Mammoth Book of Steampunk Adventures

by Sean Wallace

  He quickly pulled his hand away, but not before she could catch it, squeeze it, then let it go. Just a moment of contact, gloved hand to gloved hand. It would have to be enough. They had more important things to think about.

  “We’ve got to get over this before the scouts see us,” he said.

  She moved out of the way so he could take over the pilot’s seat. They bundled up in the coats. He pulled back a pair of levers, the engines buzzed, and the cabin tipped back, pressing them into their seats. The Kestrel climbed, and climbed.

  The battle climbed with them. It wasn’t just rockets reaching this height; airships climbed with them, exchanging broadsides. Harry was already panting for breath, using her whole chest to suck in too little air. She couldn’t imagine fighting like this. But they were headed for the thick of it.

  “I thought coming in from the north would avoid most of this mess,” Marlowe said, the words punctuated with gulps for air.

  “What must it be like on the Channel?”

  He pointed. “See there, at two o’clock. Is it coming closer?”

  The triple-motored airship wasn’t just coming closer, it was set to intercept them. “We can’t let them stop us, even if it’s one of ours.”

  “Especially if it’s one of ours,” he said, giving half a grin.

  “Do I dare hoist a signal flag?” she said.

  “Give it a moment. Let’s see if we can outrun ’em.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Marlowe started throwing levers, and the motor’s humming changed in pitch. The ship rose, and the horizon tilted as they changed course.

  Their ship was small and fast, but their opponent was an interceptor, all lift and motor and guns, specifically designed to stop ships like this one.

  “It’s one of theirs,” she said. “Look at the flag.”

  When the sun hit it directly, the red field with the black eagle painted on the bladder was clear. Marlowe would crash the ship rather than let them be boarded now. Though they’d most likely get blown from the sky before it came to that. They couldn’t risk letting the Germans take possession of the coil.

  “You said all we have is a pair of rifles?” she said.

  “I would never lie to you about my weaponry, Harry,” he said, eyebrow arched. And why exactly did she want to laugh at a time like this?

  She grabbed Marlowe’s goggles and put them on, adjusting the strap. Then she found the rifle and checked that its charge was full. “Where’s the harness?”

  “Hanging across from the door, there.”

  She found the gear and hooked the leather straps over her shoulders and around her chest, checking the buckles three times. The straps and hardware were all well oiled and in excellent repair – but of course they were, this was Marlowe’s ship, after all. One end of the line hooked to the front of the harness. The rest of it she hung coiled around her forearm while she opened to the door to cabin.

  Wind tore at her. She hadn’t buttoned the coat all the way, and the collar flapped around her neck, sending a freezing draft across her skin, but that didn’t matter. The other end of the line hooked to the track ringing the outside of the cabin. Normally, the track and harness were used as a safety measure for mechanics making repairs. But she’d always thought it looked like fun.

  She gripped the rifle, and jumped.

  The line caught, and she swung out as the harness caught, dug into her shoulders and ribs, and arched her toward the cabin’s side. Sticking her feet out, she landed and ran until the line came up against the first bracket. Leaning forward, she had a view across the nose of the Kestrel. Bracing, she held the rifle steady to her shoulder, aimed along the barrel and waited for Marlowe to swing the ship around and give her a shot. She wished she’d thought of tying her hair back first; it whipped behind her, catching on the line.

  Her best chance would be to rip a shot through the enemy ship’s air bladders. Even if she didn’t start an explosion that destroyed the airship, it would lose lift and maneuverability, giving Marlowe time to get them out of this. The Kestrel’s motor droned, increasing in pitch, and the craft lurched upward, the nose tipping down, as if the whole thing had been caught in an updraft. Harry shifted her feet to keep her balance.

  There it was, the Kaiser’s black eagle staring at her with contempt, or so it seemed. Cannons mounted on the base of the cabin swung around. They were still too far away for Harry to bother firing at them. But soon.

