Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War

by Richard Ellis Preston Jr.

  Valkyrie planted her fingers on the logbook. “May I deliver my engineering report?”

  “Deliver away.”

  “All systems at the ready. We are fixed to depart as soon as your ambassador arrives. There was a considerable amount of repair work done to the superstructure and piloting gondola. Your injured chief engineer—Max, I believe her name is—had installed an ambitious refitting schedule. I have inspected the ship, and I must say, you Crankshafts have very competent repair crews, Captain.”

  Buckle nodded.

  A rap sounded at the door.

  “That had better be my bloody tea,” Buckle grumbled. “Enter!”

  The door opened, propelled by the back of the blond-haired Howard Hampton as he balanced in his hands a silver tray holding a teapot, five china cups and saucers, a bowl of sugar cubes, a decanter of fastmilk cream, napkins, and five silver spoons.

  “Ah!” Buckle said, hurrying forward to take the tray from Howard. “Good work, Howard, lugging all this all of the way up here!”

  “Thank you, sir. No need, but thank you, sir.” Howard beamed.

  “Princess Valkyrie, this is Howard Hampton, cabin boy and gunner’s mate.”

  “My lady,” Howard said, dramatically bowing to Valkyrie.

  “Thank you, Howard Hampton, cabin boy and gunner’s mate,” Valkyrie said kindly. “But you need not bow to me aboard a warship.”

  “Yes, yes,” Howard muttered, almost bowing again, nervous. “Do you need anything more, Captain?” he asked.

  “No thank you, Howard,” Buckle replied, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead. “This is quite sufficient. Go on.”

  “Sir,” Howard said, and he bowed to Valkyrie. “Thank you, Princess.”

  “Thank you, Howard Hampton,” Valkyrie replied as the cabin boy scurried out the door.

  Buckle placed the rattling tray on the table. “Would you join me in a cup of tea, Princess?” Buckle asked. “It will be almond, if we have any left, that is.”

  “Tea most certainly, Captain,” Valkyrie responded.

  “Please, allow me,” Buckle said, placing two cups in their saucers on the table and lifting the teakettle by its carved wooden handle from its crocheted trivet, feeling the heat rising from the metal along the back of his hand.

  “And if you please, Captain. You need not address me as Princess aboard a warship. “My acting rank here is lieutenant, and that will be quite sufficient as long as I am aboard.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant,” Buckle said, pouring the steaming brown tea into two cups. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

  “A dollop of milk. Never sugar.”

  “Sweet enough, are we?” Buckle said. It was a standard Crankshaft response to a woman who refused sugar in her tea, but in the instant it passed through his lips, he knew it was the wrong thing to say—far too familiar. “My apologies,” he followed up quickly, offering her the cup and saucer with a folded napkin and spoon. “Less than appropriate, considering the present company.”

  Valkyrie took the teacup in her long fingers. “You need not walk on eggshells around me, Captain. We are shipmates, if only temporarily, and I do not wish for my crewmates to feel as if they must act differently around me. That would be distracting and impede efficiency, do you not agree?”

  “Absolutely,” Buckle replied, dumping milk and sugar into his tea.

  “Pardon me, Captain,” Valkyrie said. “But you have forgotten my milk.”

  “Forgive me, Lieutenant,” Buckle said, leaning forward to pour fastmilk cream into her cup, where it swirled, turning the black liquid a milky chocolate brown.

  Buckle reached for his cup, his mouth watering. Hot tea in the early morning was one of his favorite things.

  A rap hit the door, a loud bang rather than a knuckle tap, and Windermere was on his way in just as the bosun’s whistle rang out somewhere amidships.

  “Captain!” Windermere announced. “Ambassador Washington is aboard. We are ready to cast off.”

  Valkyrie traded her tea for her pickelhaube.

  Buckle set his cup down. No time for tea now. “Prepare to up ship,” he ordered.

  FUNERAL PYRES AT DAWN

  “BRING HER AROUND, DUE WEST,” Buckle ordered on the bridge of the Pneumatic Zeppelin as he rose into the soft blue-purple clouds of the predawn sky.

  “Due west, aye,” Helmsman De Quincey answered, turning the rudder wheel hand over hand.

