Avast, Ye Airships Anthology

by Amy Braun

  “If Pan can’t get that ship down safely, he shouldn’t be piloting her. That rip will definitely ground her, but slowly enough to steer to safety.”

  Now that worry was out of her head, Wyndie had another question. “How did you know my name was Darling?” she asked Hook.

  He laughed. “I didn’t, but it seemed the right thing to call you. Now, my Darling, where shall we go?”

  “Where ever the wind takes us.”

  “You are one for adventure, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose you could say I am well and truly Hooked.”

  Go Green

  by Ross Baxter

  Running a floating brothel had never been easy, but—fortunately—Bruce Valmont always liked a challenge. Since the end of the war, he had done very little else and, as a result, thought he’d just about seen everything the business could throw at him, until now. He glanced down at his silver pocket watch; he had ten minutes before the crew would muster in the dirigible’s bar and he decided he definitely deserved a drink before he broke the bad news. Donning his best satin frockcoat, he inspected himself in the mirror before leaving his cabin for the bar.

  “What can I get you, Colonel?” smiled the barman, putting down the glass he was diligently polishing.

  “If you could fill my flask Tom, I’d be much obliged,” Valmont answered with a polite nod. Although he and the crew had left the Army Air Corps over half a decade previously, all of them still found it hard not to call him Colonel.

  While Tom carefully decanted one of the good bottles into the shiny silver hip flask, Valmont looked around the well-appointed bar. Being early afternoon, the bar was empty, an ideal time for him to brief his loyal team. What he had to tell them would be a sure test of their loyalty, but given their history together he had few concerns in that respect.

  “Can I ask what the meeting is about, Sir?” asked Tom as he handed the flask back.

  Valmont smiled, but shook his head. “We’d best wait for the others.”

  As if on cue, the double doors opened and the engineering department walked in. Though only two in number, they were more than capable of running the twin coal-fired turbines, both generators, and maintaining the integrity of the converted Covenanter-class airship. Next came the cook, resplendent in freshly cleaned whites, closely followed by the two deckhands. Finally, the three sporting girls sauntered in, still tired from the night before.

  Valmont nodded a greeting to each in turn and with a sweep of his hand indicated that they should sit at the tables. He was justifiably proud of how the small crew of just ten competently handled the dirigible’s twin businesses of brothel and federal mail-carrier.

  “So what’s the occasion, Colonel?” asked Lou Mathabane gruffly. As Chief Engineer, she was effectively second-in-command on board, and usually the first to voice an opinion.

  “Some challenging news,” began Valmont, looking intently at the seated crew. “Earlier today, I met with Major Drake at Fort Carney. The final supply train before winter hasn’t made it through, and—consequently—the two wagons of coal promised by the Army will now not be delivered until March of next year at the earliest.”

  “But we haven’t enough coal to get us more than ten miles from the fort!” Mathabane cut in.

  “I know,” Valmont sighed. “Drake was under the false impression that we could run the steam turbines on wood. He claimed he had no idea that the lower calorific value and higher organic makeup of the timber would clog the particulate filters and stop the engines before we could even slip the moorings. All he can suggest is that we moor at Fort Carney for the winter. He seemed to think we would jump at the idea and we’d make a fortune through our bar and our ladies servicing the fort.”

  Hoots of derision rose from the gathered crew. They were only at the fort to deliver supplies and did not plan to stay.

  The trouble with the military was that a private’s pay of thirteen dollars a month did not go very far. A full winter moored in northern Montana would also play havoc with the dirigible. In addition, Valmont had secured a lucrative contract to deliver post over the winter on a circuit around Indiana, a deal which would treble their normal takings.

  “So,” Valmont continued, “unless we can come up with a plan, we’re stuck here at Fort Carney for a very long winter.”

  “What have you got in mind, sir?” called Tom hopefully.

