Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology

by Jay Barnson

  De Falco kept a wary eye on the door as he finished the wiring and began cranking the illuminator. “Did any of you see any other guns?” he asked.

  Grace shook her head, her eyes never leaving the door. “I forgot to look.”

  Winnie said, “I only saw the knife the big man carried.”

  “Let's hope, then,” De Falco said. “I don't expect they'll leave us back here unguarded for more than a few minutes.”

  Joshua, eyes still clenched tight, lowered one hand to drum on his leg. His hand quivered, the unsteadiness forcing him to communicate with his entire palm. While this forced him to message at a rate no slower than an average telegraph operator, to Winnie each letter and word arrived with almost unbearable slowness. “Too heavy want throw us out over Kansas”

  De Falco looked at Winnie, unsure if he'd understood Joshua correctly. Winnie confirmed it with a somber nod. De Falco said, “I guess that settles it, then. It's life or death.”

  “Life or death? What's going on?” asked Grace.

  “Just stay down and stay safe,” De Falco told her.

  Winnie watched Grace's expression harden. She knew the look. It usually meant they were about to get into deep, deep trouble, and there was no chance of talking Grace down.

  Grace stared at De Falco, and with a voice of glassy calm said, “Mr. De Falco, if these men truly mean us harm, then there is no staying safe, and I am not sitting this out. I mean to be married tomorrow, and God help these men if they get in my way.”

  De Falco seemed about to protest, but Winnie shook her head in warning.

  The engines of the airship began to rumble, and the floor pitched slightly. They were moving. Winnie had never been in an airship before, and under any other circumstances, she would be thrilled by the adventure. De Falco struggled to get Emilio off its mount. Joshua and Winnie assisted while Grace watched the door.

  In spite of their careful efforts, the heavy mechanical man landed harder than expected as they set it on the floor. The noise wasn't loud against the drone of the engines, but it resounded against the floorboards, and would certainly be felt through the gondola. It would not be ignored.

  Stone had been careful not to leave the control panels inside the storage cabin, but they would not be necessary. Winnie pulled out the pitch-pipe, and adjusted the slide to the E note—Emilio's frequency.

  “Now,” De Falco urged Winnie, as he touched a control to start the machine. Joshua's device ignited the kerosene burner, and the internal engine whirred to life without a sputter.

  Winnie blew a staccato sequence of dits and dahs through the pitch-pipe. The mechanical man raised one arm over its head. On Winnie’s whistled the command, Emilio maneuvered next to the door. It stepped heavily but with surprising speed.

  As Winnie blew the code to stop, the door swung open, and Stone stepped through, angrily pointing his gun at De Falco.

  On Winnie’s command, Emilio's arm swung down, smashing Stone's forearm. The explosive report from his revolver drowned out the snapping noise from his arm. Smoke from the discharge filled the room as the gun clattered to the floor. De Falco lunged ahead, but Stone reeled backwards out of reach, back into the main cabin.

  The plan had been for Emilio to pin Stone against the wall, but everything was changing too fast for Winnie to keep up. Frantically, she commanded Emilio to pivot and charge through the door at Stone. Stone’s right arm hung uselessly at his side. As he backed up against the front window of the gondola, he drew his second revolver with his left hand.

  Winnie ducked back behind the wall into a crouch. Stone fired four shots at the advancing machine. Two shots hit metal, the third struck the floor, but on the fourth, the wall erupted next to where Winnie huddled.

  Behind the wall, she heard Emilio's heavy footfalls stumble, a window shatter, and a rapidly fading scream.

  Winnie tried to stand, but pain arced through her back. She fell to her hands and knees. “I think I've been shot,” she blurted in surprise, her voice barely audible in her own ears over the sudden howl of wind through the cabin.

  De Falco plunged through the smoke and into the main cabin. Grace retrieved the fallen revolver and followed.

  Joshua rushed to Winnie's side, making a low, keening sound like an animal. He fell to his knees, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes.

