Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “But it’s remarkable!” Welch argued. He rose from his chair and turned, facing those near him. “It’s beautiful. It is! Can’t you see it? You’re the last man I thought would slight your own miracle.”

  “Welch, please.”

  “He’s ungrateful!”

  “Welch!” Ashworth snapped. Chance heard the edge now.

  Liesel took Welch’s arm and directed him to sit down again, the two of them speaking for a moment in hushed tones.

  “I don’t take offense for saying what you feel, Master Welch,” Harper continued. “But understand that it is one thing to admire this gift from a distance and another to carry it with you—carry it so close you can’t tell where you end and where it begins.”

  His arm moved again, weaving back and forth to demonstrate the intricate control he had over it. Chance couldn’t get used to the sound.

  “At first, I was too busy celebrating the fact that I was alive,” Harper reflected. “But over time I felt the heaviness, deeper than I can explain. As if a weight were pulling against me every moment of every day. No rest. No relief. I slept, but upon waking I felt as though I’d been working through the night. A lifetime of that wears on a man’s soul.”

  “But your name is still there on every piece of legislation the meritocracy has passed promoting clockwork mechanics,” Sager said, “and simultaneously burying our craft.”

  “The mechanists came to me with their propositions, yes. Every time they wanted to pass another law or approve another project they sought me out for my support.”

  “And you gave it to them,” Yoon said.

  “I’m afraid in recent years I’ve consented more out of desperation than any nobler motive. I kept hoping they’d find a way to improve what they’d done. But, I hoped in vain. The dreams of the clockwork mechanists have developed the same hollowness to me now as this arm has.”

  “And what Willard has not explained to you is what is most disconcerting about all of this,” Ashworth said. “There are others just as interested in the Aether as we are. After our conversations, Willard and I are concerned they’ll try to—I’m not sure how to say it—harvest it. Harvest the spirit of a man.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Yoon said.

  “You’re even losing me a bit on this one, Ashworth,” Sager agreed. “That’s not possible. Otherwise some alchemist would have thought of it ages ago. It’s not like you can just open a tap and fill a cup with the stuff.”

  “Actually,” Harper grinned, though his expression was grave, “that’s exactly what we think they’ve done. Only the cup... well, it’s not exactly a cup.”

  The captain he held up his clenched brass fist.

  “I know the difference between what they accomplished with this,” he tapped the metal casing of his arm, “and what Charles accomplished the night he brought me back with his spark. I am the difference.”

  “So, what you’re saying is... you’re on our side now?” Sager said.

  “Yes, master alchemist, I’m on your side.”

  “And what happens now? I mean, what’s next?” Yoon asked.

  “We need to let others know what has happened,” Ashworth said. “This is too important to keep hidden. Only the present company knows about the Aether spark, and even fewer know the details of its creation. The people of the city have been deceived into believing it was Doctor Stoddard’s mechanism which saved the captain.”

  “Stoddard and the other mechanists will use that misunderstanding to their advantage,” Harper added. “I guarantee new petitions to the capitol are already being written up and sponsorships are being granted. We will first need to correct what’s falsely been concluded about my recovery. We can contact the papers and have them give the true account of what happened.”

  “How would that help us?” Estrada said. “The papers are just a puppet-theater for the cogs on the Spire. There is no way in the depths that they’ll print anything which might upset things. Not before it was hushed by the meritocracy.”

  “I’m afraid on this point I have to agree with Estrada,” Sager said.

  “So, what do we do?”

  Nobody moved for a while as they contemplated their predicament.

  “We give them a demonstration,” Chance said, the many similar conversations he’d had with Serge coming to mind.

  Everyone’s eyes turned to him.

  “We hold a demonstration, or a rally, or something. It will attract enough attention the papers will have to report on it,” Chance explained. “If we have enough people there then the meritocracy won’t be quick enough to stop it. The people will hear the truth from the source, and the capitol will be forced to respond.”