  Valmont smiled, ever flattered by the seemingly endless faith the crew had in him. “Not much at the moment, but I suggest we all go ashore shortly and scout out other sources of coal. Maybe we can beg, borrow or steal sufficient from the farms and homesteads, or from the fort, to get us heading south. The Duty Watch will remain onboard, but the rest of us will meet back here in fifteen minutes, ready to go scouting.”

  Nods and sounds of agreement came from the crew as they rose and made off to get ready. Lou Mathabane stood and made her way towards him, nimbly picking her way through the chairs although she was as a big as an ox. Sweat from the engine room still marked her face, glistening like tiny stars against the dark ebony of her skin.

  They both went back a long way, from when Valmont had been forced to promote her during the war after his Chief Engineer caught a musket ball in the gut. The decision caused a storm of protest at the time; not only was she the first female Chief Engineer in the Air Corps, she was also the first Afro-American one.

  Despite the objections, it proved to be one of the best decisions he had ever made. Not only did she know turbines and boilers inside out, but she had been the first to join him after the hostilities and had proved her loyalty countless times. She also kept the dirigible running on a shoe-string budget with just a single stoker.

  “We’ll need at least two tons of coal to get us to the nearest railhead,” she warned.

  “I know,” conceded Valmont. “Let’s just hope we get lucky.”

  #

  After visiting two farms, Valmont was thinking they were just plain out of luck. Both farmers kept their coal securely locked in brick bunkers and neither was prepared to sell or trade despite generous offers. With the reliance on steam-driven machinery, the failure of the final supply train to reach Fort Carney was a disaster for all.

  “I hope the other two teams are doing better than us,” muttered Lou as they approached the last farm.

  “I’m sure the sporting girls will come up with something,” Tom chipped in, positive as ever.

  Valmont nodded, thinking the same thing. Kate, Amelia and Drea always proved resourceful—and were always ready to turn their considerable powers of persuasion to anything.

  Through the failing light, they made out a large two-story timber farmhouse ahead. It was much bigger than the previous two establishments and was flanked by a huge single-story brick building. As they approached, a door opened in the brick construction, and a filthy farm-hand appeared carrying a shovel.

  “Evening,” nodded Valmont. “Is the owner around?”

  The farm-hand stopped and looked at them uncertainly for a moment.

  “Are ye looking for work?” he said hesitantly, his eyes seemingly drawn to the imposing figure of Lou Mathabane.

  “No,” snapped Valmont, a little insulted, in that he had changed in to his best leather frockcoat and did not feel he looked like a farm laborer. “We want to discuss some business with him.”

  “It’s a her,” the farm-hand mumbled.

  “In which case, where would we find the lady?” Valmont pushed.

  “She ain’t no lady.”

  Valmont stared hard at him, trying not to lose his temper. His strict upbringing had ingrained in him a need for politeness and respect for females, whether they deserved it or not.

  “Where is she at the moment?” Lou cut in, anxious to prevent a scene.

  “She’s in the milking shed,” muttered the hand, nodding at the building behind him.

  Without another word, Valmont pushed past and strode to the open door in the large structure. Lou and Tom followed closely.
Inside the building was huge, with row upon row of small pens stretching out in each direction, every enclosure holding a tethered cow. A network of pipes ran from the rear of each pen, each ending in brace of small cylindrical cups. The pipes led upwards and snaked across the planked ceiling towards a room at the far end which appeared to house large copper holding vats and smoke-belching pumping engines. Valmont wrinkled his nose at the earthy smell of cattle and manure.

  “There must be a couple of hundred cows in here,” Valmont marveled, trying to breathe through his mouth. “It looks like some sort of automated steam-powered milking factory.”

  “I think she’s over there to the left,” Lou offered. At six foot five inches, she stood half a foot taller than her companions and had a much better view.

  Valmont led the way, gingerly picking a course across the filthy floor whilst holding up the hems of his moleskin trouser legs to ensure they remained spotless. As they approached the woman, their quarry stood and regarded them quizzically.

  Prematurely gray, and with a skin darkened by the sun, the glint in her eye and heavy bunching of her arm muscles showed she was not one to be trifled with.

  “Can I help you?” she asked flatly.

