Cogs in Time Anthology

by Catherine Stovall

  Take the ship and run.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  London, September 1887

  His blood burned in his veins, awash with adrenaline. Uncertainty nearly ruined the giddy rush, but he kept his head down and walked on, pulling his tattered military cap low over his brow. The piercing howl of a train’s steam whistle briefly drowned out the calls of the man behind him. That voice may as well have come from the grainy boom speakers that dotted London, for how could a brother ignore a brother?

  “Chris! Christian!” the younger man’s voice called, tense, annoyed, and undeniably upset. Christian Fleet tried to hunch a little lower as he walked, bending to hide his tall frame among the shorter masses. He needed a distraction.

  Chris veered to the edge of the station, pushing his back against soot stained brick ticket building, and closed his greasy coat about him. With a collecting breath, he stood to his full height to scan the crowd. The train he intended to board sat in its intimidating glory on the other side of the station—the steam bullet to Dover Strait.

  Stretching his mind out across the crowd, he searched for any sign of aether energy in the masses. Ember Bloods, Prowessors, it didn’t matter to him, he’d make up a lie about finding a…there.

  A man nearly as tall as he was slowly walked the outskirts of the busy center. He was not an Ember Blood. He bore none of the distinctive features of the Gifted Ones. The way the air shimmered around him made it obvious that he was a Prowessor.

  It took only a flash of his Seeker’s watch to garner a nearby policeman’s attention, and a few whispered words to lead him to the unsuspecting Prowessor. The official was blowing his whistle and crossing the crowd the next moment. Chris’s brother rushed after him to intercept.

  Chris squeezed through clusters of canes, top hats, petticoats, walking suits, and umbrellas. He pushed a conductor automaton out of his way when the crowd got too thick. The copper body uttered a grainy “pardon me, sir” as he shoved past.

  The steam bullet train loomed larger than the other engines, with its gleaming oiled bronze panels, massive wheels half-hidden under steel skirts, and the sloped grating of the pilot that reared up from the tracks to meet the engine, forming a fearsome grin. This was his ticket to freedom and adventure. The path that lead to a better, more honest life was just beyond the tracks. It did little, however, to bury the pang of guilt that lanced through his heart.

  Christian looked back, watching his brother, not even nineteen years, struggle to apprehend a man that had done nothing wrong.

  Was it worth leaving?

  Was it worth staying?

  The answer was obvious. With one last glance over his shoulder, he boarded the train.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Port Allen, October 1887

  He was winded, filthy, and the happiest he’d been in his life. The crew weren’t mechanics, but the Dixie was taking shape beautifully. She would soon be ready to take flight and leave the waters behind for a far greater conquest—freedom.

  “Cap’n,” said the boatswain in awe, “this is the ugliest ship Ah ever seen.”

  “Shut up,” Thor retorted.

  This was the ugliest ship he had ever seen.

  The semi-rigid balloon grafted onto the steam stacks was old, covered in patches and too large for the mid-sized ship to support without gas to lighten the load. The propellers attached to the ballast frame were noisy. Some were off balance, and there weren’t enough of them. The catch sails on the nose of the ballast were motley. Thor still wasn’t certain the rudder they had rigged would work. The only thing about the new Dixie that seemed solid was the fresh coat of paint that hid her water lines.

  It would do for now, as long as their improvements got them out of Port Allen and into the air, away from Rhettson’s territory and out of his vengeful reach. The twin steam engines below deck roared with the effort to finish filling the ballast, and the ship began to creak in her new hull, rocking a little as she lifted out of the dry dock.

  Thor smiled as Dixie swayed free. Flight, freedom, and business potential made him tingle with excitement. He took in a deep breath, intending to savor the accomplishment.

  “Cap’n!”

  He deflated as the boatswain’s urgent shout drew Thor’s attention to the gangway. He jogged to the side rail, peering over the port ramp. A scuffle had broken out on the dry dock, men scrambling to surround someone, shouting and waving their fists. Thor focused on the crowd, and was struck by a seething mass of color. Negativity, vengeance, and fear rose up, swirling about and darkening into a deep, angry red.