  “I’ll be fine!” Winnie wanted to tell him to focus on the plan, but there was nothing left of the plan. “As soon as we’re home, I’ll be fine. Just help them!” She punctuated her words by tapping “help” on the floor with her hand.

  At Winnie’s words, Joshua lowered his hands and he stood. With a cry, he charged through the swirling smoke and into the main cabin.

  On the other side of the wall, the struggle continued. A gun fired twice, and glass shattered. Winnie crawled through the door, her back stinging with every movement, shoving the pitch pipe into her lips to command Emilio’s aid. She was just in time to see Joshua tackle the youngest of their kidnappers, forcing him to drop a large wrench. The man with the long coat, his face bloodied, lay prone at De Falco’s feet. And Grace, just to the side of the door, held Stone’s smoking revolver. The bearded man lay collapsed on the floor as he cradled his bleeding hand.

  Stone and Emilio were nowhere to be seen, but the giant glass window and guardrail to the fore of the cab had been smashed.

  As rapidly as it had begun, the encounter ended. Wind blew through shattered windows, clearing out the smoke from the gunshots. Grace persuaded Joshua to release his captive. Under De Falco’s watchful eye, and Grace’s unwavering gun muzzle, the two functional crewmembers piloted the airship back to De Falco's laboratory.

  The stitches in Winnie’s back itched as much as they stung. Stone’s errant shot had sent a small fragment of wood from the wall into her back. By mid-afternoon, she was unsure which was worse: the wound or the stitches she desperately wanted to scratch.

  “I still can’t believe you are going through with this tomorrow, after all we’ve been through,” she said.

  Grace’s tiny bedroom was even more cramped with the two of them, but it would be the last night they’d suffer that problem together. Grace sat in her nightclothes, inspecting herself one last time in the mirror. Aside from lack of sleep, she was none the worse for wear. “After what we’ve been through, there is no way I’m not going through with it.”

  Aunt Emily knocked on the door, and poked her head through. “There are two callers downstairs: Mr. De Falco and that mute boy.”

  Grace laughed. “I’m in no state to be receiving guests tonight, even those two.”

  Winnie squeezed her cousin’s shoulder. “I’ll express your regrets. I’m certain they understand.”

  As she exited the room, her aunt said to her, “Maybe I was wrong. I don’t believe I’ve seen Mr. De Falco looking quite so respectable since Isabella died.”

  Winnie met with De Falco and Joshua in the drawing room, which really wasn’t much larger than Grace’s bedroom, if far less cluttered. Winnie liked it. It was intimate.

  Mr. De Falco wore a black lounge suit with a winged-collared shirt and a black bowtie. At some point that day, he had found an opportunity to get his hair cut and beard trimmed. Physically, he now resembled the man Winnie had seen in the slicks. But the inventor she’d read about had been a legend, a fiction of journalists. The Francesco De Falco standing in greeting was just a man. She decided she preferred the latter.

  Joshua, imitating De Falco, also stood in greeting. She offered her hand to De Falco, and he held it a half a beat longer than expected. Joshua gave her hand a pumping handshake. Winnie laughed gently as she they sat down.

  “I wanted to thank Grace for the invitation to the wedding,” De Falco said.

  “I’ll take the message to her. She’s indisposed at the moment.”

  “I also wanted to thank you again for what you did for me. I feel as though I’ve been rescued by the three Musketeers. Joshua has a genius mind. Miss Grace is an expert marksman, sho
oting the knife right out of that man’s hand—”

  “She told me she was actually aiming for his chest. Her father taught us to shoot when we were younger, but we haven’t shot guns in years.”

  “Really?” De Falco laughed. “Please inform her that when I tell the story, it will always be a deliberate shot.”

  Winnie heard a giggle upstairs. Smiling, she said, “Consider her informed.”

  De Falco beamed. “And you. You were wonderful.”

  “What did I do?”

  “You were the . . . instigator. The architect of our escape.” Winnie started to protest, but then noticed Joshua tapping on his knee, just outside of De Falco’s vision. Winnie feigned total attention on De Falco while watching Joshua’s silent finger movements out of the corner of her eye.

