Romulus Buckle & the City of the Founders (The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin, Book One)

by Richard Ellis Preston Jr.

  Buckle followed Altair’s gaze up to the dome, its plaster riddled with patched cracks. Wolfgang had referred to the grand hall as the Alchemist’s Sky Temple. A gigantic telescope, a beautiful, monolithic tube polished to a gleaming bronze, loomed over all the proceedings, poking up at the sky through a long vertical slot in the roof. The entire floor was a rotating device, the walls encircled with steam-driven shafts ready to propel the entire chamber around in a circle to allow the telescope access to all 360 degrees of the horizon. An Alchemist female was perched in a seat high on the telescope, her eyes pressed to the viewfinder. When her hands intermittently adjusted the control levers, the steam shafts fired, driving a complex system of gears, wheels, and levers, which emitted a heavy but smooth whir as the chamber swung around.

  Buckle wondered if she was still watching the Pneumatic Zeppelin.

  The room swung around. To Buckle’s senses it seemed as if the walls were rotating around the floor, but his brain knew the reality was the opposite. He eyed the large oval table where the Alchemist Council had assembled in haste, evident in the disheveled appearance of a few of the ten leaders. The table itself was a grand sample of engineering art, roughly forty feet in diameter and inlaid with interlocking gears of bronze, copper, brass, and iron. This metal decoration had been present on every wall and door that he had seen when Wolfgang and Newton had escorted him inside the narrow corridors of the Observatory. It gave the surfaces a geometric depth, and was not unpleasing to the eye.

  And as they entered the interior of the Observatory, Buckle had become aware of profound vibrations rising from beneath his feet, the rumblings of gigantic furnaces, crucibles of molten metal and fire, deep in the labyrinth of forges and laboratories below. The Alchemists were master inventors, hammer-swinging metalworkers addicted to the steam and bolt. But even more intriguing was their near-magical ability to animate their creatures of metal—Newton, for example—so the machines seemed to be able to think for themselves on a basic level. In that very moment, what phantasmagorical constructions were secretly being birthed, eyes blinking with fire, in the depths of the mountain under Buckle’s feet?

  “This is so flabbergastingly ridiculous,” Altair whined, scuffing the floor with the toe of his boot. “How do you say you can you help us, again, Cranker?”

  “He’s already told us how, Altair,” a soot-stained Alchemist woman said, the patience in her voice wavering. Her eyes, like those of the other ten Alchemist leaders around the table, measured Buckle with suspicion, but he had noticed that their glances toward Altair were unkind, even embarrassed. The council was made up of seven men and three women; all but one looked to be in their early thirties, older than the twenty-something Altair, all dripping with the gravitas he lacked. They all wore the long white, double-breasted coats of the Alchemist clan. The one older man was obviously the military chief, perhaps forty-five years of age, with dark-brown skin and hefty gray patches in his black beard, and over his white coat he wore an iron breastplate embossed with a copper astrolabe.

  “Well, I want to hear his story again, Capella, if you don’t mind!” Altair snapped, his eyes bulging, a line of spittle dangling from his protruding lower lip. “And if I don’t buy this slime-coated Cranker’s fabrication this time, I’m going to toss him into the furnace and have done with this once and for all.”

  The assembled Alchemist leaders angrily bit down on their silence. Apparently Capella was the only one willing to openly disagree with the blustering Altair.

  “Sir, I repeat,” Buckle said, raising his voice, suddenly afraid to be at the mercy of this dimwit. It was very hot in the chamber, and he was sweating uncomfortably inside his coat. “I am telling you the truth. Yes, I fell from the Pneumatic Zeppelin after being attacked by tanglers and so, yes, I never intended to drop in on you the way that I have. But perhaps events have conspired to assist us all.”

  “We saw what happened. We saw everything. It is obvious that you are not a spy.” Altair sniffed, wiping the spittle from his lower lip with his sleeve, leaving a damp streak at the wrist. “If you were a spy you’d already be in the furnace.”

  “I understand,” Buckle said. “But listen to me—I was on the roof of my airship and vulnerable to the tanglers because I was patching a skin breach midflight, something that is done only in the most desperate of circumstances.”

