Ghosts of Engines Past

by McMullen, Sean

  Giles blamed the crash on a gust of wind. Later, in private, I learned the truth.

  “The controls are bad, bad, bad,” he confessed. “You can't steer without dipping the wings, so you need to be at least twenty feet up first. Landing will be a disaster if there's any wind at all.”

  “But you've done as much as the Wright Brothers already,” I pointed out.

  “That's not enough. I want to do a circle, then land.”

  “It's still underpowered and too heavy,” I said.

  “I can carry even less fuel, and diet off a few more pounds.”

  “You should test it with a radio control unit first.”

  “No! We're not just refurbishing the Aeronaute, we're putting ourselves in William Penderan's position.”

  “Which was a ludicrously dangerous position, and which got him killed. I can hear the beating of the wings.”

  “Er, sorry?”

  “John Bright, 1855. The angel of death has been abroad throughout the land. One may almost hear the beating of his wings. Death will be flying beside you if you take the mockup any higher.”

  “It's worth the risk. When I'm up there it will be 1852, and I'll be proving that steam powered flight is serious tech.”

  “Losing control a couple of hundred feet up, then smashing head-first into a field is going to really hurt.”

  “I fly ultralights, I know the risks. You stick to engines.”

  “Speaking of engines, do you want me to service the mockup's engine?”

  “No, no, you have to go back to London today and look after the company. Everything is under control here.”

  For Giles I was somehow still competition in a love quadrangle, but I worked for him so I was a problem easily solved. Being safely away in London did not mean I was safe, however.

  Six episodes of The Aeronauteers had been broadcast on Channel 4 when the scandal broke. I have Saturday nights off, and it is always for the same reason. I had reached the stage entrance of the Midnight Noon Club when the portable lights came on and the camera crew appeared. It was not the crew for The Aeronauteers.

  “Mister Chandler, we understand that every Saturday you come to Midnight Noon to be the master of ceremonies,” declared a voice from behind the lights.

  I had been caught by surprise, but I have great reflexes.

  “I do, and it's the best amateur Goth burlesque club in London,” I said cheerily. “My stage name is Feelthy Pierre, the Naughty Gendarme. Come in, come in, you're just in time.”

  The interviewer had expected a cornered rat, not an invitation to the show. He could not decline because I was also recording him thanks to that wonderful invention, the phone camera. I recorded a performer named Furry Paws dragging him onto the stage, sitting on his lap, then stripping off most of what little she was wearing. As an exposé of my personal life, it flopped more heavily than the mockup of the Aeronaute.

  “I'm an engineer, and I do this for fun,” I said as I was interviewed later in my gendarme's uniform. “Now then, what do BBC journalists do for a few laughs in their spare time?”

  The item was broadcast the following evening on a current affairs show, heavily edited. My recording was already on YouTube. Louise staged a big party for the broadcast and insisted that I be there. The entire restoration team watched it in the manor house. For a rare moment I was a big hero, then the serious drinking began.

  “It was either James or Giles who ratted on you,” Louise declared as we stood together, our words blanketed by the babble from everyone else.

  “They think I think you're cute,” I replied.

  “Do you?”

  “Thinking you're cute and being competition for James and Giles are entirely different things.”

  “Those girls in the club,” she said slowly. “Do you ever, er...“

  “Get laid? Occasionally.”

  “I was wondering why you never made a move on me,” she admitted. “I thought you were gay or A, but now I know. I've never been so totally outclassed.”

  “Outclassed? You? You're so far out of my league that even fantasies about you are a waste of time.”

  “Crap, I'm really nothing. Everyone thinks of me as a trophy. My parents, James, Giles, my whole steampunk social scene. You don't care about trophies because they don't do anything. That makes you special.”

  “Er, thanks.”

  “Did you know that we're part of a love triangle?”

  That was a shock. I glanced about. Giles was nowhere to be seen. James was standing nearby, talking to Louise's mother and looking a bit morose. There was a red wine stain on the sleeve of his coat but he seemed not to care. Perhaps he had given up on Louise. I now felt like a rabbit caught by a spotlight. Rich girls are dangerous to be around, especially when one's boss has aspirations involving them.

