by S. S. Taylor
The shipments of firewood and coal for Explorers and their families were another thing that had stopped when Dad had disappeared. After the government had come to tell us he was gone, we’d kept expecting someone to come and take care of us. But no one had. It was just as well; I’d heard stories about the government’s orphanages.
Pucci was flying in his funny way ahead of me, flapping a little faster than a normal bird would to make up for the extra weight of his metal legs. His body was iridescent black and his head shimmering silver, like the knight’s helmet that had given his species its name.
“We’ll just have to hope it warms up soon, Pucci,” I told him as he swooped down and landed on my shoulder. We approached the big oak trees that marked the start of our yard. There had once been six of them, transplanted from the mainland, which was why our house was called “Six Oaks,” but a storm a few years ago had reduced their number to five. The trees always made me think of Dad. He had loved them and had been so happy when they’d thrived, against the odds, in the salty air and poor soil of the island.
He’d been standing out by the oaks the last time we’d seen him, the SteamTaxi chugging impatiently as he’d hugged us and told us to be good while he was on the expedition. “Maybe next time I go to Fazia, you can come with me,” he’d told us, trying to smile. “Remember, you’re the Expeditioners.” It was what he’d called us when we were little, but he hadn’t used the nickname for a long time. The taxi had been loaded with all of his gear, and I remember thinking that he seemed off, edgy, his eyes darting around the yard as though he was waiting for someone to show up. He’d hugged me hard and I could still remember the feeling of my face pressed into his neck, the smell and feel of his Explorer’s vest, the sense I’d had that he was afraid of something.
A chilly sea breeze pricked the raw skin on my cheek. Later, I couldn’t put my finger on what made me stop and hide the package. A buzz of apprehension in my belly, I guess, or maybe it was the way Pucci started plucking nervously at my hair. In any case, I looked around me to make sure no one was watching, opened the pack, and found the secret compartment that Dad had sewn into it. The opening was hidden along a seam; you had to know it was there and wedge a fingernail under one corner in order to open the large pouch that would be invisible once I closed it up again. I took the parcel out of my pack and, even though I knew it was risky, ripped a corner of the paper so I could see what it was. It seemed to be a leather-bound book, and as curious as I was, I replaced the paper and dropped it into the hidden compartment, pressing it closed again. Dad had insulated the compartment so that you couldn’t feel the shape of what was inside, and I tested it before putting it on again. Sure enough, the pack appeared to hold the flour and my sweater. Nothing more.
As I rounded the corner of the yard, I saw the shiny black SteamDirigible tethered to the posts at the end of our driveway, and I was glad I’d listened to my sixth sense or whatever it was. Maybe it had been my nose; now I could smell the faint woodsmokiness that the dirigibles gave off.
It was brand-new, which would have tipped me off that it belonged to the government even if it hadn’t had the red BNDL logo imprinted on its side. The fancy steam-powered dirigibles were amazing things: egg-shaped, lightweight Gryluminum balloons with gondolas below, and sealed, superefficient steam engines that allowed them to travel nearly as fast as gliders. There were a few giant commercial SteamAirships around, but most of the dirigibles were owned by the military and the government. Dad had used them on some of his expeditions but we’d never owned one. They were dangerous, of course, with the engines so close to the cells of lifting gas. There had been a couple of big accidents involving Explorers out on expeditions, but the factories kept churning them out.
The framework of the dirigible—the “balloon” part of the aircraft that held the gas cells—was about the size of a large elephant. The gondola below was about half that size and shiny black like the rest of the craft. It was studded with polished brass rivets and had crystal-clear windows through which I could see red leather upholstery and more brass and polished wood on the instrument panels. The two men and one woman talking to Zander and our sister, M.K., had come out here in style.
