Storming: A Dieselpunk Adventure

by K. M. Weiland

  Hitch shook his head.

  Earl pushed himself up. “All right, well, I’ll run back over and see if I can rustle up what’s left of ours. I expect Rick took that with him when he left.”

  Kneeling in front of her, Hitch dunked Jael’s hand in their water bucket. He scrubbed off the dried blood and hopefully some of the grease, then wrapped it up in a strip of linen. It’d be sore tomorrow, but, once the blood was cleaned away, it didn’t look bad at all. Better than what it could have been, that was for sure.

  “Did you touch that thing?” he asked.

  She stared at the white bandage and nodded.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t rip off your hand, you know that, right?”

  She kept staring.

  He rolled up the rest of the bandages, watching her the whole time. In the last week, she’d fallen out of the sky, caught her dress and her hair on fire, barely avoided getting nailed by lightning, and then stood up on the top wing of a Jenny. None of that had so much as fazed her. Now, she looked like she needed smelling salts.

  “I’m sorry about the pendant,” he said.

  She drew a shuddery breath. “You were not wrong about what you are thinking of yakor. I wanted to use yakor to bring Zlo back to here. So I could be stopping him from using the dawsedometer for his wrong purposes.”

  “Dawsedometer—what’s that?”

  “It is why Schturming is—why it was created long ago. It is how it is controlling storms.” She shrugged. “I do not have knowledge really—even though I am worker in engines. Most of my people are not being allowed to know these things because maybe there is danger in it.”

  He chewed on that. “So something up there did make that big storm?”

  “Yes. But yakor is there to hold it back. I think it was made in caution of someone like Zlo being strong enough to take Schturming from our leaders. That is why he wanted it. They would not allow him to be Forager anymore, because he is not following laws about staying away from Groundsmen.” She bit her lip. “So he was coming to work for Nestor in engines.”

  “Your boss who died?” More than a boss, judging from her tone. A sort of adopted father maybe.

  “Dawsedometer too was belonging to Nestor’s charge—and yakor. Zlo wanted it. Because of its power.”

  “Because it can make these storms—and the lightning?”

  She nodded. “He needed yakor. That is why he jumped after me on night when I fell in front of your plane.”

  “But what’s the pendant do exactly?”

  “It is like... anchor. Dawsedometer can have no power without it. When it is more than fifty mili away from it, there can be no storms. Without dawsedometer, Schturming can have no purpose for Zlo.” She drew her knees up to her chin. She sat on top of the upturned pail, his blanket around her like she was a sad old Indian. “There was—what you would call—mutiny.”

  “You mean Zlo took control? So you grabbed the pendant before he could get it. And then you both parachuted out?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me get this straight. Zlo’s in charge now. He’s killed the only person up there you really care about. And now there’s no way he’s getting his hands on the yakor because it’s who knows where. What possible reason do you have for still going back?”

  “He still has dawsedometer. He could cause much trouble.”

  “But he doesn’t have the pendant—which I thought you said he needed to make the thing work?”

  She shrugged. “He does not need yakor to turn it on. He needs it only when he is ready to move away from here.”

  He thought back to approximately where Jael had lost the pendant. It was definitely within fifty miles of Scottsbluff, probably closer to twenty. So... that put a new light on things.

  Between them, the fire clicked and popped. Sparks bounced high and winked out. Across the field, a guitar strummed faintly. Nearer, Earl’s and Rick’s voices grumbled, as they argued over the bottle of gin. A coyote yipped up by the river, and another wailed a long answer.

  “It’ll be all right,” Hitch said at last. He looked over at her. Sitting on the bucket as she was, her face was a little higher than his and he had to tilt his head to look up at her. “We’ll figure out a way to keep Zlo from causing trouble. I promised you that.”

  “Maybe there is no way.” She turned to him, her chin cradled against her shoulder. “But I thank you.”

  He inhaled deep—wood smoke and gasoline fumes—then out again. Right now, all these ground smells were downright reassuring.

