by Jean Rabe
The scent of Allison’s perfume still lingered in the vestibule.
I could not think of a more beautiful place to repair my heart and rest my soul than this magnificent church.
The central archways opened the worship area toward the sky. The side walls were braced with marble pillars. The design drew my eyes toward a solid marble altar. From there, a series of domes supported by ever larger pillars reached up toward an even larger copper dome. I was certain that even the most traveled bishop would be in awe walking toward the solid white marble altar. I took my hat off and gave a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to anyone that may be listening.
My trance was broken by a Spanish accented “Sister Allison, I think someone is here to see you.”
Sister?
My heart leaped into my throat. I turned quickly toward the voice. Out of the shadows Allison strode toward me.
She was wearing a deep purple layered dress, so dark that no wonder when I spotted her out on the street I’d thought it was black. Her head was fully covered in a black lace cloth. My heart restarted when I saw her waist. I let out an audible sigh. Nuns don’t wear corsets or elaborate passementerie dresses.
Through the lace I saw her eyes grow wide. I gave a deep bow, holding my hat tight to my chest. “Milady Allison Marie Emmery, I beg an audience with you.” I held my breath.
“Brandon Peter Lynch . . . is that you hiding under that mop of red hair? Still wearing that ole leather duster?”
I held my bow until she lifted my chin toward her.
“You almost shaved, how sweet.” Allison was as tall as I in her boots. I stood straight as she inspected me. “What happened to you? Your skin is so dark.” Her eyes grew wet and her smile lit up the very air around her.
“Milady, I may have weathered on the outside, but my heart is still strong and beats only for you.” Even after these years I could still make her blush. I could feel tears tease the edges of my eyes. I had much to say and didn’t wish to become all choked up. I pulled my eyes from hers and motioned around me with my hat. “Alice, your adventures have seemed to take you to wonder-land. I feel like I am being watched here.” I turned back and again locked my eyes on hers.
Allison pulled the lace cloth from her face, but kept her head covered. “Welcome to Saint Anthony’s. Let me give you a tour.” She put her hand on my arm and motioned me forward, pointing out key design features.
I could feel the love the workers had put in their work, guided by Allison’s designs.
“The bishop arrived last week. The dedication will be this Sunday.” She turned quickly in front of me and grasped my hands. “Will you attend with me? You will need to get a shave, and I know a tailor that owes me a favor.”
I said ‘yes’ before I realized what I was getting myself into. I hoped Sheila hadn’t purchased train tickets for tomorrow.
Allison continued to point out her handiwork as the church continued to brighten. The rain had stopped and the sun sent shafts of colored light into the worship area. We stopped near the large stained glass image of Saint Cecilia. This time it was I grasping her hands in mine. “Allison, your work here is wonderful. It also sounds like your work here is complete. Will you please join me and help make . . .”
“I told you ‘no’ last time, and my answer hasn’t changed. You need to find your own path.” She pulled away leaning against the nearby pew.
I stepped closer as she crossed her arms in defiance.
“Allison, I didn’t come here to tussle. I came because I need you. I need your skills, your eye for detail. The Echoer is having issues with the main gearing. We all checked the math, so that isn’t the issue. The problem must be with the combination of metals. You know each metal has its own personality better than anyone. You always had a magical way with knowing the right metal to use where.” I gently placed my hand on her shoulder. “Look around you. You can make any metal you touch sing. I dare not take the aeronave into the sky without being sure everything is right as rain. I need you. The Echoer needs you. We all need you. Please.”
She squinted as she stared at me, “You actually built your airship? Did you finally take the Union offer or did you sign on with Blue Skies Corporation?”
“Neither! They don’t appreciate beauty. They only lust for pure function. I found a few financial backers and it took three years for us to build her. Only one main problem remains. She needs your talent.” I motioned toward the makeshift tables set up in the vestibule. Pulling out a large leather envelope from my interior coat pocket I headed over and prayed she would follow.
