day she is a librarian...while at night she is a horror and dark fantasy writer and blogger. Her work has appeared in Chiaroscuro. She is also a blogger on “Unleaded-Fuel for Writers", where she explores the pitfalls of developing her craft. Ms. Brown is a member of Donna Andrew’s Hellebore Writing Group, and CVS of Northern Virgina Writing Group, as well as a member of Sisters in Crime. She lives in Maryland with her partner Day, and one very spoiled yellow labs. See more at http://www.nrbrown.com

CJ Henderson is the creator of both the Piers Knight supernatural investigator series and the Teddy London occult detective series among many others. He has written over 70 books and/or novels, hundreds and hundreds of short stories and comics and thousands of non-fiction pieces. He is a master of hardboiled suspense as well as raucous comedy, and is not shy about saying so even when sober. For more on this truly fascinating teller of tales, he encourages all to stop in at www.cjhenderson.com. He promises free short stories and more humiliate.

A native of Cincinnati, Ohio, James Daniel Ross has been an actor, computer tech support operator, historic infotainment tour guide, armed self defense retailer, automotive petrol attendant, youth entertainment stock replacement specialist, mass market Italian chef, low priority courier, monthly printed media retailer, automotive industry miscellaneous task facilitator, and ditch digger.

His credits include The Radiation Angels: The Chimerium Gambit, The Radiation Angels: The Key to Damocles, The Last Dragoon, and I Know Not.

Most people are begging him to go back to ditch digging.

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THE EDITORS

Neal Levin is a game designer, author, and publisher. His work in game design includes credits with: Ambient Games, Bastion Press, Dark Quest Games, EN Publishing, Mystic Eye Games and Top Fashion Games. Bound and determined to write he acquires membership in writing groups like merit badges, as such he is a member of the Garden State Horror Writers, EPIC, HWA, and SFWA. As a publisher he is the Acquisitions Editor for Dark Quest Books, and former Editor-in-Chief for ADF Publications. As a short story author he has work in anthologies from many publishers, but most suggest he shouldn’t hold his breath waiting on a response. He has contributed to such scifi/fantasy anthologies as Barbarians at the Jumpgate, Bad-Ass Faeries 3: In All Their Glory, New Blood, and Mermaid 13. His latest novel is Salient Dream, a fantasy thriller, co-written with James Daniel Ross. Failing to live in his prefer locale of Scotland, he currently inhabits a domicile in New Jersey with his wife and one rather furry quadrupedal child.

Award-winning author and editor Danielle Ackley-McPhail has worked both sides of the publishing industry for longer than she cares to remember. Currently, she is a project editor and promotions manager for Dark Quest Books.

Her published works include four urban fantasy novels, Yesterday’s Dreams, Tomorrow’s Memories, Today’s Promise, The Halfling’s Court: and The Redcaps’ Queen: A Bad-Ass Faerie Tale. She is also the author of the non-fiction writers guide, The Literary Handyman and is the senior editor of the Bad-Ass Faeries anthology series, Dragon’s Lure, and In An Iron Cage. Her work is included in numerous other anthologies and collections.

She is a member of the Garden State Speculative Fiction Writers, the New Jersey Authors Network, and Broad Universe, a writer’s organization focusing on promoting the works of women authors in the speculative genres.

Danielle lives in New Jersey with husband and fellow writer, Mike McPhail, mother-in-law Teresa, and three extremely spoiled cats.

To learn more about her work, visit www.sidhenadaire.com, or www.badassfaeries.com.