  “I... don't think so,” I replied. “You, Giles and James occupy the corners already.”

  “Wrong lovers, Leon. It's you, me and the Aeronaute.”

  “The Aeronaute?”

  “You love the Aeronaute because it's genuine and it works. I love the Aeronaute because... “

  She hesitated. Perhaps this was becoming too personal.

  “Because the Aeronaute is an accessory that any steampunk fashionista would die for?” I prompted.

  “At first, but not any more. Now it's because the Aeronaute makes me real.”

  Suddenly I could see where she was coming from. The Aeronaute was dreams made solid. The Aeronaute very nearly changed history, it was a more powerful agent for change than the Napoleonic Wars. For me, power radiated from it. If Lucy Penderan had flown the Aeronaute instead of her father, what might the world look like today? For Louise, putting the Aeronaute back into history meant becoming part of history herself.

  The party was brought to an abrupt halt by Otto, who announced that the barn had been broken into. By the time I reached the barn, Giles was checking the aircraft for damage, the producer of The Aeronauteers was recording everything with a phone camera, and the security guards were shouting that it was a crime scene and that everyone should stay outside.

  “Otto stepped out for a romantic moment with one of the volunteers,” said Giles. “He saw lights in the barn and raised the alarm. I can't see any damage to the Aeronaute, though.”

  “I can see a problem from here,” I said. “The lid of the fuel tank has been put back without being screwed down. Someone must have left in a hurry.”

  There was sand on the rim of the fuel tank.

  “I don't understand why whoever it was did this,” said Giles as I detached the tank to clean it out. “The sabotage would have achieved nothing. This is the original Aeronaute. It's not going to fly.”

  “He may have got the original mixed up with your flying mockup.”

  “Talk sense,” said Giles. “The mockup is in the tent outside.”

  “I wonder if he sabotaged both?”

  Giles hurried away to check the mockup, leaving me with the original Aeronaute. Up close, the sense of its brooding power made my head throb. It was like an avalanche about to fall, not dangerous because its fuel tank could explode, but for some more subtle reason. This was a machine that could have changed the world in 1852, yet it felt like it actually had.

  “The bastard!” shouted Giles, dashing back into the barn. “The mockup's got sand in its tank too. Someone's trying to kill me.”

  “Sand in the tank would kill the engine before it was even warmed up.”

  “Someone who doesn't know engines wouldn't know that. It must have been James. That airhead fashion jock doesn't understand anything that isn't held together with buttons.”

  “Nobody like competition.”

  “It's sheer spite! James is out of the race. Louise is sick of him, he's been acting like a tit. If I can prove that William Penderan's design beat the Wright Brothers by half a century I'll be a class-A hero. Heroes get the girls, steamgoth.”

  I doubted that James had done the sabotage. He had had a very crush
ed look during the party, and had probably given up on Louise already. Giles should not have been a suspect, because engine failure would have put him in danger, yet that danger would only last until he conveniently noticed a little sand on the side of the mockup's fuel tank. Perhaps I was meant to be the suspect.

  Every series needs a climax, and the climax of The Aeronauteers was to be a glorious celebration of Victoriana. Hundreds of recreationists and BBC extras in costume converged on the estate, there to eat Nineteenth Century food, dance to authentic bands playing period music, and play contemporary games. The camera crew was again in costume, with their video cameras disguised as the old glass plate variety. I had discarded my black jeans and black leather jacket for a top hat, black suit and black coat. Tents and stalls covered the grounds, but a wide expanse of lawn to the east of the house was roped off for no apparent reason.

  The plan was that the fully restored Aeronaute would be rolled out and put on display, then Giles would take the mockup for a five minute flight around the estate. The Aeronaute had not been outside the barn since it had crashed, so this was to be its first outing since 1852.

  There was only one anachronism. Actually there were eight anachronisms: one air safety inspector, one industrial safety inspector, and six police. Giles was posing for the cameras beside the repaired mockup when they arrived.