They were all wearing the black leather uniforms of agents from the Bureau of Newly Discovered Lands, the blazers reinforced with Gryluminum plates on the lapels and decorated with a ruby red BNDL logo. The woman had her silver hair wrapped into elaborate braids on top of her head and a military-issue Gryluminum chain-mail cape, decorated with a little military insignia marking her as a veteran of service in the new territories. She must have lost her left eye, because she had a clockwork eyepiece set into the socket.
“I got the flour,” I called out as I approached the group, trying to look innocent. What was going on? Had a BNDL agent seen me talking to the man with the clockwork hand? Zander turned when he heard my voice, and I could see he was worried.
People always said how much Zander looked like Dad. At fourteen, he was only eighteen months older than me, but a good head taller and fifty pounds heavier. He already fit into Dad’s clothes. His too-long blond curly hair had sticks and leaves caught in it, and his blue eyes, exactly the same color and shape as Dad’s, narrowed at me, telling me to be careful.
Pucci rose up into the air and found a perch high in a tree, out of sight of the agents, so he could keep an eye on Zander and protect him if needed. Zander had sat up with Pucci all night after he’d rescued the parrot from the cat, making sure Pucci was okay and feeding him sugar water with an eye dropper. Zander had tucked him into his sweater to keep him warm, and Pucci had spent nearly a week like that, nestled up against Zander’s heartbeat. Zander would always come first with Pucci. Actually, Zander came first with any animal or bird. They knew somehow that he liked them better than people, that he’d rather be out in the woods training a dog or a bird than anywhere else.
Our sister was standing next to him, glaring at the three agents. At ten, M.K. looked a lot like Dad, too, with her blue eyes and light hair. But hers was straight and tucked under a mechanic’s cap, and she had a pair of lightweight brass-riveted welding goggles pushed up on top of the cap. In her raggedy mechanic’s jumpsuit, holding a wrench that she had customized for adjusting steam engines, she looked like a very small inventor, which was in fact what she was—one of the best inventors of the New Modern Age, Dad always said.
I was the odd one out, with our mother’s dark brown hair and navy eyes that had needed glasses since I was six. I was slighter than Zander, and I’d been waiting for a year for the growth spurt he’d had at twelve.
“This is your brother, Christopher?” the taller of the male agents asked Zander.
“I’m Kit,” I told him. He didn’t try to shake my hand.
The female agent handed me a piece of thick paper printed with a photograph of the man with the clockwork hand. “Have you seen this man?” she asked. I made a show of taking the paper and adjusting my glasses to study it carefully. He wasn’t wearing his hat in the picture, but I knew it was him. It looked like a standard Explorer Card photo. Dad had had one. The name had been blacked out, but I saw that someone had made some notations at the bottom of the page: “STK” and “KA.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, pretending to study the man’s face some more. “Nope. I wasn’t out there very long. Just looking for flour. I was lucky to find some at that stall at the end of the row.”
The agents glared. The government didn’t like to be reminded of the food shortages.
“You’re sure?” the tall one asked me. He was a big Archy, with longish hair and a flowing dark mustache I bet he was pretty proud of. The muscles in his arms and shoulders seemed about ready to burst out of his uniform. “We have reason to believe he may have been trying to contact your father.”
“Wouldn’t have much luck with that, would he?” M.K. snorted. Zander and I glanced at her, trying to warn her with our eyes. M.K.’s mouth was alw
ays getting her into trouble.
“I’m sure,” I said firmly, handing the paper back. I tried to seem relaxed, but my heart was beating like a steam hammer.
“What happened to your face?” the female agent asked, noticing the scrape on my cheek.
“Oh, this?” I gambled, hoping the mention of the shortages would get their minds off of the man. “I got knocked down in line waiting for the flour.” Underneath the military insignia on her cape, there was a slim, embroidered badge that read “Agent Euphronia Wolff.”
They all watched me for a minute and then one of the agents nodded in the direction of the dirigible. The passenger-side door of the gondola opened and a man stepped out and walked slowly over to us. He wore a BNDL uniform, the sleeves dotted with a few discreet gadgets, and a Gryluminum top hat, shiny silver like Agent Wolff’s cape.