  “Yes, yes,” Altair interrupted. “You say, you claim, that you were on your way to free your Admiral Balthazar Crankshaft from the clutches of the Founders, who are keeping him prisoner in the city.”

  “Yes, and every second counts,” Buckle said.

  “How do you know the secrets of the Founders? How do you know it is they who have taken him?” Altair asked, his eyes narrowing at Buckle.

  “We have a spy inside the city.”

  “Ha! Spies do not survive inside the city!” Altair bawled, slapping his hand flat on the table. “We know. We’ve tried. Trick! Furnace!”

  Buckle’s temper, not the longest-fused around, almost got the better of him. He swallowed hard, cooled his anger, and played his ace. “Help us. Your Andromeda Pollux is surely imprisoned alongside Balthazar. This may be your only chance to get her back.”

  Altair’s eyes bulged with such rage that, for an instant, Buckle thought he was going to jump across the table. “What do you—you—know of the situation regarding Andromeda Pollux? And how do we know this isn’t a trap, Cranker? And who says it was the Founders who kidnapped our leaders? For all we know it could have been you. It could have been you, and now you are trying to convince us to raid the Founders’ city to fulfill your own bloody agenda!”

  “A single airship with twenty-one troopers attacking the Founder’s City is hardly an agenda,” Buckle answered. “It is a rescue attempt whose very audacity mitigates the low odds of success.”

  Altair popped a smirk and banged his fist on the table in triumph. “Your tale of woe suffers from a fatal flaw, Cranker. The ambassador of the Founders was also kidnapped at the Palisades. They are victims and just as leaderless as we, you, and the Imperials are.”

  “The Founders did announce their ambassador had disappeared along with the others,” Buckle said evenly, “but I am convinced that was just to throw us off. I am certain that the Founders clan is preparing to invade us all, to recover the territories they lost. And what better way to crack and scramble us than to eliminate our leaders and set us against one another? They’ll have a field day once we’ve torn each other to pieces.”

  “Furnace!” Altair bawled.

  “Altair! That is enough,” Capella announced, with considerable authority. She was a tall, slender person, slightly gawky because her arms and legs were almost too long to match her torso, but she possessed a strange beauty. Her forest-green eyes dominated her face, bordered at the temples by two strands of her black hair beaded with tiny copper bolts and washers.

  Altair whipped his head around, flinging spit. “You stay out of this, Capella!” he snapped.

  Capella cocked her head and peered down her long nose at Altair with the posture of a schoolmistress disciplining a child. “I believe the Cranker. And while I don’t trust him, I trust the Founders even less.”

  All of the other Alchemists on the Council nodded, except for the older general, who looked quite upset.

  “We must do whatever we can to get Andromeda home safe and sound,” Capella added.

  “Help me call my airship back,” Buckle interjected, stepping forward. The argument was turning in his favor, and he wanted to add to the momentum. “I beg you to join us. Together we can assault the prison and save our people. But it has to happen now.”

  “Shut up!” Altair snarled. “Furnace!”

  Capella took a step forward. It was a small step up to the edge of the table, but it was enough to make Altair wince. There was no doubt that she was now taking control of the proceedings. “It is time to act. Those in favor of assisting the Crankshafts raise their hand,” she said.

  Everyone on
the Alchemist Council raised their hand except Altair.

  “What? I am in charge when my aunt isn’t here! You all know that!” Altair bawled, almost in tears.

  “Yes, you are, Altair,” Capella replied. “But majority rules every council decision. We are going to assist the Crankshaft expedition if there is even a remote possibility of recovering our Andromeda.”

  “I object!” Altair howled, launching himself away from the table. “I object with the utmost vigor, and when my aunt gets back she is going to hear all about this! And he also ruined our Hollywood sign, if you remember!”

  Altair stormed toward two huge doors set in the north wall of the dome. Newton stood motionless there, his eyes glowing mildly, with Wolfgang lounging at his hip. Altair looked as if he might try to shove Newton as he passed, but he thought better of it and waddled furiously out of sight.

  For a moment the room stood quiet. Faint vibrations from the heavy equipment below tickled the soles of Buckle’s feet. “Capella—you have done the right thing,” he said.