  An explosive scream cut through the air, and in spite of herself Harry flinched back. When she looked, she saw the long trail of black smoke, but never saw what made it. The trail led to the enemy airship, which transformed into a fireball a moment later. The heat of it washed over her, and she ducked, clinging to her line, pulling herself close to the cabin for shelter. The Kestrel rocked with the shock wave, but Marlowe increased altitude yet again and got them above the worst of it. Breathing was very difficult now; blackness flashed at the edges of her vision. It was all wind and no air up here.

  Below her, gas from the German ship ignited in blue flames that quickly faded to yellow and dispersed, munitions vanishing in bursts of orange fire; the ship disintegrated and fell, pieces trailing arcs of smoke and sparks. Bodies fell. Harry saw one man, still alive, limbs flailing as he tumbled through air. She imagined she could hear his screams, but of course could hear nothing over the roar of the wind.

  There was only the one fortuitous rocket, sent to destroy their enemy. She might never learn if that had been by chance or design.

  Marlowe waved at her through the front window, his expression showing concern. He was too sensible to actually yell at her to come back inside. Clutching both her safety line and the rifle, she didn’t have a free hand to wave back. Carefully, she braced against the harness, freeing herself to signal back at him. He pressed his lips and nodded. He moved a lever. The nose tipped down, beginning a descent. She made herself stay still and focus on breathing, imagining she could tell that the air grew thicker. The goggles brought her eyesight to a narrow focus, and she sought to see beyond the edges of her vision.

  The horizon was a distant smudge; the grey haze made it impossible to see where ground ended and sky began. She could imagine seeing the curve of the Earth from here. When she looked up, the sky became like night, shifting from pale blue to a deep indigo, then darker still, to the black of twilight. And beyond that, stars.

  If man were ever to travel to the upper reaches, past the atmosphere and into Aetherian spaces, they had a serious problem to solve: they had to learn to bring their air with them. Or they had to learn to stop breathing. There was some debate about which alternative the Aetherians had used. Finding a solution for these reckless airship pilots venturing forth, as far as they could until they couldn’t breathe at all, that was the key to all. If only . . .

  Marlowe knocked on the window this time, and she brought herself back.

  Sliding the line along its track, she walked along the cabin hull to the door and tried to pretend that her legs weren’t shaking. Marlowe was waiting for her. Handing the rifle to him, she swung inside, unhooking herself from the track. When he shut the door, she finally breathed easy again.

  “You all right?”

  “I didn’t even get a chance to fire,” she said, pulling the goggles off, handing them back to him. Her legs were still trembling, and she lowered herself to the bench.

  “Never mind that we’d never have gotten close enough before they blew us out of the air.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. You’ll have to find out who I ought to send a bottle of wine to for that rocket.”

  “A bottle of wine? Seems this would be worth at least your firstborn.”

  “I’m afraid my firstborn, should such a person ever exist, is already promised to my grandmother and brother.”

  “Ah. Of course.”

  She fumbled with the buckles, and Marlowe managed to pretend not to notice, but still helped, coiling the rope and pulling the harness off her shoulders once she’d final
ly managed to unfasten it. She sighed and rolled her shoulders – they were going to be very sore for a couple of days, and she’d probably have bruising around her ribs. Not anywhere that anyone would be likely to notice, so they didn’t matter at all.

  “I think I could use another finger of your brandy, Marlowe.”

  He was already reaching for the bottle.

  They had managed to circumvent the worst of the blockade, and reached the shores of Scotland. There, they put up their flags and lit the cabin lights, to prevent any misunderstandings. In friendly territory now, Marlowe felt comfortable using the wireless. He posed as a standard military courier ship that had been damaged in fighting and was seeking the safety of a mooring in Liverpool. He used the coded phrase that would, in fact, get them permission to continue on to London.