“This is Mr. Francis Foley, the director of the Bureau of Newly Discovered Lands. He—” one of the agents started, but I interrupted him, my gaze locked onto Francis Foley.
“We know who he is,” I said. I wouldn’t ever forget his thin face and small dark eyes, with their oddly long eyelashes. His mouth was somehow too large for his face and it gave him a sharky look. His teeth were very white.
Foley cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I had the unfortunate task of notifying the family that Alexander West was killed during his expedition to Fazia.”
“Was it unfortunate that you had to steal all of Dad’s maps and books and things, too?” M.K. asked. “Was it unfortunate that you had to be a complete bas—”
“Quiet, little girl!” hissed Agent Wolff, her eyepiece clicking and turning to look at M.K. “Mr. Foley is a very important man.”
Foley’s right eye twitched. “Your father was an Explorer of the Realm registered with the Bureau of Newly Discovered Lands. His work belonged to us. It was essential to national security that we secure his papers after his death.”
“The hell it was!” M.K. shouted, taking a step toward him. The wrench gleamed in her hand and I felt the agents tense up, ready to act. She came up only to their elbows, but they looked scared.
“M.K.,” Zander said in his calmest voice, reaching out with his free hand and pushing her behind him.
“He lied,” she protested. “Kit said. Didn’t you, Kit? You looked at the maps. There’s no way Dad was where they said he was.”
Foley’s small eyes turned to me, and I felt his interest in the way he studied me before he said, “Is that right? Are you an expert on maps… Kit?”
“She’s exaggerating,” I said. “I was just doing some work on a map of Dad’s route in Fazia.”
There was an awkward silence and then Francis Foley said, “Now, if I could just see your backpack, young man…”
“But why? It’s only got flour in it.” I felt panic rise in my throat. These guys were serious. They might know to look for a hidden compartment.
“The man we’re seeking is very… motivated,” Foley said. “He may have hidden something in your backpack without you knowing. Explosives, for example. It’s for your own safety.” One of the agents took the pack from me and searched it thoroughly—though not quite thoroughly enough—before handing it back.
“Just a sweater and the flour,” he told Foley. I tried not to let them see how relieved I was.
They all stood there for a moment, watching Foley. He seemed to be thinking. Finally he said, “We’ll be going now, but I expect you’ll let me know if you hear from this man.”
“Of course,” I told him.
“Yes, well… Hail President Hildreth!” They all made the salute, and we imitated them halfheartedly. They turned away and climbed into the dirigible. We heard the engine and the blowers start up, and we all watched as it rose slowly above our house, a dark storm cloud trailing gray smoke against the blue sky, and then disappeared across the water toward the city.
Three
“What was that about?” Zander asked once the dirigible had disappeared from sight. Pucci, sensing it was safe, flew down and landed on Zander’s shoulder.
“I don’t know, but I hate those damn agents,” M.K. said, picking up a small rock from the driveway and chucking it at one of the oak trees. It made a dull thud and a red squirrel jumped down from an upper branch and sat there for a minute looking dazed. “Run, run,” Pucci squawked at it, cackling. “Run for your life!” The squirrel ran around the side of the house.
I looked around nervously, though I knew no one could hear us. “The thing is,” I whispered, “I did see that man.”
“What?” M.K. wheeled around. “Who was he?”
“I thought you looked nervous,” Zander said. “What happened?”
I scanned the road again, completely paranoid now. “Inside. I wouldn’t put it past them to leave someone behind to spy on us.”
They followed me into the house and through the front hallway. The house hadn’t warmed up yet, and I shivered as we stepped into Dad’s study.
“He was an Explorer. He had a clockwork hand. I thought he was going to mug me,” I told them once we were inside. “But instead he gave me this and said it was from Dad.” I took the package out of the backpack, unwrapping it completely, and held it up for them to see. “The New Modern Age of Exploration by R. Delorme Mountmorris.”