  “The meritocracy will never let you organize a demonstration,” Estrada said.

  “Then we don’t tell them. We keep it secret.”

  “How do we attract the public if we can’t announce it?” Keefer asked. “This can’t just be a street-corner meeting if it’s going to gain any traction.”

  “Maybe we disguise it? Or at least hide our real intentions until it’s too late for the authorities to stop us?” Sager suggested.

  “How would we do that?”

  “We could hold it in the Exchange,” Gravatts suggested.

  “Great idea!”

  “No, it isn’t,” Keller frowned. “There are officials all over the Exchange. They’ve got that place so tightly watched they’d stop us as soon as they realized what we were doing.”

  “What about at a plaza?” Ashworth said.

  “We still don’t even know how we’re going to disguise it.”

  “We could use a holiday,” Yoon suggested. “People would already be brought together, and we could just set up a place to speak.”

  “Why not on Septigonee’s Day?” Chance said. “That’s not too far away, and we’d be guaranteed a crowd.”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Keller said.

  “Got a fair sense of irony to it,” Foxx agreed. “Fortunes turning and everything.”

  “It wouldn’t be difficult to find a place to set up and address the people,” Sager added.

  “A rally it is then!” Ashworth affirmed. “On Septigonee’s Day. That gives us two weeks to set things in motion.”

  “We’ll need more than just a crowd,” Keller pointed out. “If this is going to be lasting, we’ll need some support already. A few well-placed members of the meritocracy who are sympathetic to our cause would keep the capitol from trying to sweep this under the rug.”

  “I’ll do what I can to win over some supporters,” Harper said. “I may have accumulated some rust over the years, but I still have some sway with the gentleman of the meritocracy. I should be able to bring a few friends over by then.”

  “Good. What else do we need?”

  The rest of the night was spent in a spirit of animation, making preparations and dividing up tasks between those present. Chance felt a thrill rushing through their little company, as though a great energy was surging beneath them, lifting their cause.

  The tides truly were preparing to turn. He felt it.

  Even Estrada had a few comments to contribute that were less noxious than usual.

  Part II

  Chapter Eighteen

  A View from Above

  Be careful not to breath too deeply the thick air. Or for too long.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  I n the weeks that followed, Chance found himself unable to stay still. Indeed, since their secret meeting, all the alchemists were a bustle of industrious energy. Ashworth’s place hosted visitors daily, some alchemists, others affiliates of the meritocracy, and others still Chance didn’t know.

  Ashworth entertained each guest, occasionally accompanied by Harper, who was still maintaining a measure of secrecy at their recommendation. It wouldn’t have done to have him make appearances prematurely.

  Chance went about his regular tasks gladly, hardly stressing over the little inconveniences which usually soured his mood.
They seemed so trivial now. He even took on Ashworth’s more mundane chores without protest.

  This was the first time since Chance could remember when he genuinely had something to look forward to. Things were happening, and he felt the anticipation building. It was only a matter of days until the rest of the world felt it too.

  It was as though all of them were sitting on a powder keg, and the suspense was almost too much to bear.

  The day before the event, Chance arose bright and early. He got himself ready, finished a few odd orders, and rushed inside and up the winding stairs to Rhett’s attic in a sprint.

  Bursting through the door, he gave Rhett a start. The boy was sitting in the middle of the floor, a large collection of glass vials and flasks spread out before him in clusters of similar contents. He was busy affixing fresh labels on each vial with a brush dipped in thin glue.

  It was clear, however, the glue had gotten the better of him as it dripped and ran down the brush onto his fingers.

  “Come on, Rhett,” Chance said. “Hurry and put that stuff away. We’ve got an appointment.”

  “With who?”

  “With whom,” Chance corrected, more to tease the boy than to educate him. “And what do you care? It’s a reason to put off your chores. Now come on! Or I’ll leave without you.”