  “We have reason to believe that you intend to operate an aircraft that does not conform to safety standards, and which will endanger public safety,” the air safety inspector announced.

  “What do you mean?” demanded Giles. “This is private property.”

  “This is a public event on private property.”

  Tempers flared, hands were waved, and the spectators and cameras crowded around. I was of interest to nobody, so I was able to mingle with the crowd that was gathering, then back away. The takeoff road was being kept clear by security guards dressed in Crimean War uniforms. A backup camera crew had been stationed beside the road. All my suspicions were being confirmed.

  I made straight for the barn. It was locked, but a large piece of firewood applied to the side door with all the force that I could manage had it open in one hit.

  Louise was inside, wearing only dark brown tweed trousers and cloth slippers, and frozen in the act of putting on a white shirt with puffed sleeves. She was emaciated, as if close to starvation. In a medical sense, I suppose she really was starving. Her hair was plaited and coiled tightly at the back of her head, and of course the mesh goggles were on her forehead. Her mid-Victorian dress of green silk with black velvet patterning and navy blue fringing lay on the ground. Beside it were her laceup boots.

  “You guessed,” she said, then turned away to button up her shirt.

  “Not hard,” I replied. “You stopped sleeping with James. That was not because you fancied Giles or me, but because you had practically stopped eating, and had lost so much weight that you were afraid to be seen naked by anyone. Now why would you want to lose so much weight? Moral support for Giles?”

  “Bastard.”

  “What do you now weigh?”

  She snatched up a brown leather waistcoat. Buttoned up, it disguised the appalling condition of her breasts reasonably well.

  “Dressed like this, I weigh one twenty-one pounds,” she said.

  “You called the inspectors and police, didn't you?”

  “Yes. It got Giles out of the way.”

  “While you fly the real Aeronaute.”

  “Yes.”

  “What Giles wants to do is borderline dangerous. What you intend to do is almost suicidal.”

  “And I suppose you want to stop me.”

  “No.”

  “No?” she exclaimed, then gave a smile that was all hope against despair. “Why not?”

  “Because I love beautiful working things, and the Aeronaute will not be truly beautiful until it flies. Do you know how to fly?”

  “No. In 1852 nobody did, so why should I? This has become 1852, and I am meant to be Lucy Penderan, flying the Aeronaute instead of her father.”

  Her words made sense as re-enactment, but were devoid of common sense. On the other hand, I have never been very sensible either.

  “Best to stay clear until I get steam up,” I said. “When you get into the air, keep the engine on full throttle the whole time. Only power down when you want to land.”

  “Leon, about the landing—”

  “It will be on the roped off lawn.”

  “You guessed?”

  “Yes. It's a large, wide area, so wind drift will not matter. The grass will also slow you down quickly.”

  “How long have you known?” she asked, now taking me by the hand.

  “Quite some time. For James and Giles you were just something to be fought over, but I could see that you had dreams. Brave, noble, beautiful dreams.”

  She kissed me on the lips, and I hugged her starved body very gently.

  “Leon, when this is all over, I owe you a date,” she said.

  “I know a fantastic Goth theatre restaurant and bar. I'll dress as Feelthy Pierre.”

  “And I'll be sure to wear black.”

  There was clear and present danger from being anywhere near the Aeronaute when the engine was running. Louise stood well clear while I heated the fuel tank with a blowtorch to get pressure up. It was like having a smoke while sitting on a barrel of gunpowder. First I ignited the little tank flame, then opened the valve to the combustion chamber. The boiler flame caught with an alarming bang, then the steam pressure built up quickly. The propeller began to spin. The great thing about the quadricycle engine is that it is far quieter than an internal combustion engine. The sound was a pattering hiss, overlaid by the whirr of the propeller. I knelt behind the Aeronaute, holding it by the rear axle.

  “Open the doors, then get aboard!” I called.

  Louise pushed the barn's doors open, then returned to the Aeronaute and lay down on the flight bench.

  “All good!” she called back. “Let go.”

