Dawn's Early Light

by Pip Ballantine

  On feeling sunlight, the metallic eagles opened their wings, caught the breeze, and set off in their particular direction. It was a surprisingly serene moment.

  “Magnificent,” Wellington muttered as the aft bay doors closed.

  Felicity dealt one more chilly glance towards him before excusing herself from the bay, leaving him alone with Bill.

  Bill tucked his thumbs in his belt as he strolled over to him. “That Eliza, she’s a fine girl.” He chuckled, and then his eyes locked with Books. “I might have hoped you two didn’t sort out your differences, but . . . well . . .” He appeared to be tasting something bitter in his mouth. “I just hope you appreciate the hell out of her, Johnny Shakespeare.”

  Wellington was not quite sure what to make of this genuine moment, but he was thankful that they would go into battle in a better frame of mind. He held out his hand, and Bill shook it. “I do. More than you can imagine.” His smile turned wry. “Tex.”

  “What’s happening?” Eliza’s sudden arrival made both men start.

  Bill rubbed at his chin. “Eagles are on their way. Felicity should have an answer in the next couple of hours.”

  “When should we be in that thirty mile radius?” Eliza asked.

  “Late afternoon. Somewhere between three and four o’clock.”

  “Excellent,” Wellington said. “Would you mind helping me back the car to the ramp?”

  Bill followed him back to the motorcar and, once blocks were removed and gears were released, his engineering feat now rolled freely back to the ramp that had been open mere moments ago. Wellington was trying not to think of this section of metal and scaffolding as the only thing between his motorcar and several thousand feet of open space. The thought lingered in his mind as he crawled underneath the chassis to check supports, shocks, and axels. This was going to be his creation’s final field test, and the nerves in his stomach would not calm themselves.

  When he emerged from underneath the motorcar, he jumped back with a yelp on finding Felicity in the tumble seat. She appeared ready for action, dressed in tight leggings and a modest top with a corset that bore a striking resemblance to Eliza’s own. The tracker she and Bill had used in the Outer Banks was open in her lap, its tiny pencils sketching over various points of map depicting Wellington’s designated search area.

  “Telemetry is coming in,” she stated. “So far, all the signals are strong. Nothing out of the ordinary yet.”

  Felicity’s eyes remained fixed on the tracker with deadly intensity. Wellington took a strange comfort that her gaze was not aimed at him. “I didn’t hear you climb into the tumble seat. You are quite stealthy.”

  He felt a chill run through him as she looked up from the OSM tracker. “I’m a librarian. Silence is more than golden. It’s a way of life.” She then leaned in and whispered, “And you’ll never hear me coming.”

  Wellington suddenly felt the need to know where Eliza was. Hopefully, within shouting distance.

  Thankfully, the tracker in Felicity’s lap started chirping. “I’m getting a small encampment north of Montara”—she glanced at a pair of maps next to her—“that isn’t supposed to be there.”

  Eliza and Bill appeared in the bay. “Felicity, you get the same hit I did?” the cowboy asked.

  “Montara, California,” she returned.

  “That’s where he will be,” came the voice from over Wellington’s shoulder.

  Again, he jumped with a yelp, turning to see Tesla. Did this man ever sleep?

  “With unlimited resources,” the scientist continued, hardly bothered by Wellington’s reaction, “that is where I would be. Someplace isolated where I can work uninterrupted.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Bill said. “Lizzie, Wellington, what do you think?”

  Wellington and Eliza shared a look. God help San Francisco if we are wrong, Wellington thought. In the end, both of them nodded agreement.

  “I’ll let the captain know,” Bill said, heading forwards.

  Tesla, once Felicity gathered up her maps and the tracker, took a seat next to her, his eyes awkwardly looking the librarian from head to foot. Even after he noticed the sticks of dynamite strapped across Eliza’s thighs, the scientist-turned-field-agent looked as if he were settling into what was about to unfold before him until he saw Bill return to the cargo bay.

  Bill now wore crossing bandoliers full of bullets, two Peacemakers strapped to each hip, and a pair of Winchester-Browning-Worthingtons Model 1895. “We needed some extra punch on this trip and so I figured I’d bring out what OSM was recommending.”

  Wellington did not think the Serbian could look any paler. He was wrong.

  “Captain has got a lay of the land. The Sherman is going to do a pretty fancy maneuver. The pilot said there is a small . . . well, you can barely call it a road, but that’s where he’s dropping us off. I hope your automobile there can take a low flyby.”

  As if the Sherman was a living, breathing beast responding to Bill’s word, the airship began a sharp descent, its engines on each side whining in protest.

  “We best load up then,” Eliza shouted over them. She did not look in the least worried.

  “Ten minutes,” called Bill. “Time to get this chariot of yours started, Books.”

  “Yes, all right,” he stammered.