  A slender old man in a white suit and straw sunhat struggled out of the writhing mass, huffing and puffing as he dashed to the bottom of the Dixie’s ramp.

  “Help me!” he shouted up to Thor. “Get me out of here!”

  Thor considered him for a moment, studying the vibrancy around him. To anyone else, it looked like an awkward silence and an unsettling stare. “You do somethin’ wrong?” Thor asked at length.

  “No! Ah’ll pay ya’ll anythin’ ya want, jus’ get me out!” Among the roiling colors surrounding the man, bright yellow and pale blue were easily distinguished. He was scared, and he was honest.

  “All right,” Thor conceded, turning to stride toward the helm. “Hurry up. We’re leavin’.”

  The man wasted no time boarding. The Dixie’s anchors lifted, and she rose unsteadily into the sky.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Szob, Hungary, March 1888

  Hungary was too cold, Christian decided, but it had no shortage of Ember Bloods. The Gifted Ones were walking about the cities in stronger numbers than he had expected. Though most of them had little potential, it was refreshing to see men and women accompanied by small dragons, gryphons, and mystic beasts—none of which he had Sought and shipped off to the highest bidder. Those days were long gone.

  Chris took a swig of his dark ale and focused on the journal before him. It was full of inventions and ideas, and he had plenty of time and resources to find someone who would take an interest. He ran long fingers through bright blue-streaked hair and tugged on the new piercing in his ear. A shock zipped through the earring at his touch, giving him a tiny jolt. He had hated the constant static of the cold, dry climate at first. It grew on him now—a feeling he was learning to enjoy more and more. It was something to spark new ideas in his mind, and he was learning to love it.

  An excited shout carried across the buzz of the tavern. It was enough to draw Chris’s attention, and he walked across the room to the windows where everyone gathered. He leaned against the sill to watch, slouching to peer through the latticework over the heads of the shorter patrons. A hideous little airship was descending on the fallow field across the mud road. He wasn’t sure whether to be delighted at the sight of an airship, or appalled at how poorly this one appeared to be built.

  The ship yawed sideways. Crew ran about on her deck, pulling ropes and pushing at seized propellers. She collided into the half-frozen ground with a thud he felt through his feet, the bow bucking with a recoil that sent a man flying over the rail. She plowed across the rocky soil, leaving a deep trench behind and scraping bright white paint off her belly. She rocked to a stop, settling off kilter on her keel. The farmer that owned the field rushed out waving his arms and yelling about the new trench.

  Then the dirigible collapsed, deflating against the semi-rigid frame and draping her dirty canvas over the deck and crew. The patrons broke into raucous laughter, slapping shoulders and sharing jokes in a language Chris hardly understood. An Ember Blood with wolf ears and tail leaned heavily against the small blue dragon that lounged on the table beside him. He guffawed until he was breathless, and shared a friendly slap on the back with Chris, who winced at the strength of the blow.

  Chris was the only silent one in the room. His mind was across the field, cataloging parts, combing over the ship, and fixing her in his mind. It looked like a steamer plucked out of a river. The half-exposed waterlines beneath her once-bright paint suggested
her conversion to air travel was recent. He couldn’t fathom how she had been able to fly with so few propellers and no air fins to help her steer. Even the sails were mismatched. She was the Frankenstein’s monster of airships.

  He could barely make out her bright copper nameplate near the bow: the I.H. Dixie. What was a Heartlander ship doing in the middle of Hungary?

  Chris returned to his seat. It was only a matter of time before Captain or crew ventured inside.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Thor burst into the tavern in a foul mood. The patrons quieted, turning to take him in for a moment before they burst into laughter. He ignored them and looked for a seat, choosing a table with a lone man absorbed in his scribbling—the quiet type that wouldn’t bother a troubled captain looking for a drink. The barkeep was too busy tinkering with a mechanical bird to pay attention. Several of the patrons were locked in a battle of chess, puffing away on carved wooden pipes.

