Water couldn’t fill the entire ship. Or could it? There had to be controls and mechanics, kept dry to operate. When Trotter sprung a leak, she had to find it quickly before it damaged his compression systems. Surely the same principles held true here.
“We need to find the controls. They should be in a space between the water tank and the outer hull.” It was a guess at best, but she tried to project confidence. “Maybe near the legs that are sucking up water on the north side.”
They scrambled across debris to reach the far side. To the north, a flailing tentacle swung angrily about, defending the legs on either side. Emily wondered if it could sense their presence, or if they were too small to be considered a threat.
“What about this?” Fish asked, forcing a release vent farther open above the leg.
The tentacle stopped, poising to strike.
“Inside!” she shouted.
Fish leapt inside and reached out to help her clamber in. Emily banged her arm awkwardly on the edge of the opening, tears welling up in her eyes.
The tentacle slammed the hatch shut behind them with finality, but they were in.
* * *
Emily and Fish climbed down between the solid outer hull and a smoky glasslike barrier that housed the water, using awkwardly-angled support posts as a makeshift ladder. Every movement sent vibrations shooting up Emily’s arm and into her chest.
They stopped for a quick rest on the crossbars like children in a tree. Emily adjusted the waist cinch on her suit to check her apron to see what tools still remained. Not much. A small wrench, a few clamps, a screwdriver, and a hose coupling. Things she would use to make repairs or minor modifications. Nothing that would likely work on the alien technology. She rearranged her tools so they would not be crushed against her and re-tightened her steamsuit.
After at least an hour, maybe longer, they reached what seemed to be the bottom because the hull leveled out below them. Fish rapped on the smoky glass or whatever it was that held the water away from the hull.
“Bloody thick,” he said, testing the barrier. “Strong too.”
Emily said nothing, gritting back the numbing pain.
But he was right. The sheer pressure from the water had to be enormous. She wondered what kind of clear material could withstand that kind of pressure and if it could be manufactured in London.
A dozen creatures swam almost lazily to the glass where Fish had knocked. They were about four feet long and shaped like salamanders. Some were deep green with yellow spots, others black with orange spots. The cluster parted for a larger red one, which swam to the forefront.
Its head glowed faintly through what seemed like translucent skin. Emily felt suddenly lightheaded. Only the sturdy design of her steamsuit kept her standing. Her vision blurred, and Fish and the salamanders faded away, replaced by visions of muck.
Everywhere, the brown sludge covered the land, toxic fumes rising from slimy filth and brackish water. There were no buildings or cities, and the place didn’t appear to be Earth. Not exactly. Salamanders climbed out of the water to plop down on the putrid shores, excreting slimy liquid from bulges in their skin. A deep green one approached a red spotted one and nudged it with a wet snout. The spotted one didn’t move. They appeared sick, perhaps poisoned. Emily wanted to help them, to somehow make them better.
Then a craft appeared above them, on four legs, much like the one that Emily and Fish had climbed into. A ramp lowered and fresh water trickled down the ramp, beckoning the salamanders aboard.
The ones that could move freely climbed the ramp to face a tank of clean water. There, a red, glowing being transformed into a salamander and swam in the water. The salamanders climbed the smoky wall, and dove inside. Relief washed over Emily so strongly that her arm even felt better.
Then there was a sense of movement, passing through space and time. The salamanders multiplied. The water darkened and then lightened. The tank had been reduced in size, cramping them, making them sick again. All the while the red glowing one swam among them, healing some, feeding others. Eventually the light in the glowing one dimmed.
Then the vision faded.
“Miss Barlowe?”
Before Emily could respond, the red salamander changed several times into various creatures she’d never seen before, finally to something resembling a human, and then changing back to a salamander. It pulsed briefly and she sensed a feeling of hope and the expectation of a continued journey.
“These creatures escaped a dying world, saved by this red one, which isn’t really one of them. They’re trying to refill their ship with water, to stay alive longer, on a journey to find a new home.”
“How?” Fish shook his head. “Even if it’s true, it doesn’t change our mission, does it?”
Emily stared at the sickly creatures. Her chest ached for them. They only needed the clean water to survive. But then, so did the people of London, who depended on the Thames. How could she decide? This wasn’t her place. She wasn’t the Queen, or the Prime Minister, or even a Member of Parliament. She wasn’t even responsible for any pets.
It didn’t matter how much fresh water the ship needed, there was plenty enough for both the aliens and humans. But the toxic sludge was a different issue. Emily couldn’t let people get sick the way the salamanders had on their world.
“You’ll have to stop dropping the sludge,” she said.
The red one flared.
“Fish, we need to find controls, switches, anything that looks like it can be toggled on and off. There has to be a way to stop the sludge.”
He nodded and they began searching behind pipes and prying off panels. They found thin wires, a metallic web of crystals, and a panel that was radiating heat through the metal of the ship. Despite the dampness in the ship, here she started sweating. Still, there were no levers or switches. No controls.
Circling back, Emily caught sight of the red glowing one again. This time, the smoky wall of the tank flickered on the inside. Perhaps the alien manipulated the ship from within the water.