  Rhett didn’t argue. He set the glue down on the newspaper he’d laid out, but, despite his best efforts, he had trouble letting go of the brush.

  Chance smiled in good humor.

  “Maybe fifteen minutes then.”

  When Rhett finished separating his fingers and washing the glue off his hands—a process that took considerable time and a bit of help from Chance—the two of them set off toward the bay. Chance carried a pack, which he had to adjust periodically so it didn’t poke his back.

  It was a particularly pleasant day, a steady wind blowing fresh and warm from the sea. Chance breathed it in deep. Since the meeting it seemed everything had grown more pleasant. Not even the closeness of the derelict streets could sway Chance’s mood.

  It was incredible what the right prospects could do to perspective.

  After a brief walk, Chance stopped underneath a small platform. It looked much like a railway terminal might, except much smaller. It was only a single platform, raised above the ground perhaps twenty feet, but with no tracks. Instead, there were thick posts where ropes could be anchored.

  “Where are we going?” Rhett asked.

  “You’ll see,” Chance smiled back at him. “Keep up, slowpoke!”

  Grasping the railing, Chance climbed the steps two and three at a time, with Rhett scrambling after him. Rhett did his best, but by the time he was at the top of the stairs he was out of breath, as was Chance. They both took a moment to breathe.

  “What are we doing here?” Rhett asked.

  “Waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “That.” Chance pointed toward the end of the street.

  Turning a tight corner, a small wood dinghy floated toward them, suspended by a faded balloon. Rhett stared at it for a second, perplexed. But then his face lit up, and he looked wide-eyed at Chance.

  “Is that for us?”

  “Sure is.” Chance couldn’t hold back a smile. “You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

  Rhett gaped, at a loss for words as he watched the dinghy navigate between the buildings and come abreast the platform. With a skillful turn of the helm, the pilot maneuvered the dinghy so it came to rest a foot off the edge.

  Simon stepped up out of the dinghy, balancing on the lip with a practiced lightness in his good foot for such an unsteady surface.

  “Right on time,” Chance called to his friend.

  “That’s how we like it. You coming aboard?” Simon asked Rhett, offering a hand to the boy.

  Rhett beamed from ear to ear as he bobbed his head and took Simon’s hand. He was lifted carefully from the platform and dropped safely into the vessel. Chance grasped the tie-downs and clambered in as well.

  “All’s aboard and clear to sail,” Simon shouted, though the tiny vessel was small enough he needn’t raise his voice.

  By appearance, one might have doubted the craft’s airworthiness. The main balloon was clearly disproportionate to what would normally be required to lift a vessel, even one this small. However, as Chance climbed on he noticed thick bags secured to the bow, straining against their anchors. He ventured a guess they were filled with thick air—an alchemical compound which altered the buoyancy of air to nearly eight or nine times its natural state.

  With a few of those, it wasn’t so impossible.

  “Right. On we go then,” the pilot called.

  He lifted a flume by his feet and the propellers behind him lurched into action, receiving a flow of heated air from the ship’s underbelly furnace. Rhett teetered backwards as the ship began to rise, but was steadied by Simon before he took a tumble.

  “Hold onto something if you ain’t got legs for the sky yet, little master,” the pilot chuckled.

  “You’ll get used to it in a moment,” Simon assured him. “But until then, best to keep a hand in the ropes.”

  Rhett did as was suggested, threading his arm through a few of the ropes as he glanced over the edge of the vessel as far as he safely could.

  The world moved swiftly below them, the buildings like the rocks that bordered a riverbed and the air an invisible current that carried them away. Chance watched Rhett’s face as he gazed wide-eyed down on the streets he was all too familiar with.

  Their world looked quite different from above.

  “Thanks again for putting this together,” Chance said to Simon.

  “It’s my pleasure. Honestly, I was feeling a bit too grounded myself. Would have done it soon anyway, or else I’m liable to lose my flight legs. Plus, I have a meeting over in the factory district. I’ll just have him drop me there when we’re done.”