Gently unfolding the stiff linen design sheets, I set one on top of the other. The last one unfolded was our girl, inked in color, the Echoer. Not the common single oval air bladder design, but a right angle boomerang shape. The gondola descended from the center with each wing pulled back like a bird diving toward its prey. The wing-span was listed at the bottom: 150 feet. I let her page through the sheets in silence, biting my tongue to keep quiet. She always said knowing when to keep my mouth shut was not my strong suit.
“Brandon this isn’t just an airship, it’s a clockwork!” Somewhat stunned, she glared at me. “This isn’t one of your shenanigans is it? You really built this?”
I gave a confident smile for my answer.
She pulled back the first few sheets and tapped her finger on the left mainspring. “This is not possible! You can’t make a mainspring of that size. Even if you did it would be dangerous!”
It was time for me to seal the deal. “Well, my dear Allison, some folks like danger. Some folks live to prove that nothing is impossible. All you need is faith and friends. Isn’t that what you always told me?”
She spent less than five minutes reviewing the designs and found the flaw we’d spent a year trying to pin down.
“And this problem . . .” I turned to the next sheet. “This is your impossibility to solve. No matter how we reinforce the gear train, it keeps slipping out of place. Allison, we need you.” I need you.
Allison scowled and pulled the page out of the stack to get a closer look. “The gear train should be fine. You really don’t even need it. It would only slip out of place if you planned on reversing the motion.” She tilted her head and glanced at me with those amazing eyes. “Why would it go in reverse?”
Finally, after ten years of school together I stumped her! I wanted to let out a loud, ‘whoop,’ but that wouldn’t have helped at this moment. I just gave her my broad smile. “We decided we needed a method to wind her up while it is still in the air.” I pulled the bottom page and set it on top. “We use this piece as an anchor hard point. We anchor the ship in the air. We let the wind rotate the ship. Once the ship is pointed into the wind we reverse the main propeller shaft drives here and here. Then we let the air turn the propellers the opposite direction and wind ourselves back up.”
When it fully sank in, she stepped back and sat on a nearby pew. “You did it. You actually built your dream ship.” She shook her head and smiled.
“No, Allison Emmery, I built our dream ship.” I dropped to one knee in front of her and took her hand in mine. “Allison, will you come fly away with me?”
I looked into her eyes and time stopped. Memories of our past and visions of our future flooded through my mind. As tears streamed from her eyes she smiled. Time restarted as my heart filled with joy. She wrapped her arms around me and whispered in my ear “yes.”
Nine months have passed and it’s been clear sailing ever since. We are currently anchored in Nepal. Never let your dreams slip away, I say. Just believe in yourself—and those around you, and most of all never give up.
Of A Feather
Stephen D. Sullivan
Stephen D. Sullivan first encountered steampunk as a child, when he got swept up in the original run of the TV show The Wild Wild West. That’s also around the time he got swept up in sci-fi adventure, lost worlds, and monsters—all of which make an appearance in this tale. When asked to contribute a story for this anthology,
a very strong picture of an airship, an adventurer, and a flying monster appeared in Steve’s head. And though the Amazon is an unusual place to set a steampunk story, he went with it; when an image comes in that strong, it’s folly to ignore it. Steve hopes his readers will enjoy the incongruous blend. You can find out more about the author and his work, and sign up for his mailing list, at: www.stephendsullivan.com.
O’Brien grabs his Remington from the map table and swings it toward the incoming ranodon. “Miss Kit! Miss Tesla! Duck!” he hollers. The prehistoric beast—jaws open, talons extended—dives directly toward me and Zoe as we stand together, amidships.
“No!” I shout. “No guns! Use the cannon!” While I admire O’Brien’s devotion to keeping us safe, I’m not about to lose months of careful scientific work because of his superstitious nature.
But the captain of the Louisa isn’t listening. He draws a bead on the center of the ranodon’s forehead. Fortunately, Armstrong grabs O’Brien’s arm, spoiling the captain’s aim. The shot goes wide, merely clipping a hairy feather from the trailing edge of the pterosaur’s left wingtip.
The ranodon’s eyes blaze with reptilian hate as it swoops in. At the last instant, I throw my arms around Zoe, carrying us both to the deck. The beast’s talons flash harmlessly over our exposed backs.