  De Falco continued. “You are a quick-thinker and quite resourceful. I shudder to think where I’d be now, if it weren’t for you—all three of you, of course.”

  Joshua tapped, “Also says you are beautiful.”

  Winnie felt her heart pump faster, as if to push blood directly into her cheeks. She glanced down at the floor to hide it. “My, that is quite the compliment.”

  “More fact than compliment,” De Falco said, oblivious. “I would be dead or a prisoner. But more to the point, I would, ah . . .” He cleared his throat, gathering courage. “Would it be permissible if I were to call upon you again? After your cousin’s wedding, of course?”

  Winnie looked back up at him, hoping her flush wasn’t too noticeable. “Of course.”

  “I would just like to get to know you better. When we are not locked in supply closets. Or held at gunpoint.”

  Winnie allowed herself the hint of a smirk. “But Mr. De Falco, where’s the fun in that?”

  Even twenty-five years later, Marina still dreamt of the accident. Her father had often warned her away from the tools in his workshop, but like any rambunctious four-year-old, the words hardly stuck. The details were faint in her sleep-deprived mind—merely flashes of the buzz saw and flying debris—but the pain was remarkably real, the scent of blood pungent, her breathing erratic—

  “Marina?”

  The whispered voice and gentle shaking of her shoulder broke through the disjointed memory, though not enough to fully disengage her from the panicked cries of her father, the searing, throbbing pain along her arm, her vision going red—

  “Marina! Wake up!”

  The familiar voice broke though again, and Marina groggily opened her eyes. She slowly sat up, the sudden absence of pain feeling almost strange. She rubbed the skin around the metal stub of her right arm. Though too dark to see any details, even with the flickering sunrise peering in through the window, Marina could still make out the concerned face of the young girl standing next to her. “Sorry for waking you, Larissa.”

  “It wasn’t you.” Larissa shrugged. “It’s cold in here.”

  Marina slid out of bed, shivering when her feet touched the cold concrete that served as their floor. “I’m starting up the fire now; go climb in my bed.” Larissa wasted no time obeying and Marina loaded the large furnace. When she was confident a suitable flame had begun to burn, she returned to her bed, allowing herself a slight grin at the content lump curled in the center of her blankets. Marina’s smile soon turned mischievous, and she grabbed the bundle in her arms and squeezed it tight, ignoring the giggling angst that emanated from within. “Are you warmer now?”

  Her sister’s reply was almost comically muffled. “I can’t breathe!”

  Marina chuckled as she let her free, instead, laying beside her and pulling her into a loose embrace. “How about now?”

  Larissa pushed her mechanized arm away. “Your hand is so cold.”

  Marina’s gaze returned to her mutilated arm. The break was just below her elbow, an inch-long stump remaining of her own flesh after the bend. A metal fuse was attached to the end, a variety of gears and wires interconnecting within, allowing a variety of attachments to fit it. Her father’s own invention; he had both ruined her life and enhanced it in a single move.

  Her mind’s wanderings were interrupted by Larissa snuggling closer into her chest, and Marina took special care to avoid any metal-on-skin contact. Their quiet moment was interrupted by the booming chime of the enormous clock situated in the center of Leningrad. Six chimes—Marina’s heart sank. More so when she felt the slight tensing of the small body lying next to her. “So you have to go now?”

  “We talked about this, Larissa. I have a job to do.”

  “They can’t leave without you; you’re the pilot. What if you just decided to be late?”

  Marina bit back a grin at that. “An excellent point, my dear. Oh, that I were dealing with poorer patrons.” She slipped away from Larissa and into the chill morning air, taking a few steps to the small basket of work clothes she kept. She quickly slipped into her gear—already assembled from the night before—and was dressed in mere minutes, before allowing her gaze to wander back to where her sister huddled for warmth.

  Though the stove burned intensely, Larissa still shivered, having always been particularly susceptible to the cold. Marina had always hoped the child would age out of it, but even as she had grown into the lanky, insightful seven-year-old she was, nothing had changed.