  “I hope so,” said Valmont, unconsciously turning on all the charm he could muster. “I’m the proprietor of the dirigible currently moored by Fort Carney. The failure of the last supply train to reach the fort has meant that the commanding officer reneged on his deal to restock us with coal. We’re here to see if you’d be willing to sell us any.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t,” the farmer replied with a shake of her head. “The failure of that buffoon Major Drake to get the supplies here is a disaster for me too; the heating and milking machines for my herd here are all coal-powered, as are the engines which run the refrigeration plant where I store the cheese. I’ve only just enough coal to last a really mild winter. I don’t have the labor to start cutting lumber, and so I’m going to struggle.”

  “What if my crew were to cut some lumber for you, would you trade then?”

  The farmer made to answer, but was cut short by a huge fart emanating from the rear of a cow in the pen by which Valmont stood. Valmont flinched at both the volume and the light spray of dung which shot forth with the explosion of gas.

  The farmer laughed. “I think that answers your question.”

  Valmont sighed, and flicked bits of manure from the leather sleeve of his frockcoat.

  “Would you be willing to sell us a couple of your cows instead?” asked Lou.

  “I suppose,” replied the farmer. “That much less drain on the coal.”

  “Wait!” demanded Valmont angrily, turning towards his Chief Engineer. “What the hell do you want with two cows?”

  “They might be good company if we’re stuck here for the winter,” Lou replied, the ghost of a smile playing over her dark lips.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Valmont seethed.

  “You need to trust me on this,” Lou replied calmly. “Have I ever let you down, Colonel?”

  “Yes,” Valmont shot back, “at Pensacola in ’69!”

  “Okay,” she conceded. “Have I ever let you down—apart from Pensacola seven years ago, when I couldn’t fix that scrap boiler you won in a card game?”

  “No,” Valmont muttered.

  “Then buy me the cows and give me twenty-four hours to get us out of this mess,” said Lou.

  Valmont looked at the dung-splattered sleeve of his favorite frockcoat and swore under his breath. Then he reached inside and reluctantly withdrew his wallet.

  #

  The colonel actually gave his Chief Engineer just twenty- three hours before he decided to check on her progress. Unable to wait any longer, he moved to swap his satin lounge-suit for the stained cotton overalls which hung behind the door. He quickly dressed and left the cabin to stalk aft towards the dark heart of the vessel. One deck later, he unlatched the heavy steel door and stepped into the claustrophobic heat of Engineering. It was quieter than usual, with only the reserve generator running, as opposed to the colossal twin cast-iron steam turbines which provided motive power. Over the steady throb of the generator he could make out the sound of heavy hammering and even louder cursing from within the adjoining boiler room. Stepping carefully over sizzling pipes and oil-soaked thwarts he traversed his way over to the open doorway and the source of the foul language.

  “I see you’re having fun!” Valmont shouted over the din of the hammering.

  Lou swung the heavy hammer one last time before rising up from behind the steam duct. She squeezed herself out from beneath an access gantry and nodded a greeting. Sweat poured down her face to soak her overalls

  “You only come to the bowels of the ship when you want something,” she growled. “And you’re early.”

  Valmont laughed and held up both palms in admission. “I’m ready to hear your apology for making me buy the two cows.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen,” Lou muttered, taking a stained rag from a pocket in her overalls and wiping the oil from her hands. “Would you care to step inside my office?”

  Valmont smiled wryly as he followed, knowing her office was actually just a battered desk at the back of the engineering workshop. Lou pulled up a wobbly stool for him and switched on the fizzing sodium lamp hanging above.

  “Coffee?” she offered.

  Valmont glanced at the stained, chipped cups on the table and shook his head.

  “You won’t have to worry about spending the winter in northern Montana,” she began. “Me and the cows have sorted the problem?”

  “How?” asked Valmont.

  “I’ve fashioned a set of injectors for the reserve generator and coupled it to the main drive shaft,” she explained. “It’s woefully underpowered, but should give us a steady seven knots. I reckon we can reach the coaling station at Missoula in around three days.”