  Harry’s preferred choice of communication was more primitive, but less prone to eavesdropping than the wireless. This would go straight where she wanted it, and there was little chance someone could intercept She wrote a note on a strip of paper, using her and her brother’s code, rolled it tightly, and put it in the tiny canister that she then fit to the leg of one of the pigeons. She held the cooing creature gently to her chest, smoothing its feathers and whispering comforts to it, before throwing it out the open portal window, into the bright sun. Its white wings flashed as the bird dipped around the ship, then seemed to vanish as it raced on.

  Harry went back to the front of the cabin, where Marlowe sat.

  She sighed. “I don’t think I’m ready to be back just yet.”

  “I could turn us around, head toward the battle,” he said.

  “Do you really think that piece of metal will help us end the war?”

  “Strange, isn’t it? So much hope in that little thing. But I do think it’s worth it.”

  Not strange at all. Little things had often changed the world. Whatever it was worth, this was better than sitting at Marlborough House, waiting for something to happen.

  They reached the Thames and followed it to the mooring station outside Windsor.

  “Well then,” she sighed. “I suppose I ought to make myself presentable.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t got anything like a decent room for you—”

  “Nonsense. We’ll make do.”

  He blushed, pointedly turning away.

  She retrieved her luggage from the bench. From it, she unfolded her proper lady’s attire and all its attendant architecture. She ought to have a good wash before putting it on, but there was no chance of that. She would have to make do. She stripped the old rugged shirt and trousers she’d been in for the last week and donned the crisp linen shift, smoothing out the wrinkles as best she could. She’d had the corset made with fasteners in front for just such occasions as this. Her sisters would be scandalized, to see her dressing herself. In front of a soldier, even. She had her back to Marlowe; he could have been sneaking glances at her all this time. Of course, the worse scandal was that she rather hoped he was.

  Then came the gown, which she’d managed to pack well enough to prevent the worst of the wrinkles. The fasteners in back, however, presented some difficulty. She could feel the hook and eye at the back of her neck, but no matter how she contorted herself, couldn’t get them to catch.

  She turned to the pilot’s chair. “Marlowe—”

  He sprang to his feet, as if he’d been watching. Waiting for her to ask.

  At her back, he fumbled with the tiny hooks, the tips of his fingers brushing along the bare skin of her neck. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the warm flush his touch inspired. The breath of his sigh tickled her skin. If she took a step back, she would be leaning against him, and she was very tempted.

  If only they could only stand like this for the rest of the hour. The rest of the war . . .

  He moved away, but only after smoothing away a lock of her hair. Back at his seat, he clasped his hands together and gazed at her with a look of blank innocence.

  They both practiced that look.

  “Thank you,” she said. He nodded.

  She continued with buttons, hooks, earrings, necklace, arranging them all properly. Next she used the little tray of cosmetics with the tiny fold-out mirror. After some powder, some color on her lips and cheeks, and a few pins in her hair, she’d be able to pass in the most respectable society without comment. She saw the gown, with its corset, ribbing and petticoats, as armor.

  “All right, I’m finished. How do I look?” She gave her skirt a last brush.

  He said simply. “Your Highness. Princess Maud returns.”

  She ducked her gaze. She wasn’t ready for Princess Maud to return.

  “It’s amazing how you do that,” he continued, when she didn’t speak. “You’re a chameleon.”

  “I think you are the only one who sees my true form.”

  His smile flashed, and fled. “Sometimes I’m not sure I’ve seen it yet.”

  Marlowe steered them to an upper landing platform at the air port. He followed the signals of the tower controller, sending back his reply with the lantern at the window.

  “I’ll get the line,” she said, intending to throw out the mooring lines to the deckhands.

  “You’d better not,” he said, nodding at her current dress. “Why don’t you gather your things?”

  She unlocked the safe and retrieved the prize, which she put in the valise that had hidden her gown, burying it in her dirty clothes. She tucked her pistol in a pocket in the side, and remembered to keep that side of the bag closest to her. Not that she expected to encounter any trouble here; rather, it was habit.