“A book?” M.K. asked. It was cold without a fire in the fireplace, and she took a bearskin Dad had brought back from Grygia off one of the couches and wrapped it around her shoulders.
The room was filled with candlesticks and statues and carved masks and odd-looking animal skins and hides from Dad’s travels. There were a few photographs on the walls of places that Dad had visited. As an Explorer, he’d been allowed to use a camera on his expeditions, though the government had controlled how much film he got and which pictures could be developed. I looked up at the photograph of him at the summit of Mount Anamata, grinning and holding his arms out as though he were holding up the sky.
It was a strange-looking room, I suppose, with Dad’s collections and bits and pieces of gadgets and utilities scattered all around. I loved it, though, because it reminded me of him.
Even though I knew there was no way Francis Foley could hear us, I pressed a button on the wall and the government-issued radio squawked to life. “…restored peace in the Fazian capital,” a radio announcer was saying. “Government agents were able to secure the square before significant casualties occurred.”
“Hah!” M.K. said. “I wonder how many Fazians died before they ‘restored peace’?”
“Peace!” Pucci squawked. “Ha, ha! Restore Peace!”
The announcer went on. “President Hildreth announced an additional one thousand BNDL peacekeepers would be deployed to mountainous regions of Deloia in order to secure the Raproot mines in the territory of Deltan. Spokesperson…”
“They can’t hear us.” Zander reached up to shut off the radio. “Well, are you going to tell us?”
I told them about the man with the clockwork hand and put the book down on the special table in the center of the room. The table had clips for holding the big paper maps that Dad had used for his explorations and that he had made based on his travels. He’d been an expert cartographer, one of the best of the New Modern Age Explorers who had had to learn to make paper maps again after the Muller Machines were all shut down. He had made incredible maps of all of the new places discovered by the Explorers of the Realm. He’d also made maps for us, made-up maps of storybook places, and treasure maps that led us to chocolates or coins hidden in the woods behind our house. He’d made maps with disappearing ink and maps that were hidden inside other maps and once, for M.K.’s birthday, a secret map that you had to peel away from a dummy map on top and that led to her present, a new soldering iron.
The wall above the table had once been covered with frames holding his maps, their delicate blue and red and green and black lines forming amazing patterns. But Francis Foley and his agents had taken them all the night they’d come to tell us Dad had d
isappeared, and now the wall was scarred by the unfaded rectangles on the wallpaper where they’d once hung.
I lifted the heavy leather cover. Printed books had started to be made again after the Muller Machines were outlawed, but they were still pretty scarce and I had read the ones Dad had in his library over and over. I’d never seen this one.
“It’s about the New Modern Age of Exploration,” I told them, skimming the introduction. “Just the usual stuff about Arnoz and the Muller Machines and the Explorers of the Realm and BNDL.”
It was history that everyone knew, the first part about the Muller Computing Machines. They had kept track of numbers, stored information, and made maps of the world, of the countries of the Allied Nations, and the Indorustan Empire. They did other things too, connected you to networks of other machines and showed you pictures of faraway places. The idea for the machines had been brought to George Washington by a spy in 1791. The plans had been developed by a man named J. H. Muller, an engineer in the Hessian army who hadn’t been able to get the Hessians to build the machines. But in 1880, the Americans finally had. There had been a lot written about how, without the machines, America might not have won the war over Britain and then the rest of Europe. Without the military weapons controlled by the Muller Machines, the United States and its Allied Nations might not have been able to force the Indorustan Empire into a stalemate in 1970, bringing the long years of war between the two superpowers to a halt. The Muller Machines had become so much a part of everyone’s lives that people trusted them completely. Once the gasoline from Texas ran out, there wasn’t much to be had and only a very few people approved by the government could fly on airplanes or own cars. No one traveled or explored the world. Everyone believed the Muller Machines that there wasn’t anything left to explore.