Emily felt mildly abashed at her tirade, as it seemed keeping her away had been for her own protection. Still, if they had been less pig-headed at Reading or she more insistent, she could have helped learn about the toxic material and possibly helped the divers avoid injury. Since Emily’s mother had fallen ill from contaminated water, Emily’s studies and inventions had become more environmentally focused.
Emily’s mind raced. There was also the prospect of an alien ship, filled with new technology.
“Very well, Mr. Smythe. Let me pack my things.”
* * *
Emily crossed the small wooden stage to her steamsuit, which looked like nothing more than a rusty, old suit of plate armor with a metal backpack. The suit had been designed to help workers with heavy, dangerous labor, though she’d yet to find a buyer. She cranked the mini-bellows on the pack and waited for the internal boiler to heat the water to steam. The suit hissed and clanged as the metal pipes that ran along the outside of the legs and arms filled.
Smythe’s man nodded in a polite business sort of way, but that didn’t stop a chill from running up her spine. Their story sounded plausible, but she didn’t know their true intentions. She opened the modified front of the suit like a grandfather clock and stepped inside before adjusting the straps on the internal framing. Her worry melted away, encased in her steam-powered suit of armor.
After a few minutes, the first pistons released with small audible click and she used the steamsuit to move the trashcrusher and rest of her heavy inventions inside the mobile workshop, a feat that would have taken several grown men. Then she raised the stage and secured the safety locks on all the hatches, protecting her investments. Lastly, she walked the steamsuit back inside and hesitated, not wanting to leave its safety and security.
But she needed to do this, to prevent further pollution and illness to the people of London, and maybe help discover a way of helping the divers.
Resolved to do her part despite the unknown, Emily unstrapped the steamsuit and exited through the back door. With everything secured, she fired up the workshop boiler, which powered Trotter, her mechanical horse. Using the control box on the reins, she steered Trotter through south London, anxiously following Mr. Smythe, who rode horseback. His men trailed her. After winding through a labyrinth of turns toward the docks, they reached a decrepit red brick warehouse, where a man with Smythe’s build leaned on a carriage house door.
Emily shut Trotter down with the control box and secretly kicked the master switch by her feet, effectively making the horse a quarter ton of immovable steel and coal. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t going to turn out well.
“Could you bring your steamsuit inside?” Smythe asked.
The steamsuit? His request felt peculiar, though Emily didn’t mind the security it offered. Once again she donned her steamsuit and followed Smythe down an old stone staircase to an underground boat launch, where water from the Thames sloshed against blackened stone. Several low-profile steamships with Her Majesty’s Navy insignia bobbed in the water, some appearing damaged. Her armored footsteps echoed as they passed a pair of thick-necked men guarding open double doors to a bright room lit by several gas-lamps.
The room was no more than twenty yards square, lined on two walls with tables cluttered with familiar brackets and hoses, greasy rags, and various tools. The room resembled her workshop, only less organized. An elderly man with gray hair and spectacles was discussing something with several other men nearly half his age, all older than Emily. His voice trailed off with her arrival, hand gesturing to a compression pack on one of four steamsuits.
Emily’s latest creation.
Crafted in secret.
Driscol, that damnable shady actor. She should never have trusted him.
“You’ve stolen my steamsuit,” her voice echoed from within her helm. She hurriedly started unstrapping herself, while addressing Smythe directly. “Did Driscol at least get paid well?”
“I assure you, Miss Barlowe, we’re only borrowing it,” Smythe said. “And if all goes well, we will pay for use of your designs, enough to cover your debts and more.”
Emily pushed her way out of the armor and hurried forward to inspect the suit the men had been discussing.
“Gentlemen, this is the aforementioned E.J. Barlowe, inventor of the steamsuit.” All the men seemed shocked that she was a woman, a testament to her widespread promotion in London. “Miss Barlowe, this is Robert Johns, lead engineer and his team of technicians.”
Smythe shuffled along beside her. “We would have let you in on this sooner, but we had to keep the suits a secret. There are Members of Parliament who believe the aliens are benevolent and we cannot fully disclose the danger of the toxic material without causing widespread panic. Please believe me when I say that I wanted to be up front about this, Miss Barlowe.
“Miss Barlowe?”
Emily had heard what he had said, but it didn’t change what they had done. She buried her fuming anger with curiosity about the new suits. Unlike hers, which was made of heavy, pitted steel and pig-iron piping, these suits were made from a thinner, polished steel and copper pipes. These suits would be lighter and stronger than anything she could have made.
“Miss Barlowe?” Smythe repeated.
She checked connections and fittings, pressure gauges and pumps, noticing problems.
“Let me guess. They’re overheating,” Emily said to Mr. Johns.
The elder scientist smiled like a grandfather, while the younger men stared at her with condescending glares.
“And the left arm loses power.”
One of the men nodded reluctantly, a thin man who stood next to Mr. Johns and seemed to be feeding off his elder’s body language.
“And you’re blowing couplings on the pressure pack right before—
“You haven’t had any blow up on you?” Emily’s shoulders tensed and stomach knotted in fear. “Nobody’s been hurt, have they?”