  The huge sky vessel groaned comfortably, finally free from a month in the repair dock, her hydrogen cells engorged, the airfield a sweep of orange lantern dots beneath her. Buckle felt the smooth tremble of the propellers as they wound up, felt the forward surge of their energy through the deck, and heard the rising rumble of the steam engines far behind. The Pneumatic Zeppelin smoothly gained speed as she passed over the Devil’s Punchbowl; Buckle looked ahead through the slightly distorted glass panes of the nose dome, watching the wide, white sweep of the Mojave Valley plain as it unfolded far away toward the western horizon. The dusky peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains encircled them to the fore and flanks, brightening against the cloudy sky as the sun awoke behind them in the east, somewhere directly behind the stern.

  Buckle could still see an airfield windsock hanging limp on its docking tower. Casting off before daybreak was good because the world almost always lay motionless then. It was still dark, but the atmosphere was lighting up fast, rapidly shifting into shades of lighter and lighter gray blue. There was no need for lanterns anymore.

  Howard Hampton appeared at Buckle’s side, between Kellie and the chart table, with a silver tray and a steaming teapot. “I thought you might still wish a cup, Captain.”

  Buckle beamed, taking the cup and pouring the bubbling black liquid out of the pot. “I declare you are a lifesaver, Hampton. Thank you, kind sir.”

  Howard Hampton beamed so widely Buckle feared his lips might crack.

  Buckle dumped two lumps of brown sugar into the tea—he was too busy to bother with the cream—and his nod sent Hampton marching happily away. Buckle sipped the brew; it was almond, sugar bitter, and lip-scaldingly hot, and it tasted like peace and quiet.

  Of course, such tranquillity could not last. When was he ever given a moment’s peace aboard his own ship?

  A few seconds later, Meagan Churchill shouted from the aft corridor. “We have been sent a flag message, Captain.”

  Here it comes. Buckle tensed, tea ruined, ready for bad news.

  “It is Admiral Balthazar, wishing us all the best of luck, Captain!” Meagan reported.

  Buckle relaxed again. It seemed he was to be spared for once. “Aye! Thank you, Miss Churchill.” Meagan Churchill, the lovely fawn, was at her new station alongside Jacob Fitzroy in the signals cabin. Long hours, spent huddled together, two attractive kids—Buckle figured human nature would run its course and the two would be sharing a bunk before the month was out. He did not want to have to explain that one to Holly. He would let Sabrina do that.

  Buckle peered down at the citadel through the floor observation window, which was partially blocked by Kellie’s tail: the heavy stone walls, built in a hexagon into the natural ridges of the boulders, looked geometric compared to the sprawling, low, brownish town around it, where the irregular streets were interrupted by the India-rubber factories, and the cottages on the fringes expanded in all directions, though mostly west onto the plain.

  It was then that Buckle saw the smoke, unmistakable gray-black columns of wood smoke, rising from the citadel courtyard, and the meaning of it struck him in the heart. The torches had lit the pyres of the dead—his four dead, his crew members lost to the kraken—in the center of the courtyard. Balthazar was overseeing the ceremonies in Buckle’s place, comforting the mourners and the bereaved families—a role Buckle was already too familiar with—accepting the sobbing hugs of the mothers, the brave handshakes of the fathers, the grim, wet eyes of husbands and wives, and the blank stares of uncertain children.

  The names would be read: Henry Stuart
, mechanic; Martin Robinson, signals; Hector Hudson, skinner; and Carmen Steinway, skinner.

  Right on cue, the ballast officer, Nero Coulton, the ship’s resident awful poet, recited a verse from Elkhorn’s Dead Mates and thankfully not one of his own barely rhyming disasters.

  A zeppelineer mourns those who fell

  With a sadness sharp and deep;

  He spits at hell and bids farewell

  And lets the dear departed sleep.

  “Up ship, three thousand feet,” Buckle ordered, swallowing his sadness, taking the poem to heart. They needed altitude to clear the San Gabriels.

  “Currently at one thousand feet, Captain,” Sabrina announced. Her voice was distant, bodiless.

  “Up ship,” Windermere said, nudging the elevator wheel.