“We’re stuck, Fish,” she gestured to the creature. “It controls everything from inside. We would have to get in the tank to stop the sludge. We might as well just make a hole in the bottom and jump out.”
“Except we’d drown in the suits,” he said. “We’ll have to leave them behind.”
The idea made Emily’s stomach churn. She’d rather destroy the steamsuits than leave them in the alien craft. But to destroy them, she’d have to undo the improvements she’d made.
That was it.
“If I reverse the super compressors on the packs back to the old design, the suits will overheat. If we were to set them on the highest power output and close the valves, when they explode they may do enough damage to stop the pumps or at least damage pipes.” Even just damaging the pipes might buy the government enough time for another attempt.
“Good plan, but we only have two suits and there are four pipes.”
“We stop the sludge. One suit per pipe.”
Fish shook his head. “The bombs were supposed to incinerate that stuff. People are going to get sick.”
Right.
They had to incinerate all the sludge, but how? She didn’t know anything about the alien technology. Maybe the mechanisms of the alien craft could overheat like the suits. But even if they could, that would mean the aliens …
Emily’s throat thickened and she felt a heavy weight growing on her shoulders. This wasn’t a decision she could take lightly. These creatures had fought so hard to survive, travelled who knows how far, and she was going to wipe them out for the good of her people.
There had to be another way.
If they damaged the ship without destroying it, it might just crash to shore and leak more toxins. Or maybe it would fly away and trail toxins all over England. The possibilities were dreadful. Any option other than incinerating the toxins wasn’t acceptable. Who knows how much damage the sludge had already caused?
Damn them. If on
ly the aliens had responded peacefully when first contacted, maybe they could have worked together to find a solution. She stormed back to the warm panel and tore it free. Heat and blinding yellow light radiated out from inside a short tunnel to a bright room. She had to squint to look inside. She heard a deep, reverberating hum. She recognized that sound.
Power.
Inside the room, a glowing amber crystal atop a pedestal radiated heat. She tried to touch it, but an invisible force flickered and repelled her hand. Anything worthy of such protection must be important.
“We’ll set them up in here.”
Silence. He wasn’t behind her.
“Fish!”
“Coming,” he called, entering the tunnel. “What’s the plan, Miss Barlowe?”
“We set the suits to overheat and lean them against the pedestal. Hopefully they do enough damage to set the ship and its contents aflame.” Fish was already stepping out of his suit. Emily started to do the same, but stopped. If she used the strength of her suit to modify his, she wouldn’t need tools. She loosened the straps holding her legs and broken arm, but kept the suit on. Feeling blood flow back into the limb more freely only made her head swim. She kept her good arm in the suit.
With the strength of her suit’s gauntlet, she hoisted Fish’s suit easily, leaned it on the pedestal, and crushed the hoses and valves leading out of the pack. Far more potent, and dangerous.
She stepped out of her suit and with his help leaned it against the pedestal. Then, donning one arm from his suit, she clamped down on her suit’s pack. A tear formed in her eye and her chest tightened. Her greatest creation, meant to aid mankind, turned into a fearsome weapon.
She cranked the dials on both suits to full power. The super compressors banged and whirled as they boiled water. It was going to be quite the end.
“Let’s go,” Fish said, tugging on her arm.
“Go where?” she asked. Without the suits, they were trapped.
“I pried open a hatch to escape from.”
She allowed herself to be led back through the tunnel. It was considerably cooler outside the room and Emily wiped her brow. Fish led her to a piece of bent metal and a small opening, barely big enough for him. The Thames sloshed below, beckoning them.
“You first,” she said.
Fish crouched over the opening, then stopped, a blank stare on his face. Over his shoulder, Emily could see the lead salamander’s head pulsing red. It must be communicating with him as it had earlier with Emily.
“Fish, we must hurry.”
He didn’t respond and was blocking the exit.
“Fish hurry, please.”
Hissing whistled from inside the tunnel.
“Fish! William!”
Fish’s eyes lit for a brief moment. He dropped through the hole and into the open air. Emily followed even as she was overcome by a mix of anger and sadness from the salamander.
The water’s surface rushed toward her. She took a deep breath right before she made contact and plunged into the icy depths of the Thames, her arm flaring in pain.
From under water, she saw the alien craft explode in a fiery white ball brighter than the sun. She held her breath and kicked, trying to make the surface. Pain from her arm radiated through her entire body, nearly forcing her to scream. She surfaced, coughing and hacking.
She sputtered, sucking air, legs kicking to stay afloat while her arm throbbed. Then a strong arm reached around her and held her head out of the water.
Fingers of Steam, Veins of Gold
Brad Hafford
The following is a series of letters recently found in the attic of a derelict house in Tennessee. They tell an intriguing tale of the Steam Age, when automatons were primitive and humans were hardened to their environment. Addressed to a Miss Sally Chalmers of Knoxville, they were sent by her brother, Edward, who details his travels to the Klondike in pursuit of gold. Of great relevance to historians, some of the details are understandable only in light of later events, particularly the Interplanetary War.