  “Thank me when I’ve done something.” He pushed to his feet. “Maybe I better go help Earl talk to Rick. You should get some sleep. The competition starts bright and early tomorrow. If your hands are up to it, we’ll need you.”

  “Then you will have me.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “And I thank you because you have already done something. I have no knowledge what would have happened to me if you had not helped.”

  Of course, he had almost not helped her—several times.

  In the firelight, her eyes were soft and big. “You are good man, Hitch Hitchcock.”

  It’d been a long, long time since anyone had said that to him.

  Twenty-Three

  THE FIELD WOKE up in a buzz of excitement. Pilots, mechanics, and performers ran all over the place, borrowing screwdrivers and pocketknives, topping off fuel tanks, and polishing their ships ’til they dazzled in the golden morning light. The dry air, already hot, carried the sounds of shouting, laughing, and plane engines revving. Motorcars had packed the incoming road two full hours before the show’s start time.

  Earl went over the engine once more, and Hitch did a walk-around, checking every surface. Today was not the day to have something fall apart on him.

  Livingstone, wearing white jodhpurs and dapper red-striped suspenders, ambled over with his walking stick. “Well, my boy, here we are.” He looked at the Jenny and smoothed his mustache. “She’s mighty pretty, I’ll say that for her. You’ve got her shined up brighter than a shoe button. Clip-wing, eh?”

  Hitch nodded. Last year, he and Earl had swapped out the standard top wing, with its three-foot overhang, for another bottom wing. It made her a little wilder than even most Jennies, but on days when she was in good temper, she could outmaneuver a hawk.

  “Well,” Livingstone said. “I won’t mind giving that a try after you’ve lost her to me.”

  Hitch hooked his thumbs in his pockets and flashed his most confident grin. “Maybe after you’ve made me your partner, you can talk me into giving you a free ride.”

  “Maybe, indeed.” Livingstone pointed his stick toward where Jael was sitting cross-legged next to the fire pit, staring at the sky. “Your lovely wing walker seems a mite distracted this morning.”

  “Oh, that’s just something she does. Helps her focus.”

  “Indeed. Well, good luck to you. You’ll need it.” Livingstone touched the brim of his hat and strolled on.

  Hitch glanced at Jael.

  She’d shaken off the squigglies since last night, and her hand seemed in good shape. But she’d woken up with a dark, almost desperate look in her eyes. Knowing her, that probably wasn’t a good thing.

  Behind him, a dog barked, and he glanced back.

  Taos bounded up, Walter running after him. Bottom lip between his teeth, the boy grinned as wide as he possibly could.

  Hitch grinned back. “So you got to come after all?” He leaned down to rub Taos’s ears.

  Walter nodded.

  “Did your mama find out about yesterday?”

  The nod became a shake.

  That could only mean Griff hadn’t told on them. That was something, anyway.

  “How’d you get her to let you come today?”

  Walter shrugged, then pointed at Taos. His eyes sparkled.

  “Ah.”

  Nan probably thought Hitch sent the dog home on purpose to manipulate her into letting Walter come. Hitch looked up for her, but something else caught hi
s eye: a green sedan bumping across the field and parking twenty feet off.

  Through the driver’s open window, Campbell watched him. That almost-smile played on his mouth.

  Hitch guided Walter forward a step and pointed toward Jael. “Why don’t you go say hi? Cheer her up a bit. She’s had a rough night of it.”

  Walter lit up at the sight of her and ran off without questioning.

  Hitch put on his best unconcerned look and ambled over to Campbell’s window. “Heard from last night’s satisfied customer yet?”

  “I have.” Campbell twisted in his seat, his broad shoulders almost too big to let him turn and face Hitch. “You did a good job. Much better than the last time.” His eyes were bright and black, like a starling about to decapitate a worm. “Considering how well this job went, I might end up having another for you before you leave town.”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. We’re even now.”

  “Are we then?” Campbell kept on watching him. “And what about that thing”—he twirled his forefinger—“up in the sky. Any sign of that?”