  “Remember, full throttle until it's time to land, and you only have fuel for a half-circle of the estate,” I warned. “Good luck.”

  The Aeronaute rolled out of the barn in near silence, but there was a ragged cheer as the people who had been watching Giles arguing with the inspectors realized that something far more entertaining had begun. The inspectors had a moment of indecision. There was the Aeronaute, but Giles was not on it, yet someone was on the pilot's frame. As the Aeronaute turned onto the road the inspectors and police suddenly broke off and ran after it, shouting and blowing whistles. I ran too.

  The crowd cheered the pursuing police and inspectors, thinking they were part of the show. Suddenly the Aeronaute rose into the air. Just like that. After all that fuss and anxiety over lift, drag, and power to weight ratios, it was up there, flying. It gained height steadily, then Louise put it into a shallow, wobbly turn. It was not fast, it was not efficient, and it was certainly not very stable, but there was absolutely no doubt that it could fly.

  All around me there was wild cheering. People in period costume swarmed onto the road, jumping up and down, clapping, pointing and throwing hats into the air. There was not a soul on the airfield or in the surrounding countryside who was not cheering, with the exception of the inspectors and probably James and Giles. Suddenly Giles was standing before me.

  “You'll never get away with this, steamgoth!” he shouted in my face. “You're fired, as of now!”

  “Whatever, but meantime all those people are on the landing strip, you clown!” I shouted back. “You have to get them off or she can't land.”

  Giles ran off, shouting orders. The six police understood crowd control, so they also focused on clearing the road. The inspectors joined them, and I was left alone. Louise was about three hundred feet up, executing a wide, leisurely turn.

  This was a machine that had changed a history that never was, this was the very first heavier than air flight. Louise did nothing fancy, she knew that she
was on a technological tightrope. I looked at my fob watch. She had been running the engine for seven minutes, so she would have to come around for a landing very soon. Did she have a watch?

  A feeling of elation at having beaten impossible odds mingled with a strangely potent foreboding. Something was wrong, even though everything was fine. The Aeronaute was underpowered, unstable and liable to explode in a ball of flames at any time, everything was against it, yet it was flying. Something ought to have gone catastrophically wrong, yet—impossibly—the Aeronaute was defying gravity and Louise was defying death.

  Of all those on the ground, I alone knew where she was going to land, so it was to the roped off lawn that I now ran. Because the Aeronaute was virtually silent at a distance I did not hear any change in sound as Louise throttled back. The distant black shape began to descend. I could barely force myself to watch. Landings are my worst nightmare, I hate them because so much can go wrong. Louise was coming down too fast, she needed a little more thrust to gain lift and slow her descent while increasing her forward speed a trifle, but she did not have the training or experience to know that.

  I was biting my knuckles, tasting blood, as the Aeronaute approached the lawn. The back wheels slammed down too hard, it bounced high, and I saw that Louise was only attached to the aircraft by the levers that she was gripping. There was a second bounce, then it was rolling along the grass, slowing, as I sprinted after it.

  “We did it!” she cried as I reached the Aeronaute. “You and I, we did it.”

  “That's great, but get out, get clear!” I shouted. “I need to secure the fuel heater before it explodes.”

  Louise scrambled off the flight bench as I twisted valves to kill the tank and boiler flames, then I vented the pressurized fuel. Only now did I allow myself to admit that we had a major triumph on our hands. The Aeronaute had proved itself.

  I now glanced around, expecting to see the six police closing in, hoping to get another hug from Louise before we were arrested. Instead I saw dozens, hundreds of police in uniforms dripping with gilt, silver and braid holding back thousands of cheering onlookers. What had been a Victoriana reenactment crowd only moments before had become a horde dressed in burgundy, brown and black leather and silk, with a gleaming starscape of silver buttons and chains. Every woman's waist was laced tightly, and every man had a top hat and a cane with a silver handle. Enormous cylinders like submarines encrusted with metal lace, latticework and gantries floated in the sky above us, and metal humanoid figures at least fifty feet high loomed behind the crowds, with camera crews standing on observation platforms where the heads should have been.