* * *
Seattle, Washington
February 17, 1898
Dearest Sally,
Got your letters when I arrived in Seattle. Hope Pa is feeling better. Sounds like the Doc took good care of him. I know the two of you will be fine, and I’ll bring back so much gold, we’ll be set for life. Just you wait.
Lots of folks up here, all trying to get passage up coast to Alaska. Dirigible is booked up full for three months. Don’t even go inland over the mountains, neither. Too much wind. Them that fly still got to take the trail, just like us poor folks. Wouldn’t it be great to take a trip in the sky, though? See the world from up on high, like an angel looking down? One day, Sally, you and me and Pa, we’ll up and fly around the world. You’ll be the angel up there. Just you wait.
I got me a ticket on a third-class steamer headed out next week. Got supplies too. Jonas carries most of it so far, but from what I hear, I got to get a whole lot more. Mounties don’t let you cross the border with less than 1,000 lbs per man. Jonas won’t need no food, but I got to keep his boiler working and that takes wood, the way we built him. Remember that Sally? You and me, building a steam-butler? Seems ages ago. I think he misses you.
I’m thinking of converting him to coal. He’ll get more heat for less weight of fuel and still be able to use wood in a pinch. Got to strengthen the boiler, though. I met an engineer who says he can help me. Name’s Mike Radigan. Funny looking little guy with a flat nose like it been broke a couple times, but he’s nice enough.
I’ll drop this in the mail on the way to Radigan’s shop.
Your Loving brother,
Edward
* * *
Dyea, Alaska
March 21, 1898
Dearest Sally,
This here country ain’t like nothing you ever did see. Mountains keep getting taller the farther we go. Sheer sides dropping straight to sea, ice floating along in places. It’s damn cold.
Radigan joined me, seeing how strong Jonas were and all. We converted him to coal and added a pressure drill for one of his arms. You wouldn’t recognize old Jonas now, Sis. He’s a regular mining machine.
It’s good to have Radigan for company, but damned if he don’t cheat at cards. Maybe he’ll make us some money here in Dyea. Lots of saloons and gambling houses here. Seems every building is one or t’other. And folk’s is paying for everything in gold dust. Prices so high I don’t know as we can get our supplies. We got near 700 lbs each, but a ways to go. I got tobacco enough for the trip, but there’s a 50 cent duty on it across the line. Maybe I’ll sell it here, give up the habit.
More people here even than I expected. Me and Radigan is just two in a sea of hundreds arriving every day, all of them set on winning their fortune. All of us’ll hit the trail to the river, then wait out the ice so as we can continue in boats to Dawson. Keep note of that, Sally. My address’ll be Dawson City, North West Territories.
For now I get mail at Dyea, Alaska. Sad I ain’t got a letter in the week or so I been here. Maybe you been sending to Seattle still. Don’t do that no more, Sally. There’s people will bring letters to me on the trail, but it costs a fair bit.
Yukoners is saying it’s mighty rough out there, but I reckon Jonas can get us through. Some folks got steam-horses and laugh at our Jonas. But we’ll show them Sally. We’ll show them.
Love to Pa.
Edward
* * *
Chilikoot Trail
March 29, 1898
Dearest Sally,
We got our sleds on the trail now. Climbing all the while. It’s mighty cold. Radigan’s got the sniffles but I’m hanging in there as good as I can. We pull our gear a ways, rest a bit, fuel up Jonas, and do it again. I been cooking for us nights, beans and potatoes and such. We’re doing pretty good as far as requirements to cross over into the Yukon. But fuel for Jonas adds at least another 1,000 lbs. He can’t pull more than one sled at a time, so me and Radigan pull at one. It’s
mighty tough going.
It’s funny watching those what thought they was clever bringing steam-horses up here. They ain’t no good on the mountain. Higher and steeper we get, more they bog down or slip. I welded spikes on Jonas’ feet so as he sets in and moves forward. Uses his weight to push toward the mountain ‘stead of back against his rump. Steam-horses just fall back. One slid down near a thousand feet, crashing into sleds along the way. Fellas was arguing all day about who owed what.
Most folks is calling this place Scrap Heap Trail nowadays. Bunches of dead mechanicals out here in ditches, rusting metal sticking out of fresh snow like old bones. Raiders take what they can, a steam graveyard picked clean by vultures, then dusted over again with clean white. Seen the carcass of a steam-butler today. His head and steam-vent top-hat were all broke and bent, body gutted of gears, boiler gone. He had an enamel face like the one you done up for Jonas, but not as nice. And now it were all smashed and spidered. Don’t want to see Jonas like that.
Candle’s short so I’ll stop for now.
* * *
Chilikoot Pass
April 1
Been the worst April Fools. Some folks is trying to lighten the mood, but this here climb ain’t no joke. We’re up past 5,000 feet in a never ending line. Jonas’ gears can pull the tackle but he can’t walk the sled at this angle. We’re just trying to make it to the summit like everybody else, but you got to wait for the fella in front of you to step up afore you can move.
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