  “Up ship, aye,” Nero repeated, hands on his hydrogen and ballast wheels.

  Buckle barely heard his crew. He was lost in a memory, standing in the courtyard of the Tehachapi stronghold, his head wrought to putty by despair, his mouth bitter with the stink of the smoking ruins all around him, vainly searching for his sister, Elizabeth, whose body had disappeared under the rain of bombs the night before.

  Elizabeth had loved Elkhorn.

  “You cannot shout and caterwaul around in the council chamber,” Elizabeth said, holding open the heavy timber door Buckle had just stormed out of. “Getting all riled up like that is counterproductive.”

  Buckle, his boots crunching in the snow, his eyes glazing momentarily as they adjusted to the night and the sputtering flames of the Tehachapi stronghold’s street lanterns, spun around to face her. “They are fools!” Buckle shouted. “Damned fools!”

  Elizabeth smiled empathetically with her perfect teeth; she laughed at Buckle and his passionate outbursts often, but always managed to mollify rather than anger him with her amusement. Elizabeth had a stately face, one harboring beauty, strength, and kindness. Her eyes, light brown and quick, were framed by the auburn hair resting lightly on her shoulders, the red tints afire with the oranges emanating from a lamp overhead. She was ever-so-slightly plump, and it made her buxom, but also imparted to her face a softness that might make one forget how relentless a negotiator she was—but only for a moment.

  “I do not think that Balthazar shares your thirst for exploration, dear brother.” Elizabeth sighed.

  “And so we purchase another penny-pinching, fat-hulled tramp steamer?” Buckle asked, exasperated, though he felt his anger ebbing away. He released his hand from a death grip on his scabbard, stretching his knotted fingers. “We need to push the frontiers, to range out, Elizabeth. If we do not crack new trading routes into the borderlands, into the Eastern Pale and beyond the Offing, somebody else will crack them first. And you cannot explore new territory with tramps. We need fast traders and clippers.”

  “You are calming down, yes?” Elizabeth said, stepping out into the street and letting the door groan shut behind her. The door was decorated with a big pair of elk antlers—everything in Tehachapi was decorated with antlers. Elizabeth had a far cooler head on her shoulders than Buckle, which was why Balthazar had enlisted her into his diplomatic corps along with Ryder. “How about we stroll back into Pinyon Hall and you can apologize to the grand old men for your outburst, shall we? They are not too insulted anyway, so used are they to your strenuous protestations from time to time, son of Balthazar.”

  “Not yet,” Buckle said. “I am not so proper nor astute as you. I am going to take a walk. You get inside—you are not dressed to be out here.”

  Elizabeth took hold of Buckle’s arm and, leaning up on her tiptoes, for she was not as tall as he, planted a warm kiss on his cheek. Then she released him and stepped back, crossing her arms. “Despite your serious shortcomings, I do so love you, dear brother of mine.”

  “And I love you, too, sister.”

  “Leave it to me to smooth things over in your absence, as usual,” Elizabeth said with an exaggerated sigh. “I shall collect some of Mother’s cakes from the pantry. Cherry pastries and coffee tend to soften the old fellows up a bit.”

  “And tell them we need a clipper!” Buckle howled over his shoulder, already striding away, street slush squishing under his boots.

  “Oh, my dear, poor Romulus,” Elizabeth shouted after him. “Always, always a little too brash.”

  “Good night, Sister,” Buckle said. He glanced back and saw her watching after him, her face gentle and beautiful as it always was, warmed by her bemused smile. She lifted her hand and waved. He waved back. She was everything to Buckle, his confidant, loyal friend, and sympathetic ear, and he could never, no matter how delicate she might appear from time to time, ever shake the feeling that she was destined for something big.

  Buckle walked away. Of course he did not know it, but that would be the last time he would see Elizabeth alive.

  “Heading due west, Captain,” Sabrina said. “Three thousand feet.”

  Buckle blinked. West. He stepped to the chadburn and grabbed the handle, slamming it back and forward, ringing the bell as he planted the needle on all ahead full.

  “All ahead full,” Buckle shouted.

  Elizabeth was somewhere to the west.