Mr. Johns stepped forward, “Yes, we’ve lost a friend because of an explosion and a few more have been injured. Could you explain how you so accurately described the problems we’re having?”
“I’m sorry. I really am,” Emily said, chest feeling heavy. “Yes, I can tell you why you’re having problems. Because Smythe stole plans for the old version, before I made adjustments to stop overheating.”
“You can fix this,” Smythe said. It could have been a question, but sounded more like confirmation.
“I can, but to what end? How is my invention going to be of any use?”
“We’re going to equip four men in steamsuits, then drop them from an airship on the alien craft so they can get inside and stop the aliens. But we have to hurry. Even by closing the locks between Reading and London, by our calculations, if we don’t stop the craft within a week there will be too much toxins in the Thames. It will flow downstream and contaminate our drinking water and much of London’s population will be affected.”
“We’ll be hard pressed, but with the help of your people I can do it,” Emily promised.
She knew Smythe wasn’t telling her everything. Her suits would grant great strength, and protect the wearer from harm, but it didn’t explain how they intended to use the suits to stop the aliens. She trusted the answers would come in time, once she had proven herself.
* * *
Three days passed and the team worked frantically with Emily to reverse the packs, reinstall hoses, adjust couplings and modify the suits to prevent overheating. Two suits eventually worked, but the others still overheated regularly.
Late in the evening on the fourth day, hungry and exhausted, Emily found the problem with the third suit: a weak pressure valve inside the compression pack that needed to be replaced. She built one, working into the night and the next morning and had the third suit ready come morning on the fifth day. But it wouldn’t be enough. There was no way their fourth suit would be ready in time.
“Does it have to be these four?” she asked, glancing
around the room.
Smythe’s his eyes lit up. “Any four will do.”
After topping off the water and firing up her suit, she checked it over with the team. They made adjustments so it would fit one of the sailors, who was clearly larger than Emily. Satisfied that she had done all she could, Emily followed the entourage up to the roof.
There she watched the arrival of the largest airship she had ever seen.
* * *
The Queen Mary approached, growing with every minute and looking to blot out the bleak sky above London with her bronze and gunmetal frame. The cabin beneath could have housed a battalion of soldiers or heavy machinery, larger than Emily’s wagon. The airship docked with the smooth precision of an experienced pilot, resting close enough to the building’s retaining wall to hop across without effort. Emily waited for the ramp to lower.
Smythe gestured for her to precede him, and they entered into the loading bay and watched as four sailors wearing steamsuits carried two large racks up the ramp. Within each swayed a large green cylinder labeled with explosive warnings. They strapped the two bombs against the wall and then returned for two more.
It all became clear. They were not going inside to stop the aliens from discharging poison into the Thames, they were going to load the alien craft full of explosives and blow it to smithereens. She bit her lip.
Emily didn’t know much about bombs, but if these had to be loaded onto an oversized airship with her steamsuits, they clearly were bigger than anything used before. But wouldn’t this spew the toxins into the river and potentially all across the English countryside? What if the toxins were still dangerous when airborne?
“Why such large explosives?” she demanded.
“Of course you noticed,” he said, sighing. “I expected you to. We calculated that an explosion of this magnitude will vaporize the toxins that the craft is carrying. Anything short of this might only scatter the toxins to the four winds. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you, but we can’t let word get out of the attack.”
“So you need four steamsuits to lower four bombs inside the alien craft. What are the risks of an explosion that size?”
“As with any problem of this enormity, there are side risks. Not all of the toxins may be destroyed. Those camped outside of Reading and the surrounding towns may be affected by the blast. But fewer will be harmed than if we allow the ship to continue polluting the Thames.”
Emily knew nothing she could say would make a difference. Smythe’s team would throw away a huge opportunity to gain knowledge and technology by destroying the aliens outright. There could be an abundance of things to be learned: where the alien craft came from, how it was powered, and what the toxins were. Too impatient—or perhaps too frightened—to find a peaceful solution, they would react with mindless violence, destroying what they did not understand.
Fools.
With a heavy rumble and a rhythmic thumping, the Queen Mary lurched skyward, groaning like a lazy ox. It was truly amazing that the behemoth could fly and Emily pondered the scientific principles that made air travel possible. It helped distract her, but not for long. The four sailors powered down their suits to conserve resources and stepped out of them for the flight.
The trip north of Reading, where the alien craft was gobbling up the Thames and dumping out poison, was scheduled to take two hours. Enough time for Emily to busy herself, checking gauges and connections and reloading the coal and water for each suit so that they would have full strength.
* * *
A terrible screech of metal grinding on metal vibrated down to Emily’s bones. She looked away from the empty suit she was prepping. Mechanical failure? No. Something else. The grating continued, louder from her side of the airship.
Through a port window she witnessed a mass of dark metal sway through the air like a giant octopus tentacle—toward the Queen Mary.
Her heart raced. They were flying too low.
Emily grabbed a bench with both hands just as the tentacle hit the hull of the airship.