  “What meeting?”

  “Oh, just one of Serge’s meetings. You know,” Simon said. “I think he has it in his head to help the factory workers organize a union.”

  “Good luck with that,” Chance said. “The owners get a whiff a union is forming and they’ll turn the lot of them out and replace them with a fresh batch of desperates before you can strike a match.”

  “Maybe,” Simon shrugged. “But then I don’t work in the factories, so it’s not my decision to make. Every man has a right to work out his own destiny.”

  Chance couldn’t argue there, but he thought Serge a little too eager to stir up trouble. It was one thing for Serge to walk that road himself, but he was liable to drag quite a few lives down with him if he wasn’t careful.

  “So, who’s the pilot?” Chance asked, changing the subject. He kept his voice low, though the man seemed preoccupied enough maneuvering the narrow streets that he wasn’t paying them much mind.

  “Peter Barlow” Simon said. “One of the most daring men I’ve ever had the fortune of flying with. Met him back when I was serving overseas in the militia. Now he runs his own ferry.”

  “An old friend then?”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Simon smiled. “But a good man. I’d trust him with my life.”

  That was good to hear, because as the vessel carried on it was steadily gaining speed. Chance gripped the ropes tighter as Barlow spun the helm and the dinghy rounded a tight corner. The contents of Chance’s stomach lurched, and he felt a tingle move upwards into his throat.

  He sat down before it got the better of him.

  Rhett didn’t seem to mind the pace they were setting. He kept leaning over the edge, his face sometimes only feet from the buildings they passed. They raced by swiftly, but occasionally the passengers caught a glimpse through the windows at businessmen, clerks, families, and others’ lives. Privileged glimpses completely foreign to them.

  Rhett waved as he passed, and those inside peered at him queerly.

  They were climbing, hovering beside the upper levels of the taller build
ings. From the looks of it, they were heading toward the bay. Chance welcomed that idea. Though Barlow was proving his skill, Chance didn’t know how much more weaving he could take.

  “What do these marks mean?” Rhett asked, pointing over the bow at some strange characters written on the side of the dinghy. Chance joined him and glanced at the characters. ‘Mauriel,’ it read. But he couldn’t be sure what language the other characters were derived from. A colony language? Ungarra, perhaps?

  “That’s the ship’s name,” Barlow said. “Every ship needs a name. It’s bad luck to sail without one.”

  “And the characters around it?” Chance asked.

  “They’re from an old Ungarran proverb,” Barlow explained. Chance smiled inwardly at his correct guess. “Loosely translated, it means ‘a treasure loath to lose.’“

  “Barlow and I spent a few summers in Ungarra during our service overseas,” Simon said. “Godforsaken desert.”

  “A garden oasis,” Barlow corrected with a smile.

  “As you might guess, we had very different experiences.”

  “And who’s Mauriel?” Chance asked.

  “My one true love,” Barlow said, his voice softer and his eyes steady ahead.

  Chance didn’t pry. Instead, he watched Rhett’s boyish excitement. He missed the days when such simple joys held so much wonder.

  “Why don’t we fly higher?” Rhett asked.

  “Because, little master, there are bigger ships than us in the open skies. Great airships with their thick metal edges. Wouldn’t want to get clipped by one of them out over the bay, now would you?”

  “Can’t you just fly around them?”

  “Mauriel may be agile in the sky, but she’s certainly not the fastest. The bigger vessels are brutes. They wouldn’t even notice we were there if they came upon us. No, I take my chances with the streets, even if it does take a little while longer to get where we’re going.”

  “We don’t mind,” Chance said. He leaned back against the wood to steal a bit of rest. “As long as we get there.”

  Rhett leaned out a bit further, craning his neck as he tried to catch a glimpse of the airships Barlow was talking about. The balloon proved a tough barrier, however, and Rhett huffed in frustration.