  “All that’s up there is clouds—and not too many of them.” Today, only a big thunderhead drifting in from the west marred the astounding blue of the sky. “Anything more is crazy talk. You and I both know that.”

  Campbell sucked his teeth. “I reckon. But you keep an eye on the sky.” He reached to shift the car’s gear. “Time for me to go enjoy the show. I’ll let you know when the next job is.” He pulled away.

  No way there’d be a next job. Hitch hung his hands on his hips. He’d more than fulfilled any debt he had to Campbell. He’d fly out of here without looking back before he’d do another deal.

  But the nape of his neck still crawled. Campbell had a way of twisting even straightforward situations until he got what he wanted. The sooner Hitch was out of here, the better.

  He turned and scanned the crowd.

  At the corner of the bleachers, Griff stood, watching him.

  The skin on Hitch’s neck crawled harder. He dropped his hands from his hips. No doubt Griff would jump to the worst conclusion possible, seeing him talking to Campbell—especially after Hitch had warned Griff off himself. But maybe, after all, the worst conclusion wasn’t so far from the truth.

  How had things gotten this snarled up? He stared at his brother and rubbed a hand through his hair.

  A white-haired lady hobbled up to the bleachers, hauling a picnic basket about half as big as she was. Griff turned away from Hitch to tip his hat and take the basket for her.

  Before the day was out, Hitch would track Griff down, make him understand for good and all. After that, it was Griff’s business whether he forgave him or not.

  “Hitch!”

  He looked around.

  Nan strode toward him, cheeks streaked with red. Her straw cloche was mashed low on her head, her black purse slung inside her elbow. Aurelia, Molly, and two little girls who looked like twins trailed twenty feet behind.

  “Where’s Walter?” she demanded.

  He hooked a thumb. “Over with Jael, last I saw. I’m glad you let him come. This sort of thing means a lot to a kid like him.”

  “I didn’t let him come. It’s the last thing I wanted. You and that dog of yours.” Her breath was shuddery. “He was supposed to let it jump out of the automobile.”

  “I told him to send the dog over with Jael this morning.”

  She crossed her arms. “Jael didn’t come home last night.”

  “Yeah, we ran into some trouble—”

  “I don’t want Walter out here, Hitch.” Her eyes bored into his, demanding but also somehow pleading. “How can I make that any more clear?”

  He strained air through his teeth, fighting for patience. “Look, I do understand where you’re coming from. But if you don’t want him out here, then you make him stay at home. You keep acting like I’m going to push him into a propeller or something. I like the kid. He’s smart, he loves the planes. I’m not going to kick him like a stray dog whenever he comes around. He reminds me too much of me at that age.”

  She went pale, all except for the hot slash up either cheekbone. “Hitch, you listen to me—”

  “No, just listen to me this time.” He closed the distance between them and lowered his voice. “This isn’t about Walter, it’s about me. I know that. If it was any other pilot out here, you wouldn’t care a bit.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  “All right, maybe you would, but only because you’re set against the whole breed just ’cause I’m one of them. But the point is, why? Why can’t he hang around for a couple days? After that, I’ll be gone.” He hesitated. “Nan, I’m asking you to forgive me.”

  The corner of her mouth trembled. “I thought I had forgiven you. But... then you came back.” She squared her shoulders and stepped away. “Even if I could forgive you, I still wouldn’t let him near you.” She shifted her gaze past his shoulder and raised her voice. “Walter, come here.”

  The boy hesitated, glancing at Jael as if for guidance.

  “Now,” Nan said.

  He shambled over, Taos trotting after.

  She took his hand. “It’s time to go.”

  Walter’s shoulders drooped, but he followed, footsteps dragging.

  He was a good kid. And maybe Nan was right. Maybe Hitch was corrupting him. Before the airshow’s arrival this week, Walter would probably have never even thought about disobeying her. A shiny red Jenny was an awful big temptation to put in front of any boy, especially one as lonely as that.

  Nan should let him stay for the show. She should swallow her loathing of Hitch and give Walter at least that much.