  Capella shot Buckle a less-than-welcoming glance. “We are in a state of emergency, Captain Buckle. I have made a decision based upon a desperate hope; a decision that conflicts with my better judgment.” Capella turned to the old soldier. “General Scorpius, you shall accompany the Crankshafts. Select an elite detachment to complement their force.”

  “As the Council requests, it shall be done,” Scorpius muttered with a respectful nod, his voice low and gravelly.

  Wolfgang thrust out his arm. “Newton and I, with extreme enthusiasm, volunteer to join the expedition!” Newton lifted one of its massive arms, as if copying Wolfgang in an afterthought.

  Scorpius shook his head. “Adventure, lad? You surely are cracked.”

  “He is young, Scorpius,” Capella whispered, almost sadly.

  Buckle stepped forward. “The Crankshaft clan expresses its heartfelt thanks to all members of the Alchemist Council. With your assistance I am certain that we shall accomplish the mission at hand.”

  Capella turned to Buckle with a piercing stare. Altair may have been a buffoon, but there was not an ounce of ignorance in this woman. “I am willing to take you at your word, Captain Buckle,” she said. “But if you are misleading us—if Andromeda is not rescued—I shall make you rue the day you were born. So…we have an understanding, yes?”

  ONE MARTIAN SAVED, ONE CAPTAIN LOST

  THE BONE-CHILLING WIND BUFFETED IVAN as he rappelled down the starboard flank of the Pneumatic Zeppelin’s main envelope. His right hand swung his safety line while his boots fought for toeholds against the superstructure girders beneath the rippling fabric. He felt no physical discomfort.

  But he cursed the pain in his heart.

  Ivan had been helpless, no more than a howling spectator, when the tanglers knocked Kellie, Max, and Buckle over the side. In an instant they were gone, and then he was left alone, halfway out of the hole in the roof, alone in an ocean of blue-green guts under a gray sky, with the chopped end of Buckle’s safety line limp in his hands.

  His eyes foggy with shock, Ivan had focused on the last safety line as it creaked back and forth at the edge of the breach in front of him. It took a few moments for him to realize that it was taut with weight.

  The dog.

  I’m not losing anybody else today, even if it is just the damned dog, Ivan thought. He grabbed the line and hauled the light animal back up. Kellie’s wind-blasted head popped up over the side, ears flapping on top of her helmet, and once Ivan got her up on the roof, she belly-crawled her way back to him. As he pulled her in and cradled her body, he was surprised at how precious her life felt in his arms, how healing it was to save at least one soul from disaster.

  Ivan detached the safety line from Kellie’s harness and lowered her to the catwalk below. The dog shook her body as if she were wet, then glanced around with alarm. She yelped, a plaintive cry of despair, and took off running, searching for a master she knew on some level was already gone.

  Ivan let her go. Ambrose and Tuck had lifted Marian Boyd, her head bleeding, to her feet on the catwalk; all three of them looked at him, their faces pale. He shook his head and they stared at him dumbly.

  “The captain,” Ambrose had muttered plaintively. “Please, sir, what of the captain?

  “He…” Ivan said, but he did not have any words to continue. Buckle was his brother by adoption and his closest friend in the world—at least, the closest friend Ivan allowed himself to have. But the world took everything away. That was what the world did.

  “Ivan! Come in, Ivan!” Sabrina’s voice rattled from the chattertube hood on the catwalk, barely audible in the great rush of air through the breach. “This is the bridge! Did we lose someone? Ivan, do you read me?”

  Ivan flipped open the chattertube-mouthpiece cover. “Man overboard! We lost both Captain Buckle and Max!” he shouted. “Both Captain Buckle and Max went over the side!”

  There had been no response. Sabrina had probably gasped, then ordered the observers to search the sky for parachutes. Ivan slammed the chattertube cover back with such force its metal clasp broke and the cover fell, banging and rattling down through the wires and catwalks below.

  It was then that Ivan realized the Pneumatic Zeppelin was yawing to starboard—battling a tremendous drag—and felt the starboard engines rumble up their revolutions to counter the yaw. He jumped to the catwalk rail, and when he looked down his heart sank: the starboard sides of the towering gasbags beneath him were wobbling violently, battered by a massive wind current ripping through the airship’s insides.