One second she was in a confined area, full of sailors, steamsuits, and armaments. Then metal tore as easily as wet paper. The next second, the front of the cabin had been replaced with sky, clear and blue and so very open.
Without a pilot, the Queen Mary lurched forward, imbalanced, swaying violently from side to side in stomach-churning motions as people and gear fell into the emptiness.
The tentacle retreated.
“Emily!” Smythe shouted from the floor, holding onto the edge of the opening.
She started to rise, still clutching the bench.
“The parachutes.”
Right.
Bracing herself against the airship’s sway, she quickly unfastened the straps holding a bundle of parachutes, letting some spill free and throwing others toward the crew who were clinging to parts of the cabin. A pair slid down the deck toward Smythe, who let go of the deck with one hand and struggled to loop his arm through a strap.
Just then, one of the explosive racks tore itself loose with an ear-piercing whine and skimmed down the deck toward Smythe.
“Look out!” Emily shouted over the howling wind and grating metal.
Smythe quickly switched hands, but before he could fasten the front buckle, the approaching rack forced him out into the open air.
Emily stared at the destruction, mouth agape. Three sailors and two of the suits were gone. One sailor, who must have been near his suit, was strapping in and powering up. He clipped a thick metal cable to the suit and nodded to Emily.
Emily squeezed the coarse fabric of the parachute in her hand, frozen. This was their only chance to stop the aliens from polluting their water. She imagined people getting sick from the toxins, growths appearing on their faces and arms, their bodies going into shock and a coma. Worse than her mother, who lay in bed nursed daily by a stranger. She had to do something, and now.
There was still one suit left: hers. And a support cable swung nearby.
She let the parachute fall and grabbed the dangling cable. Then, pushing off from the hull with both legs, she swung over to her suit. In seconds, she had both legs in place and locked in. It was too big at the moment, but that was the least of her worries. She fired up the compressor and fastened the support cable to the frame, then started shortening the legs.
The tentacle hit again, this time she heard a gush of air escape like a deflating balloon as the Queen Mary tipped and started descending. The top of the alien craft hovered below. She licked her dry lips.
They were running out of time. She cranked the chest and waist straps, pinching whatever tools still hid in her apron to her body. No time for comfort.
“Release!” the sailor shouted and they each hit their locks. Both winches whined as the metal cables spooled out, bouncing them across the deck and out through the opening toward the flaming front end of the airship. Emily choked on the smoke.
Then they were falling. Fast. Too fast. The Queen Mary wasn’t supposed to be descending with them.
“Unhook on impact!” the sailor shouted.
With a series of echoing clangs, her steamsuit landed on the alien craft and only being strapped in tight kept her legs from buckling. She fell to one side, arms slipping within the suit for purchase, banging around inside. Something snapped and her left hand felt as though she held a hot coal. She lay there on her back, watching the Queen Mary descend, flames leaping from the front where the hydrogen was escaping.
Metal clanged, getting louder. Footsteps. The sailor hovered over her, partially eclipsing the spectacle above, unhooking the cables and dragging Emily toward the center of the alien craft. They weren’t going to make it; the Queen Mary was too enormous. Emily squinted, not wanting to watch, but unable to look away.
Then a second tentacle slammed into the airship like a child swatting an oblong balloon.
The Queen Mary collapsed, the air suddenly becoming thin. Then the gigantic ship of brass and steel exploded first in a bright orange hydrogen firebal
l, then a secondary blue-tinged explosion that tore off the end of the tentacle. It was beautiful and dreadful at the same time.
Flaming bits of the Queen Mary rained down around them. The stubby tentacle flailed and smoldered, billowing black smoke.
“We must get inside, quickly. But your arm—”
“I can still function using my steamsuit, though it will bloody hurt. But what can we do? We have no explosives.” Her arm felt like it was going to burn up, pain shooting up into her shoulder and neck.
The sailor unlatched his hand, slid it free from his suit and started cinching her arms in tight. “We don’t need explosives. You’re E.J. Barlowe, Inventor Extraordinaire.” He smiled. “I’m William Parsons, but you can call me Fish. I’ll get us inside and you can stop them from dropping that toxic stuff. Agreed?”
Maybe if she could figure out the alien pump systems, she could disable, or even reverse them. “Very well, Fish,” she said, gritting her teeth against the pain. “Let’s get inside.”
He slid his hand back into his suit and used it effortlessly to help her up.
A series of panels lifted from the top of the craft, releasing colored mist. The ones that Smythe had mentioned. Fish ran to one just as it closed and started pulling up. It wouldn’t budge, even with the suit. It opened again, emitting a foul stench worse than the rotting vegetables and feces of a London alley.
“Get back.”
They scrambled away from the vent, coughing, eyes watering.
Fish shook a fist. “That was supposed to be our way in.”
“Not unless we’re climbing down into a tank of toxic sludge.” Emily ignored her pain and considered their problem. The ship was similar to a giant tank with hoses on either end, somehow draining the liquid from one side and filling from the other. Presumably they would have to keep the water and sludge separate, so there would need to be a divider to prevent them from mixing. That meant separate containers, and on the side where the water was being pumped in, air would have to be vented.
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