  But at the end of the day, it wasn’t Hitch’s decision to make. It was Nan’s. She was the one with a husband and a family. She was the one with both feet on the ground. She was the boy’s mother, even if she wasn’t doing an all-fired perfect job of it.

  Hitch slapped his leg, calling Taos back from chasing after them.

  The dog hesitated, looking between him and the boy, then ran back obediently.

  Walter cast a forlorn glance over his shoulder.

  There had to be a way to make this all right. Hitch waved at the boy. Had to be. A little luck, a little skill—that could make anything right.

  In the open field, Livingstone’s band—consisting of a snare drum and a trumpet—struck up a circus march. Half a dozen plane engines roared to life, and the prop wash blew over Hitch, flapping his leather jacket and ruffling his hair.

  “Ladies and gen-tle-men!” Livingstone bellowed through his megaphone. “Col. Bonney Livingstone and His Extravagant Flying Circus welcome you to the ex-trav-a-ganza of your lives!”

  Hitch’s blood started pumping. He took a deep breath and turned away from Walter and Nan. First things first: he had to win this competition.

  He jogged back to the Jenny.

  Earl gave the engine one more wipe with his rag. “You ready?”

  “I’m ready. Let’s push her over to the start line.” He ducked to check the steel hook underneath the lower wing.

  The first competition of the day would be the handkerchief pick-up. His heart pumped harder, and his thoughts started to clear, like always.

  He looked around for Jael. By Livingstone’s rules, if a crew had a performer, he or she had to be in the plane at all times, even if the event didn’t require anything but flying.

  She stood behind the wing, eyes on the red-white-and-blue planes taking off. She bent over and rubbed both thighs, like she was trying to warm them up.

  “She’s limping again,” Earl muttered.

  “What’s this?” Hitch called to her: “You all right?”

  She turned and nodded, mouth tight.

  “You hurting again? I thought you were past all that.”

  “It is nothing.”

  “Nothing, my foot,” Earl said. “You should stay on the ground, and we all know it.”

  She looked at Hitch steadily. “I will not stay on ground.”
/>   He looked back at her, trying to gauge how fit she was. “If you fall off and break your neck, I won’t be none too happy.”

  She smiled, tightly. “There is no worry. I will go whether you say I can or not.”

  Earl turned around so she couldn’t see his face. “Not if we tie her up, I reckon.”

  Just the thought of that made Hitch’s shins throb. “If she wants to come, she can come. It’s her call.” When it came right down to it, she hadn’t made a bad one yet. He nodded to her. “Let’s go.”

  After a few events, it started to feel like maybe Hitch was the one Earl should have tied up and left behind.

  They barely squeaked by in the pants race—where the contestants had to land the plane, jump out to struggle into a pair of oversize trousers, then jump back in and fly across the finish line.

  They came in a poor third in the handkerchief pickup. It took Hitch two tries to swoop low across the ground and use the hook attached beneath the wing to snag the bright white handkerchief from off its pile of tumbleweeds. The only consolation was that Rick didn’t even attempt the stunt—which seemed like quite the poor showing, considering this was the trick he swore up and down he invented.

  Finally, Hitch found his groove in the acrobatics demonstration.

  All barnstorming stunts were based on three basic maneuvers—the slow roll, the loop, and the snap roll. Hitch was good at all twenty-six variations. In a clip-wing Jenny with a Hisso engine, he was better than good.

  He finished off his last loop with an inverted screech across the field. That was a trick in itself, since it was tough keeping the fuel pumping when a Jenny was wrong side up. Then he screamed around for a perfect landing. He didn’t need Livingstone’s grudging announcement of his name to know he’d won that one.

  It was a start. A few more event wins today and most of tomorrow, and that bet was as good as won. He grinned.

  “And now for something inimitably special!” Livingstone announced. “Our audacious pilots will race head to head, starting from right here in front of the grandstand, circling around the far pylon, and returning to land before your very eyes, where you may judge the winner for yourselves!”

  Hitch taxied around to the starting line—newly chalked in the dust in front of the bleachers.