  There was now another hole in the envelope, somewhere along the right flank. A big one. He could fix it as long as the superstructure girders, wrenching in their sockets as the wind torrent battered the gasbags like giant sails, didn’t come crashing down in the meantime, folding the whole airship up like an accordion.

  That would be bad.

  “Finish the patch from the inside!” Ivan yelled at Tuck and Ambrose, as he launched himself down the stairwell. “Do the best you can!”

  Ivan fought an awful sense of foreboding as he scrambled headlong through the maze of the airship’s ladders and stairwells, leaping from platform to platform over forty-foot chasms between hydrogen cells, hurdling rails and dropping to catwalks beneath at a breakneck speed that only one who knew every inch of the complex decking could achieve without falling to a near-certain doom. And as he neared the site of the damage, the rogue air currents screaming through the wires sought to suck the oxygen out of his burning lungs, but still he ran.

  When Ivan rushed down the main keel corridor outside the crew quarters in compartment seven, he immediately saw the looming vertical slash in the envelope, a lightning-bolt-shaped gash at least four stories high. Tall flaps of loose skin jerked violently around the breach, offering a wide-open view of the gray sky. Several skinners and crew members were already scrambling to initiate interior repairs from the upper decks. But this thing was going to have to be fixed from the outside.

  Two bracing wires supporting the base of compartment seven’s superstructure ring snapped, slicing away like razors with a wiry zing. Ivan’s heart, already pounding, began to pound harder. He shouted—not words, really, but more a guttural howl of dismay.

  The Pneumatic Zeppelin was coming apart.

  From the corner of his eye, Ivan caught sight of something strange, a silver flash where nothing silver should have been. It was the blade of a sword, jammed into the joint between two girders at the base of the breach. He vaulted the rail and swung down onto the joint, ducking the torn fabric edges as they whipped in the whirlwind. He saw Max dangling outside, the slipstream pounding her body. She had one hand on the sword grip, the other clutching a flap of ragged fabric, which had cut through her glove; streams of blood (Martian blood is red, even redder than human blood) frothed pink around her fingers as it churned in the wind.

  Max was still alive. But she wouldn’t last very long.

  She was frozen a
nd exhausted. Her head was down. Her hands were slipping.

  Ivan lunged, hooking his right arm around a girder as he crouched and leaned into the fluttering breach. The wind snatched at him—for an instant he thought he was about to be sucked out into the sky—as he grabbed Max’s wrist and jerked her clenched hand away from the envelope skin. She lifted her head and looked up at him, her black hair swirling everywhere, her teeth chattering, her eyes glimmering white inside her ice-coated goggles.

  Ivan lifted the weight of her against the airflow. She released her grip from the sword and grasped his other hand. The muscles in his arms threatened to cramp, so he yanked her up with one big wrench of his body. She came up so quickly it surprised him, and he bear-hugged her. They toppled backward, landing hard on the corridor grating. The wind knocked out of him, his back shooting with pain, Ivan gasped, sucking in deep draughts of air as Max lay sprawled on his chest, shivering violently. Her body felt light on his, much lighter than he would have imagined for her size, as if she were hollow-boned like a bird. He realized that he had never even touched Max before. The two of them had never gotten along. It was not a Martian thing—Ivan did not have a problem with Martians—it was because she was always trying to mess with his engines.

  Ivan had saved her. He could feel her Martian heart—the Martian heart located in the left side of the chest, like a human heart—beating against him.

  And he was glad that he had saved her.

  Max’s body stiffened and jerked as if she had just awoken from a bad dream. She jumped up, her black hair swirling in the air currents.

  “On your feet, Chief Mechanic!” Max shouted in a hoarse voice. “You must see to any systems damage.” She braced her boot against the intersection joint and wrenched her sword loose, returning it to her scabbard in one smooth motion.

  “Aye!” Ivan had replied, having difficulty as he tried to rise from the catwalk. Max offered her hand; Ivan took it, and he was surprised how much strength she had when she pulled him to his feet.