The creature wheels for another pass, but as it does, I spring to my feet and run for the cannon mounted in the bow of our shallow-draft steamer. Armstrong continues wrestling with O’Brien, struggling to keep the captain from shooting our prize before I can carry out my plan. Zoe—often the wisest among us—lies flat on the bottom of the boat. Miz Tesla isn’t on this trip because of her bravery; she’s here because there isn’t a piece of equipment in the world that she can’t fix.
I swing the cannon around as the ranodon comes for me, murder in its yellow eyes. I tick off the range in my head, waiting for the optimal distance. Thirty meters. Twenty. Fifteen. Ten . . .
I pull the trigger, and the specially manufactured shell bursts from the end of the big gun. A weighted net billows out, surrounding the reptilian monster. The ranodon squawks, entangled, and crashes into the side of the boat before plunging into the murky Greenwater.
“Quick!” I call. “Help me pull her out before she drowns!”
Immediately, Armstrong appears at my side with a pair of boat hooks. My cousin has his faults, but superstitious fear of monsters is not among them. Together, we quickly snag the net and pull the raging, sopping-wet beast aboard the steamer. The ranodon snaps ineffectually at us as we pin the netting to the deck. O’Brien inches forward, his gun leveled; Zoe follows a few steps behind, her eyes wide with wonder—and more than a little fear.
The ranodon is all flailing wings, snapping teeth, and sharp talons. Even its brilliant plumage doesn’t make it appear any less threatening. I can hardly blame Zoe and O’Brien for being frightened of it. If I hadn’t devoted so much time to studying this creature and its ilk, I might be afraid myself. As it is, all I can see is the monster’s immense archeobiological value: the last known ranodon, east of the Antes! Most scientists in my field would give their lives to see something like this—and more than a few have.
“Take it easy, big guy,” Armstrong says, pushing the barrel of O’Brien’s Remington toward the deck. “No sense shooting it now. Kitty and I have everything under control—and, besides, you wouldn’t want to hit one of us by mistake.” Reluctantly, O’Brien lowers the gun.
Armstrong smiles at me, and, for a moment, I see what every other woman in the world sees in Ray Armstrong; my cousin is one handsome piece of work. Fortunately, being a blood relative, I am immune to his legendary charms. “Nice shot, Kitty,” he says, beaming. “Everything went just like clockwork.”
I smile back, ignoring his use of a nickname I abandoned as a child; being family does have its privileges, after all, and Ray is the only kin I have left. I shrug. “Months of planning . . . a dash of research . . . and enough money to choke an anaconda . . . anyone could have done it.”
“Anyone with the last name of Chapman-Challenger,” Armstrong says, apparently trying to give me a swelled head.
“Or Armstrong,” Zoe adds. Armstrong blows her a kiss, and my mechanic blushes.
I take a deep breath, more relieved at the capture than I had first realized. I needed a big score on this expedition—we all did.
“Fetch the Rolleiflex, will you?” I tell Armstrong. “We’re not getting paid for shots of the landscape, and my trust fund is looking awfully skinny lately.”
“At least you still have a trust fund,” Armstrong replies, eyes twinkling.
“Lucky for you that I do,” I shoot back good naturedly. Money runs through my cousin’s hands like water. “Otherwise, who would hire an old sot like you?”
Armstrong gazes up, thoughtfully. “Some rich widow, I’m sure. You know, come to think of it, that might be a good career move for me. . . .”
I laugh. “Zoe, bring me some of that bait, will you?”
Zoe’s bespectacled eyes, both wary and fascinated, remain fixed on the prehistoric creature thrashing in our net. If the ranodon were free, it could easily carry her ninety-pound frame into the wild blue yonder. “Do you want the f-fish or the meat?” Zoe asks.
“Antean ranodons are flesh eaters,” I say, “so we’ll try the meat first.” Zoe nods and goes to get the bait from the steamer’s storage locker.
“This beauty’s a long ways from the Antean Mountains,” Armstrong observes as he comes back with the camera.