  “You know,” said the writing man without a glance, “I could fix your ship.”

  Annoyed, Thor looked up at the only English speaker he’d come across since crashing three hours previous.

  “If ya could fix mah ship, what are ya doin’ here?” he snapped. He sighed, shoulders sagging and head hanging low. “Where are we?”

  “Szob, Hungary. And yes, I can fix your ship.” The young man was lanky, with messy, lye-bleached hair, dyed with ridiculous streaks of blue. His grin was warm and wholly irritating, and he had yet to look at Thor. Worst of all, the air around him was tinted in shades of blue and purple. Not only was he honest, he was a dreamer with a mouth.

  “Mah ship is none o’ your business,” Thor said at length, nodding when the barkeep finally brought him a beer. He gave the man a few coins before his glass was relinquished, but one look at the muddy brown contents made him reluctant to drink. He slouched sideways in his chair, propping his back against the wall.

  “Oh,” the man breathed, finally lifting his eyes. “Southern Heartlander. Deep south, by the sound of your…twang.”

  “And you’re a Royal Governs dandy,” Thor countered, taking a swig and grimacing at the taste. Then, as an afterthought, “Ah do not twang,”

  “Yes you do,” he chuckled, offering his hand. “Chris Fleet, by the way.”

  “Ah don’t care.” Another swig of beer.

  “You need a mechanic.”

  “We’re getting’ by.”

  “Of course,” Fleet scoffed, “because the propellers are going to magically balance themselves, the ballast will stay inflated if you just wish hard enough, and how on earth do you steer that pile of junk?”

  “She is not junk.”

  “Even her name is horrible.”

  “Ya want on mah ship that badly,” Thor growled, turning on his seat to glare into Fleet’s pale blue eyes, “ya might start by not insultin’ her.”

  “Apologies,” he replied with an unwavering smile.

  Thor turned back to his ale. The Dixie was a terrible mess, but she had managed to stay aloft for six months on the parts they had scavenged. The crew would do fine once they knew how to maintain the flying parts.

  Fleet turned his attention back to his book. Thor was grateful for the silence. He stared into the murky brown liquid of his mug, swirling it in reflection of his thoughts. He had escaped Rhettson, taken the man’s ship nearly a year ago. Now rumors were starting to surface that the tyrant was finding his niche—sky pirating.

  Dixie was in no condition to flee anyone, and she was garnering a reputation as a secret transport. Since taking the plantation owner to safety, men and women in volatile situations, charged with crimes they didn’t commit or victims of unjust laws, sought her out. Thor had found his niche.

  In a way, the sternwheeler’s tattered appearance was a perfect disguise. It was also a dangerous risk. Thor had to find a mechanic that could make her flyable. One that would remain loyal to his legally ambiguous business, and here sat this perfect stranger, offering his services without knowing a thing about captain, crew, or ship. It disturbed him that Fleet was being honest.

  “You can’t possibly fix an entire ship,” he muttered into the heavy silence.

  Fleet’s pen paused, but the answering grin was coy. “I’m telling the truth.” He glanced up under his brow, his words slow and deliberate, “You know I am.”

  Thor’s blood ran cold. This stranger couldn’t possibly know. He hadn’t been sitting ten minutes yet. His mind screamed to get out, flee back to the ship, and get her off the ground before Fleet could come near. Thor forced himself to stay seated and finish his drink, then stood and left without a word.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Chris considered the ship from a distance the next morning. The early light was pale, the wind was stiff, and his coat was too thin. Before him, lay a crippled ship crying for help, one he could nurture into a beautiful machine if only his mouth hadn’t run away. He knew what the captain of the Dixie was and had said as much in a tavern filled with superstitious men. That was not the right way to seek a job from a Prowessor.

  Chris could see by the shimmer of aether coming from the man that he was a Vigilant, a sniffer of lies and deceit. He could not lie. If Chris had exposed the captain, he couldn’t have talked his way out of danger. Chris tugged on his ear to elicit a jolt. The proper British thing to do was apologize and keep trying to get onto that ship.