  “I’ll be back before you know it,” Marina assured her, noticing the way Larissa stared forlornly at the ceiling. “Comrade Yeltsov will take care of you, as always.” Thankfully, Naina Yeltsov, the landlady who owned the little basement they called home, held a soft-spot for orphans. “And I’ll bring you back something extra special for your birthday.”

  Larissa’s eyes shone in the faint light. “Really?”

  Marina nodded. “Maybe I’ll kidnap a tiger kitten from Asia”—Larissa smiled at that—“or steal a jeweled dagger from a sky pirate over the Pacific—”

  “Please don’t meet a pirate, Marina.”

  “I would never,” Marina continued. “But if I don’t, I’ll probably just have to get you a boring gift, like new work gloves.” She shrugged with a mock nonchalance. “I’ve heard they make good ones in America—”

  “I don’t want gloves.”

  “Oh?” Marina feigned surprise. “And what would you want, then?”

  Larissa watched her closely as she bit her lip thoughtfully. Eventually, she settled on a shrug.

  Marina chuckled softly. “I have to go—”

  “Wait! You’re not wearing your aviator goggles!” Larissa jumped from the bed and dug them out from the same box as Marina’s clothes. They were cheaply made and entirely useless for Marina’s purposes—her gondola was entirely covered, so she would not be exposed to the open air—but she accepted them anyway when Larissa slipped them into her hand. She knew how much the girl loved them, for whatever ineffable, endearing reason.

  With Larissa’s help, Marina fitted them over her head and smiled. “I would certainly be lost without these.” Still kneeling, and thus at eye level with her sister, she pulled her into her arms and sighed contentedly. “I’ll see you again soon. You can count the days.”

  Larissa held her tight, unwilling to let go of her only family just yet. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “But what is wrong with him, Marina? Andrei is a good man, he’s stable! He isn’t one of those rioting lunatics. He has a future!”

  Marina has long learned to simply ignore the ravings of her step-mother. She simply stands, ignoring the cursing that follows, until she turns to leave and slams the door on their one-room home. The quiet, frigid evening still could not compare to the cold of Dina’s words.

  Marina slowly exhales, watching intently as her visible breath rises up into the air.

  Merely seconds later, her father appears behind her. Marina doesn’t have to turn around to know his kind though disapproving gaze. “I already know how this conversation will go.”

  “So do I.” Nikita’s words are gentle. “You know once that baby is born, she will be more agreea
ble, so—”

  “. . . so try to get along with her until then, for me?’ I know.” Marina shuffles her feet, crushing the old snow beneath them. “And then I ask why you married her, since we’ve always been our own team.”

  “And I counter that love can do strange things to a man’s heart. But then remind you that no one has taken your place.”

  Marina stares down at her large footprints, larger still from her boots. “It doesn’t change that—”

  “No one has taken your place, Marina,” Nikita repeats slowly. “You are still my angel, my milakha.” He’s silent as he lets her childhood nickname ring into the night. “When your mother died, I nearly lost hope. I was left with a few pennies from my former father-in-law and an infant daughter. So I threw all my money into investments and all of my love into you.”

  It is a story Marina knows well, in great detail, but this time her father’s words provides the comfort she so desperately needs. “And somehow, we survived, and both my money and my love have grown.”

  Marina continues staring at the ground, denying herself the glimmer of a smile that threatens to crack her stony demeanor.

  “Dina is a good woman,” Nikita continues, “and she cares about your greatly, even if she has different ideas about how a young lady should act. Be who you are; she will accept it in time.” He turns back to the door, but adds, “I certainly like who you are. Very much.”

  And then he returns inside and Marina is alone, feeling warmth and comfort despite her bitter surroundings.

  Regardless of her impressive credentials, flying was more often than not a rather boring, benign task, though Marina would never admit to that. She and her father had together pioneered the invention of an automated coordinate system—Marina had lived and breathed it for years—so lounging in the diminutive cockpit regulating changes in wind speed was often less than trivial. However, it was not something she ever took for granted.