  Wellington went to his automobile and motioned to the backseat. Bill scrambled into the back with Tesla and Felicity. Eliza climbed into the front seat as Wellington turned the small crank just by his right thigh until he heard the engine rumble to life.

  Adjusting her own baldric of bullets and bundles of dynamite, she pulled down her goggles and then turned to him. “All set, Welly?”

  “Ask me that after the mission,” he said, securing his own door and slipping the rose-tinted goggles across his own face.

  Eliza chuckled at the sight of him, but he was determined to finish this mission as he started it—confident in pink goggles. “If you are looking that far ahead,” she returned, her own confident smile lifting his spirits, “I think that is a good sign.”

  “Here we go!” Bill called out as the large lamp in front of them switched from green to red.

  Before them, the floor split, revealing the outside world inches at a time. The road was barely even a goat track, but there was no going back now. Wellington wrapped one hand around the brake, the other gripped the steering wheel as the opening grew larger and the airship dipped lower. He could see the ground fifty feet below coming up quickly to meet them. The ramp extended lower and lower, until it locked into place thirty feet above the ground. At twenty feet, the Sherman began to tip upwards, the outside engines roaring angrily just over the rhythmic sound of his motorcar.

  The timing was crucial.

  He was just able to make out Eliza calling “Wellington!” over the wind, the engines, and the odd shuddering from Sherman’s gondola as the front of the airship continued to rise upwards. He disengaged the brake—Bill’s and Felicity’s signal to pull the ropes attached to blocks in front of the wheels—as he opened the throttle and pressed the accelerator forwards, sending them down the ramp. They covered the distance between their launch point and the end of the ramp faster than he had calculated, but the lip of the ramp had just managed to touch the ground, giving their front wheels no time in the air. Sherman’s engine power, though, was far greater than the motorcar’s, and the back of the car fell hard to the ground as they sped forwards. If any of them reached up, their fingertips could have grazed the stern of the airship, but the Sherman’s steep ascent continued to lift the airship upwards like a curtain.

  On the horizon was the compound of Edison’s modified lighthouse. Apart from the seemingly harmless white beacon that towered ahead of them, the area consisted of a large building that appeared to be a barracks of some kind. It was currently expelling men like ants. These troops were running for two
barns on the opposite side of the base. Within moments, motortrucks and motorcars were rumbling out of the stables.

  There was another structure in the distance, too small to be the keeper’s house but still connected to the lighthouse by what appeared in the distance as a webbing of cables. Wellington focused his eyes on it and accelerated.

  He called out to Eliza, pointing to the small array of buttons on the dash. “Time for the field test!”

  Her finger hovered over each of the buttons and switches before she shook her hands in exasperation. “Dammit, which one do I pick?”

  “Indulge yourself!” Wellington shouted, turning their car in the direction of their closest enemy. “But do it fast!”

  Eliza pressed the top blue button in the array. From behind a small panel in the dash closest to her right hand appeared a small stick with a trigger set within it. When she pulled it towards her, the motorcar’s internal mechanics rattled to life. Wellington allowed himself a self-satisfied smile seeing the headlamps of the car rotate upwards, just as he intended.

  “The trigger,” he shouted. Eliza was exchanging glances between him and the stick in her hand. “Now would be good.”

  Wellington’s smile turned into a delighted laugh, not that anyone could hear it over the sudden firestorm that erupted from the front of the car. The oncoming motortruck fought to keep control, but Wellington countered as Eliza squeezed the trigger hard. Their opponent disappeared in a thick cloud of steam, and then the truck exploded. Wellington turned their car to the left as the remains of the other tumbled aimlessly behind them.

  “That’s one!” he said, bringing another enemy in front of them.

  The two morotcars once advancing on them were now turning back towards the compound. He could make out, though, two gunmen leaning out from their backseats, attempting, it seemed, to get balance on their motorcar’s runners.

  Eliza went to make quick work of one car, but bullets striking their hood caused Wellington to swerve.

  “Hold her steady, Wellington!” shouted Bill. “Nick, hold on to my belt!”

  “I beg your pardon!” Tesla stammered. “Did you just call me Nick?”

  “Hold on to my belt,” he repeated, hefting the Winchester-Browning-Worthington in his arms, “unless you want to be shot at!”

  Wellington cast a quick glance over his shoulder to see Bill hanging out of the backseat. His upper body, as Tesla was apparently following his order, was perpendicular to the ground. He cocked the lever of the rifle, and then came a sound Wellington could only describe as a quick gasp of breath which he knew was a silly analogy as it was coming from the Winchester-Browning-Worthington.

  Rifles make sounds distinctive from pistols, and rifles themselves are quite distinguishable between one another. The Winchester-Browning-Worthington Model 1895 was unique, even among its own ilk; after the sudden intake of air, the firing sounded like a whip crack rather than the concussive signature of a rifle. The Winchester-Browning-Worthington shells, on account of the steam-assisted velocity, dealt more damage than a normal caliber Winchester.