  By the time he reached the Dixie’s looming shadow, the captain was standing at the port ramp, glaring balefully down.

  “Captain,” Chris called, “I believe an apology is in order.”

  “Save it,” he sneered, crossing his arms. “Ah’m not interested in your brand of honesty.”

  “I can rebuild your ship, and I can prove it.” If apologies didn’t work with the man, then proving his mettle would have to. He pulled his journal out of the breast pocket of his coat, brandishing it. The captain stared long and hard, sniffed, and beckoned. Chris tossed the journal, watching it fly in a high arc to land at the top of the ramp.

  The Vigilant bent down to retrieve it, sifting through the pages. The skeptical quirk of his mouth disappeared three pages in, and Chris bit back a smile.

  “These are your ideas? All of them?”

  “Yes.”

  A moment later, the captain beckoned again, absorbed in the book. Chris jogged up the ramp, astounded as the man turned his back and walked across the deck, engrossed in the little journal. The mechanic had to remind himself Vigilants could sense the intentions of others; Chris must not seem a threat.

  Christian Fleet stood upon the deck, taking in the crooked stacks, too-heavy ballast, patched sails, and leaning propellers.

  “Wow,” he muttered. There was no other expression for the mess he had walked onto, and he was already growing to love the potential she carried.

  “Still think ya can fix her?” said the captain, turning to look at him.

  Thor looked different in broad daylight. He wore thick wool trousers, heavy boots, and a practical, long-bodied coat lined with fur. His goggles dangled around his neck, and he bore outrageous streaks of acid green at his temples. The rest of his hair was already graying. His scruffy face was handsome, but looked young. He couldn’t have been more than ten years Chris’s senior—young for a ship’s captain.

  A hand was thrust at him. “Captain Ignatius Thor.”

  A smile crept onto Chris’s face. He shook firmly, but when he tried to pull back, Thor’s hand gripped him tighter.

  “How’d ya know?” he asked gravely.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Chris shrugged. “I have a sense.”

  “You’re a Seeker,” Thor realized.

  “Was,” Chris corrected sharply.

  A grin flitted across Thor’s thin lips, but his eyes still pierced him. After another moment, Thor released his hand and returned his journal.

  “Ah should warn ya, son, Ah do what Ah know is right, even if the law states otherwise. This here’s the Haven of Recluse and Underground Souls.”

  “I
n that case, I’m changing my name,” Chris replied.

  “Oh?” Thor rocked back on his heels, sticking his hands in his pockets. “What’s that?”

  “Sparky.” Chris rubbed at his earring.

  Thor smiled at him. “Ah think we’ll get along fine, you and Ah. How soon can ya get us off the ground?”

  “No idea,” Sparky admitted cheerfully. “A tour would be nice, though.”

  Thor swept his arm in a mocking gesture of welcome, glancing at the mountain of canvas piled at the stern. “Welcome to the Dixie.”

  Sparky flinched. “That’s really her name.”

  “Ah was thinkin’ of changin’ it,” Thor replied, turning to lead them astern.

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Horus.”

  Forever Love

  Eada Janes

  Machine

  By Eada Janes

  Eyes without life and lips without breath.

  The ticking of a clock echoes inside his stagnant chest.

  Words without warmth and passion have gone cold.

  Almost as frigid as the body I can no longer hold.

  To keep him meant the world to me.

  I was just too blinded by love to see.

  Without the charms of what made him real.

  He would no longer be able to feel.

  I curse the clockmaker and the alchemist.

  For their mad hands are the ones that did this.

  The one I once loved is now just a thing.

  What was once a man is now a machine.

  Captive Sleep

  By Andrea Staum

  Domaroc Lowe lay back, looking at the few stars that could be seen through the jungle’s thick canopy. His broad shoulders were sore from a day of trying to fix the airship’s energy converters. Most of the crew was passed out in exhausted heaps around the encampment. Even with guards stationed around the camp, sleeping in the jungles of Ruus didn’t seem the safest course of action to him.