  “But I thought we didn’t have enough coal?” countered Valmont.

  “We don’t. But it’s not coal-powered, it’s cow-powered.”

  Valmont rolled his eyes impatiently. “It’s not the time for jokes.”

  “It’s no joke,” she went on. “When I was a slave in Louisiana, the plantation had milking cows. I was always amazed by how much wind those beasts could pass. It turns out they produce four to five-hundred cubic feet of methane a day. Compressed, chilled, and then injected into the cylinders instead of steam, it produces enough oomph to turn the engine.”

  “Oomph?” asked Valmont.

  “It’s a technical term,” she answered. “All you need to know is that two cows can produce enough methane to get us to the Missoula depot at quarter-speed. The cows are happily munching silage in the store room right now, and we can depart as soon as you’re ready.”

  “You mean to say that the dirigible will be fart-powered?”

  “I prefer to think of it as ‘environmentally friendly recycled gas’,” Lou replied seriously. “With a bit more development, and the right name, this could be the future of steam! I was thinking of calling it Green Steam.”

  “Fart-powered airships,” Valmont muttered sadly, shaking his head at the thought.

  “You can’t sniff at a rip-roaring idea like this; we’ll be able to completely trump the competition,” Lou said. “Now let’s get ready for blast-off!”

  Lost Sky

  by Amy Braun

  The sky used to hold hope for me. Now it held only terror.

  I led Abby through the ruined streets, over blood-stained rock and broken glass. Darting behind the remains of a collapsed shop, I curled my arms around Abby’s small shoulders.

  “Stay behind me. I’m going to take a quick look,” I told her.

  Abby nodded, eyes glistening with fear and tears. Dirt was smeared along her babyish cheeks. Oil slicked most of her knotted blonde curls. The beige dress shirt she wore was too big, as were the dark brown work pants and boots, but she could run in them. Keeping her hand in mine, I lifted my head over the grimy stone.r />
  The sky was stormy and gray, like the skin of a furious dead man. Hanging in the middle of it was the black monstrosity we called the Behemoth. After seeing it through a spyglass, I knew it had earned its name.

  It looked like two ships stacked on top of each other. The upper half was enormous, a black man-o’-war covered in large rusted gears. Four rows of gun-ports carrying heavy cannons on the sides pointed an ominous warning down on us few survivors. Three tall masts with black sails shivered like ghosts in the wind. The bow and the stern curved upward like two horns, rows of spikes jutting out from their middles. Just above the rudder was an exhaust port which coughed out dark smoke that poisoned the clouds.

  Chained under the Behemoth was a smaller vessel that was nearly its replica, except for the slots where the skiffs would berth.

  The skiffs were backing out of their docks to go on hunting missions. They were charred metal rowboats with pointed masts and inky black sails. Heavy, gushing smoke spewed from their sterns when they steered. Their figureheads were pointed, conical spears, used to impale an unlucky victim and hoist them to a fate worse than death.

  “Are they close?” Abby whispered.

  I held my breath and watched the six skiffs chug out of the Behemoth, spreading in various directions.

  “I don’t know yet,” I muttered back. “But we’re about to find out.”

  No one knew where they had come from. They simply appeared three years ago between the night clouds and the moon, descending in their evil ships and carrying away the children. The adults who resisted were slaughtered, torn to shreds by demons with black razor teeth, onyx claws, and blood-red eyes. We called them Hellions.

  They used to only come at night. The men and soldiers would attack them with their own airships in the daylight, thinking they could overcome them by surprise.

  Every ship sent up was shot down, or captured with none of the crew to return. Now they came even during the day, erasing any vestige or illusion of safety.

  The few pilots that survived the attacks spoke of a tear in the sky, a rip between two worlds—ours and theirs. They said that beyond that tear was an obsidian fortress. A few rebellious, possibly insane, pilots ventured through the tear before the daylight attacks. When their crews returned in shambles, they hastily told us that the Hellions had a commander that was dying, and needed blood to be gathered to preserve his life.