“Not as the ranodon flies,” I note. My cousin focuses and takes pictures as I examine the hissing, snapping beast.
“A female, just as I expected,” I say, pleased.
“Do you really think there’s a nest nearby?” Zoe asks. Gingerly, she hands me a strip of meat. I flip it to the ranodon, careful not to lose my fingers to the pterosaur’s sharp teeth.
“She’s mating age,” I reply. “And it’s the right season, and the locals did bring down that male six weeks back.”
“So the time is about right for hatchlings,” Armstrong agrees.
“Just what we need,” O’Brien grumbles, “more of these blasted gooney birds! I give you three-to-one that they get one of us—or all of us—killed before this is over.”
“If they get all of us killed, how are you going to collect?” Armstrong asks.
“Well, we could turn back,” the captain suggests.
“When we’ve already got a mother ranodon in our nets?” I ask. “When we’re so close to a nest I can almost touch it? Not on your life.”
As one, all of us turn and gaze at the tepui rising from the Amazonian jungle a short distance upriver. The plateau rises precipitously from the river’s edge. Its sides are sheer rock, wrapped with tenacious, clinging greenery. Bushy thickets cover the top of the escarpment.
“Like something out of the family album,” Armstrong notes.
I nod. We have Amazon explorers on both sides of the family—extending back into the seventeenth century. One ventured even further into the jungle than we have, in search of the legendary Maplewhite Land; another freed some local Indians from a slave mine run by a psychopath with a trained ranodon as his “guard dog.” Those triumphs were ages ago, though, and, at the moment, I wish we had our ancestors’ elaborate equipment—and funding.
“An autogyro would really come in handy about now,” Armstrong observes.
Zoe sighs; there’s one back home—from grandfather’s day—but not enough cash for the parts she needs to repair it. “Or one of those new Russian helioships,” she adds.
Armstrong grins at her, sharing my mechanic’s fantasy. “Yeah . . . Even one of those small twin-rotor jobs with the overhead gas cells would do. ’Course, if we’re dreaming, we might as well dream of a new helioliner, with all the trimmings.”
“I’d settle for a small, heavily armored gunship,” O’Brien puts in. “If we’re going after more of these crazy birds.”
“Pterosaurs,” I
remind him. “More like feathered reptiles.”
“Whatever they are, I don’t like ’em,” the captain says, “not even when they’re netted and pinned to my deck. That devil would just as soon take off your fingers as look at you.” He glares at the ranodon and clutches his gun tighter.
“Why don’t you check the boiler,” Armstrong says. “I think it might be low on pressure.” It’s more of a command than a suggestion. O’Brien grumbles, but turns to check on the boat’s aging engineworks.
My cousin shades his eyes and gazes toward the tepui’s summit. “You going up?” he asks.
“That’s crazy, Miss Kit!” O’Brien calls from near the wheel. “We already got one specimen. We should head back downriver to Elturu. Your monster will fetch a pretty penny there. I heard they cut up the male and sold it as an aphrodisiac for 100 Golden Re-als an ounce! And someone told me about some Russians what might give you even more!”
For just a moment, I consider setting the ranodon free so it can claw O’Brien’s eyes out. I don’t know what infuriates me more, superstitious locals or Russian weapon prospectors.
“This expedition is about science, not profit!” Zoe scolds, glaring at him. She’s taken over feeding the beast from me, though her hands still shake as she proffers the strips of fresh meat.
O’Brien folds his arms across his beefy chest and sulks.
“You’ll have to keep mama ranodon here while I look for her nest,” I tell my cousin.
“How long?” Armstrong asks, glancing toward O’Brien. Clearly, he can’t trust the captain to help with the job.
“From the observations we’ve made over the past few days, I think I have a pretty good idea of the nest’s location,” I reply. “With luck—and a little help from Zoe’s clockworks—I’ll be back before nightfall.”
“And if you’re not lucky?”
“Then I’ll be staying the night on the plateau.”
O’Brien shivers, and Zoe looks worried, but Armstrong merely nods.