  Marlowe and the deckhands got the ship anchored perfectly well without her, of course. But she felt useless, standing there, stiff as a statue in this clothing.

  Out the window, she could see the street leading toward the village and castle, and the carriage drawn by a pair of large bay horses parked there. The carriage door would have her brother’s crest painted on it. The royal crest belonging to the Crown Prince. He’d gotten her message, then, and made it as easy as possible to bring the box straight to him.

  Anchored and still against the tugging of the bladder above it, the ship felt like a rock instead of a bird. As soon as the door to the cabin opened, she’d have to leave. She and Marlowe stood together, regarding one another. She never knew what to say in these moments, when their missions ended. Whatever she said felt awkward and artificial, and as soon as he was gone she’d think of everything she should have said.

  “You’ll come to the Royal Academy? To be on hand when they examine the artefact?” she asked.

  “I hope to. But I suspect the general will send me and the Kestrel to Plymouth, to assist in the defense.”

  That hadn’t been part of the original plan. The war had crept far too close to home shores; she preferred to forget.

  “But I will see you again, soon?”

  “As soon as possible, I should think,” he said.

  They shook hands, as if they were familiar colleagues and not . . . she couldn’t decide exactly what they were. There was no civilized name for it. As she made her way down the steps from the platform to the street and Prince George’s carriage, she could feel Marlowe watching her, and was glad of it.

  Anna in the Moonlight

  Jonathan Wood

  The stark sunlight cast everything in high contrast. The lines of armored battle suits – new uncompromising skins soon to be donned by the boys at the front, ready to deal death with a blast of steam and the screech of steel; fists the size of children; bronze cockpits still a mass of exposed cogs and mismatching gears – stood limp and gleaming. In the darkness of their shadows, Frank Dirk, Charlie, Tommy and Pip wrapped their faces around cheap cigarettes and willed their work break to last longer.

  “That’ll show them dirty animals.” Dirk thumbed at the vast hammer he had personally loaded onto one suit’s arm. “Can you imagine that thing hitting one of them in the face? Bam!” His hands described the imagined spectacle of explodin
g tissue and bone. He laughed. He was the youngest of them, just sixteen.

  “What they deserve.” Pip nodded.

  “Why do they do it?” Tommy said. He was seventeen, like the rest of them, and the enemy’s penchant for supplementing their natural, God-given flesh with animal parts was as beyond his comprehension as it was his friends’.

  “’Cos they’re godless animals who don’t deserve nothing better than to have their heads smashed by Dirk’s hammer.” Frank repeated the popular theory.

  “When I’m old enough, I’m signing straight up,” Charlie said. “Can’t wait to bring home a hide or two.”

  Frank joined in the chorus of patriotic ayes that followed this statement, but, as his eyes skimmed the familiar factory, he could not imagine plunging into no-man’s-land, gun in hand. It was not that he was a coward, he told himself, just that while he was sure of the moral void the Deformed represented, they had never harmed him directly. Better, surely, to let them damn themselves on their own and not get involved. Still appearances and teenage bravado required him to agree, raucously, with Charlie.

  Dear reader, for most of our recent history, no two men have been as much lauded as Lords Percy Warburn of Essex and Simon Tillet of York. They, both you and I have been told, possess the hands that are shaping our nation. Their actions, though “troubled”, are forging our way of life and, because of this, we are told, we should look up to them with adulation and even envy. Implicit in this suggestion is the idea that we are satisfied with our current way of life. I wish to correct this situation. Indeed, by the end of this short essay, I hope you will be as disenchanted with the myth of our glorious nation as I.

  Two weeks later, the factory took Dirk’s life. A chain had given way and a massive cannon fallen and claimed its first victim, dashing Dirk’s brains out and spreading them across the floor. Accidents were common. Machines, engines, chains – they all wore down over time, eroding slowly, beneath notice, until the eventual, inevitable disaster.