  NEW BERLIN

  BUCKLE SCANNED A METEOROLOGICAL MAP on the small chart table on the bridge, the lines and numbers stained yellow by stinkum and blotted with what looked like spilled coffee stains, half-studying the now near-useless old wind patterns of the mountainous region where New Berlin, the main Imperial stronghold, was located on the western cliffs of a valley known as the Ojai. Buckle had flown over this terrain once before, but it had been on a moonless night, the night the Crankshafts raided New Berlin, and the night he took the Pneumatic Zeppelin as a prize.

  The piloting gondola was relatively quiet despite the number of crew stationed within it; the wind streamed past against the hull and overhead envelope with a constant rustle, the propellers and engines humming loudly from behind, the pigeons cooing gently in the signals room. Buckle peered out the round porthole over the chart table. The gray sky was particularly bright on this first day of February, and the rough ridges of the tree-furred mountains stood out in a stark relief of harsh greens, whites, and browns. With the engines at maximum and no headwind, the Pneumatic Zeppelin was making seventy knots. New Berlin would be coming into view at any moment.

  The apprentice navigator, Darius Banerji, walked past, on his way to the nose to assist Wellington.

  “Mister Banerji, a word, if you please, sir,” Buckle said.

  Banerji spun on his heel and turned to face Buckle. He stood ramrod straight, frightened. He was of average height, quite thin, with dark-brown skin and a narrow face, and he was extremely intelligent. The young midshipman was a zeppelineer to the bone, bookish but also athletic, and he proudly wore the red kerchief around his neck, the privileged mark of a gun crew member. Somewhere in the back of Buckle’s mind he had already tagged Banerji for accelerated advancement into the officer ranks. “Yes, Captain,” he said.

  “You have had a little time,” Buckle said. “Do you remember any more details regarding our saboteur?”

  “No, sir, I am afraid not,” Banerji replied apologetically. “Other than that he was quite nimble, a true runner.”

  “Very well,” Buckle said. He had not expected anything more—the poor apprentice navigator had already told his story several times to Sabrina, Valkyrie, and a host of junior investigating officers. “Take your post.”

  Banerji hesitated, then said, “Captain, I am deeply sorry that I allowed the saboteur to escape, sir. I accept full responsibility. I failed, sir, but I would have sworn I potted him, Captain. I was sure I potted him.”

  Buckle shook his head. “Do not consider your actions a failure. Do not give it another thought. A man fires a pistol in your face in the middle of the night, well, you have a right to be a bit punchy. You chased him off the ship. You acted well.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Banerji replied, looking relieved, his eyes shining.


  “Back to your post with you then, airman,” Buckle said.

  “Aye, Captain,” Banerji said with a quick salute, and hurried forward.

  Buckle had just enough time to return to his map when two pairs of boots came clomping down the circular staircase. Buckle looked past the marine now stationed at the landing to see Ivan and Valkyrie, both bringing the smell of machine oil and boiler heat with them, swinging down. Ivan’s face was pinched; Valkyrie looked as calm as ever.

  “A word, Captain?” Ivan asked.

  Buckle glanced at Ivan and groaned internally. Ivan had pulled his magnifying goggles on over both his good eye and the medical goggle covering his left eye, which produced a bug-eyed, off-kilter effect.

  “Take the blasted goggles off first, Gorky,” Buckle said. “You look like a deformed dung fly.”

  “The temporary chief engineer has only been aboard half a day, and already she is messing with the boilers, Captain,” Ivan muttered, lowering his goggles. “And I have taken exception. She is only temporary, sir.”

  Buckle lowered his head. The skin stretching across the kraken wound was painful. “What do you mean, messing with the boilers?”

  “Ah, she got ahold of Faraday and had him screw down the exhaust valves so they were tighter, then lowered the radiator scoops two degrees. She claimed it would improve our fuel burning efficiency.”

  “Did you do this, Chief Engineer?” Buckle asked.

  “Yes, I did,” Valkyrie replied. She saw Pushkin poke his furry head out of Ivan’s breast pocket, his eyes glistening. She gave Ivan a disapproving look.

  “I suppose the boilers might explode when we ram the throttle, now,” Ivan whined. He had taken on the habit of clicking his metal fingers against each other when he was annoyed.

  “Did her alteration improve efficiency?” Buckle asked.