The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 26 (Mammoth Books)

by Gardner Dozois

  “So no other quadricycle engine is known from the 1850s?” she asked on cue.

  “That’s right,” I replied. “There was no demand for hyper-light engines back then.”

  “So whoever built this one was a genius, like Brunel?”

  “Not necessarily. It’s not a revolutionary design, just very light. Any 1850s engineer could have built it as a one-off.”

  “Do you think the Aeronaute ever flew?”

  That question again.

  “We’ll know that after we finish restoring the engine and run it to measure its horsepower. The Aeronaute is right on the border of being workable. Its wingspan is fifty feet and the takeoff weight is about seven hundred pounds. Two hundred and fifty pounds of that is this engine, which may deliver as little as twelve horsepower. The propeller is not very efficient either. The Aeronaute is an underpowered version of the Wright Brothers’ Flyer.”

  “But isn’t that good?” asked Louise, ignoring the next cue card. “The Wrights’ plane flew.”

  “The Flyer did manage four flights, but it was not very stable. The Aeronaute will be even less stable. It will be harder to get into the air, difficult to control while it’s up there, and a total nightmare to land.”

  A week later I got the engine working, powered by the workshop’s steam-cleaning unit. It functioned perfectly, but the verdict of the calibration instruments was not encouraging. It could deliver only nine horsepower.

  The furnace was next, and that was a definite challenge to modern health and safety regulations. Try putting some kerosene into a very flimsy tank, then light a fire under it to force the fuel out under pressure. It’s a simple, efficient, lightweight, and mind-numbingly dangerous source of inflammable vapor. I tested the tank and pipes with compressed air, then the BBC arranged for pressure tests with real fuel to be done at an army firing range.

  We produced some seriously impressive plumes of burning fuel for the cameras, but to everyone’s surprise, the furnace did not explode. The final, crucial tests were also done at the firing range. With the engine attached to the furnace, we ran the system at full pressure from the safety of an observation bunker. Again the producer seemed disappointed by the lack of an explosion. I was also disappointed, because once again it only delivered a fraction more than nine horsepower. However, these disappointments were nothing compared to the findings of an air crash investigation team that the BBC had recruited.

  I watched the third episode of The Aeronauteers at home, alone. A computer graphic of the Aeronaute sat at the end of a computer-generated runway, the propeller turning slowly. Numbers flashed onto the screen as a wireframe pilot lay out flat on the flight bench.

  “The problem appears to have been the weight of the pilot,” said a voiceover as the propeller spun up to full speed and the simulation Aeronaute began to roll forward. “If William Penderan was the pilot, he was just too heavy. Estimates made from a contemporary photograph put his height at six feet three inches, and his weight at two hundred pounds.”

  The graphic Aeronaute raced along its virtual runway. After a mile, its speed leveled off at twenty-three miles per hour.

  “Penderan may have just cleared the ground, because he did not throttle back as he reached the end of the private road that he probably used as a runway. The road ended at a ploughed field. Perhaps he thought he was a few feet off the ground, when in reality his altitude was only inches. Traces of grass stains and dirt found on the wreckage indicate that the front wheel tore through grass, then hit a ploughed furrow side-on.”

  The graphic of the aircraft was shown crashing in slow motion. The wireframe pilot was thrown clear.

  “Because of the risk of an explosion or fire, Penderan needed to get clear of the aircraft quickly in an emergency. For this reason he did not strap himself to the flight bench. He would have been thrown forward by the crash and struck one of the ploughed furrows. The death notice states that he died of a broken neck, sustained in a riding accident. This is also consistent with being thrown headfirst from the Aeronaute at about twenty-five miles per hour.”

  The virtual reenactment now showed how the damage to the Aeronaute was consistent with rolling off the end of the road and into a ploughed field.

  “Several questions remain unanswered,” the investigator concluded. “Why was William Penderan’s death disguised as a riding accident, why was the wreckage taken to a barn and hidden, and why did Penderan’s daughter, Lucy, preserve the wreckage for so long?”

  The image switched to an interview with Giles and Louise, who were standing beside the partly rebuilt Aeronaute. Both of them looked gaunt and pale, but I put it down to their workload.

  “I think it came down to patent violations,” said Giles. “The propeller is identical to the one used on Stringfellow’s model of 1848, and the main wing is a lightweight version of the one in the patent drawings for Henson’s Aerial Steam Carriage of 1843.”

  “So Penderan was a great innovator, but he borrowed other people’s ideas as well?” said the investigator.

  “That’s only part of it. Put yourself in Lucy Penderan’s position. Her father dies testing an aircraft that could have changed history if he had weighed fifty pounds less. If she had gone public, somebody else could use his design, recruit a lighter pilot, and get all the glory of the first flight.”

  “Maybe one of his rivals.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Then why did she go to so much trouble to preserve the wreckage?”

  “That I can’t say.”

  Louise began to look like a defrocked goth who was studying to be a steampunk engineer. Her cheeks were pale and sunken, her hands were scratched and stained with paint and oil, and she moved slowly and deliberately, as if almost drained of energy. Both Giles and James seemed to think she was looking goth because she had something going with me. Because the engine needed little work, and most of that was in London, Giles made me the acting manager of Ultralights Unlimited. That kept me away from Kent, and thus Louise . . . except when she visited London.

  Goggles became a major issue as the Aeronaute’s public debut approached, as did the entire subject of fashion. Steampunk costuming and Victorian fashion overlapped, but did not match. Louise wanted steampunk, James wanted Victoriana. The BBC sided with James.

  Louise and James were in the Ultralights Unlimited workshop, waiting for the camera crew to arrive for a shoot, when one of their many arguments flared. Louise wanted goggles to be part of Giles’s 1852 aviator’s costume for testing the mockup Aeronaute. James insisted that goggles were not used until the early twentieth century.

  “Charles Manly wore them when he tried to fly an early aircraft in 1903,” James explained. “They were developed about then for early motoring. Swimming goggles came even later.”

  “But there are engravings of Venetian coral divers wearing goggles in the sixteenth century,” said Louise.

  “Okay, but people like coachmen or train drivers didn’t use them back in 1852.”

  “We’ll see what the Web says about that.”

  Louise took out her iPhone. She wanted a steampunk look, and would not be deterred.

  “Goggles, the word is derived from the Middle English gogelen, to squint,” she said presently. “The word goggles came into use around 1710, to describe protective eye coverings that were short tubes with fine wire mesh over the ends. Masons used them as protection against flying stone chips.”

  “Well your goggles have glass in them,” said James.

  “Give me the goggles, I’ll run up some wire mesh disks,” I called from my workbench. “Nothing simpler.”

  The warmth in Louise’s smile could have ended an ice age, but I suspected that it was only to antagonize James. I wondered if his scowl was meant for her or me. Premarital divorce seemed to be looming like a summer thunderstorm. Meantime I had all the grief of being a romantic interloper with none of the benefits.

  Giles and his team of restoration volunteers took two months to strip the wa
x and old fabric from the Aeronaute, then replace the broken or rotten spars. All the piano wire bracings had to be replaced, then the wings were covered with new black silk. The engine had been restored long before that, but was kept in London so that the Aeronaute could be symbolically made complete in a single dramatic scene for the cameras.

  When I arrived in the company truck with the fully restored quadricycle engine, champagne and chicken had been laid out on trestles, and everyone was dressed in Victorian costumes. The camera crew was also in costume. This was definitely a ‘significant event.’ To dress goth is to dress timeless, so I just borrowed a top hat from the BBC costume van and fitted right in.

  James was arguing with the producer about Victorian fashions, Giles was striking poses for the BBC cameras in front of the mockup Aeronaute, and Louise was posing for a photo before a period camera. She was wearing a voluminous period green and black brocatelle day dress over crinoline, and was looking very unhappy about it. Once the reality television opportunities had been exhausted, and people began making sure that the chickens had died for a good cause, Giles took me aside.

  “The mockup is ready to fly,” he said.

  “What?” I exclaimed. “Already?”

  “Jock, Janice, and Otto ran it up in a week. It’s basically just a modern ultralight with a strange design, and we installed a petrol engine with a variable governor. What’s the best power you got from the 1852 engine?”

  “Nine and a quarter horsepower is all I could get with optimal tuning.”

  “Nine and a quarter!” he exclaimed, losing his smile for the first time. “That’s still a bit marginal.”

  “Or just plain not enough.”

  He looked across to Louise, who was now posing in her wire mesh goggles.

  “It’s probably enough to work with,” Giles decided.

  “In a bleeding computer!” I exclaimed. “The Aeronaute is on the very border of being flight-capable. It’s seriously overweight and underpowered, but I can make a few improvements—”

  “No! It must fly with the exact 1852 config. My computer models confirm that it could get just above stall speed at nine horsepower, with enough fuel for ten minutes and a one-forty-pound pilot.”

  “One-forty pounds!” I exclaimed. “Even a pigeon-chested tosser like me weighs more than that.”

  “I’ve been dieting.”

  “What? You’re joking! What a great source of reality drama: will he die of anorexia or die in a crash?”

  “Be serious.”

  “I am being serious.”

  “Louise is dieting in sympathy with me.”

  “That explains why she looks as crap as you.”

  “And she’s stopped sleeping with James.”

  “What the hell has that to do with . . .”

  My brain caught up with my tongue.

  “Yes, that has everything to do with me flying the Aeronaute mockup,” said Giles. “Sorry to be so suspicious of you; I’ve only just realized that she’s actually dressing goth to tick off James. I’m her real hero.”

  In other words, Back off, steamgoth, the rich girl is mine. At the time it seemed like the obvious conclusion, but we were both about as wrong as it is possible to be.

  * * *

  The stretch of straight, level, private road was three miles in length. A very thorough, three-day investigation by Time Team confirmed that it had been built around 1850. It would have been ideal as a runway, providing a firm, smooth surface that would give the Aeronaute’s wheels minimal friction when taking off. The local council had restored the surface to 1850s standard, and the mayor was rewarded by time in front of the television cameras.

  Giles had learned to fly the Aeronaute with a computer simulator. Getting off the ground was only part of the problem. The Aeronaute was a flying wing without a tail, so by definition it was quite a challenge to control. When flying, the simulation was balanced precariously above disaster.

  “Don’t worry, I’m only going to take it up a couple of feet,” Giles said as I adjusted the governor to give another quarter horsepower to the mockup.

  “Good enough to kill William Penderan, good enough to kill you,” I replied.

  There was a great cheer as the mockup’s engine was started. I was ready with my Vespa and followed the mockup as it rolled away along the road. At the suggestion of the camera crew, Louise was sitting sidesaddle behind me, her dress and crinoline billowing like a failed parachute. It took nearly a mile, but at last the mockup wallowed into the air, lumbered along roughly five feet above the road for about a hundred yards, then descended.

  Unfortunately it had drifted just a little off center while airborne. The rear left wheel caught the roadside grass and the mockup slewed around, ripped off its own undercarriage, and partially disintegrated.

  Giles was unhurt because he had strapped himself to the flying bench. For his trouble he got Louise’s arms around his neck and a kiss full on the lips before the cameras of the BBC—several times, to get the lighting and background correct. The achievement of the mockup’s flight, the drama of the crash, and a dash of romance sent ratings soaring for The Aeronauteers.

  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 headfirst 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 o
f 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.