  Seeing both gunmen toppled out of the second car, Wellington marveled at the weapon’s efficiency in the hands of a master.

  Eliza’s own efforts on the lead car were not as quick as on her first target, and then the firestorm from the front of the car stopped abruptly.

  “Welly?”

  “We’ve run out of bullets,” he shouted back. Wellington stretched over to where Tesla was holding Bill’s waistband, grabbed hold, and heaved. He felt Tesla follow his lead. Bill’s expression to both of them told him he was not quite finished. “Just hold on!”

  Wellington flipped a few switches by his own steering wheel and then pushed a red button under his left foot, and suddenly a high-pitched whine screamed from underneath the car. He felt himself thrown back into his seat as the car leapt forwards, its wild banshee wail drowning out what he could only assume were the curses of Bill and Eliza. If Nikola and Felicity were also screaming, he hoped no unpleasant flora or unfortunate insect were to find their way into their wide-open mouths.

  With a small pop, the shrill sounds from the undercarriage ceased and Wellington turned the wheel hard to the right while pulling up the brake. Their motorcar began to slide across the sand and grass, turning laterally and stopping with the rear end facing the smaller house connected by an array of heavy cables to Edison’s lighthouse.

  “Tesla,” Wellington shouted, “get in there! Eliza, switch with Felicity.”

  “Wellington!” Eliza and Felicity both snapped.

  “Yes, Felicity, I know how you feel about guns. Yes, Eliza, I know how you feel about Felicity sitting next to me.” Gunshots bounced off the ground and struck the building behind them. “Now switch!”

  Felicity and Eliza scrambled around the car, exchanging cold glares at each other as Tesla slid across the tumble seat, out of the car, and landed in a run for the door.

  “It’s locked!” Tesla shouted, struggling with the doorknob.

  Bill cocked the Winchester. “I got a key.”

  Tesla returned back to the car as Bill fired, splintering the door lock.

  “Thank you!” And with that, Tesla ran inside.

  “We have to supply cover,” Wellington said, releasing brakes and revving the engine.

  “With what?” Eliza shouted as they shot forwards. “Even with Bill’s Winchesters, we are a bit—”

  “Trust me, my darling,” Wellington sang as he centred their vehicle on their remaining foes. “Felicity—”

  Felicity shook her head wildly.

  “We are out of bullets in the front cannons, so if you would—” The lone motorcar in front of them closed the distance fast, its driver steering with one hand while aiming a Peacekeeper with the other. “The yellow ‘Number One’ button, if you please.”

  Felicity swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed the button while cowering in her seat.

  Wellington followed the rocket’s trajectory from his car to the oncoming vehicle, which, seconds later, was not so much of a motorcar as it was a fireball hurtling towards them.

  “See?” Wellington shouted as cheerily as he could when one is shouting. “No guns.”

  Felicity watched with wide eyes as the car coasted by them. The fire completely covered and consumed it so that as they watched, the wheels collapsed from underneath it.

  “Would it be forward of me to tell you that I think I am falling madly in love with you, Wellington Books?” she panted.

  “What can I say, Eliza, other than you inspi—”

  His words abruptly cut off as a barn to their left exploded. From the dark, acrid smoke lumbered out an armoured monster. It came towards them on treads that ran underneath its length, giving it no challenge in terrain as was made evident when it successfully scaled the first motortruck wreckage without effort. Mounted on a cylindrical turret, a single, ominous cannon came around to bear on them.

  Wellington turned the wheel sharply to one side, checked the gauges on the dash in front of Felicity, and tightened his jaw. He knew that if he kept this type of driving up, there would not be enough water left in the boilers for their escape. From behind them came a hard, concussive explosion, and a moment later the shell’s impact sent dirt and rocks flying around them.

  “You only have one yellow button!” Felicity screamed at him.

  “One button, one rocket.” He heard another cannon shot from behind him, and immediately turned to the right. The shell impacted harmlessly to the left. He wished the miss had instilled confidence but alas, it hadn’t.

  Then his eyes fell on the white and black buttons, set apart from the others.

  “Welly,” Eliza called from the backseat, “bring us around. Bill and I can slow him down.”

  “A moment, if you please,” he answered back, opening up the throttle even more as he turned the c
ar around and drove straight for the tank. “I’m having a thought.”

  “Wellington,” Felicity began, “this thought of yours—is it a happy one? It’s not at all suicidal, is it?”

  He waited for the turret to come to bear on their motorcar. Once the barrel stopped, he jerked the wheel to the right. He was flanking the armoured truck by the time it fired. “The white button! Now!”

  From behind them, a plume of thick smoke billowed out. He motioned for Felicity to strap on the mask by her own seat as he ripped free his own from under his seat. They continued their wide arc around the tank, completing a circle only to retrace their path by remaining within the smoke billowing all around them. Wellington kept throwing quick glances over his shoulder at the blurry silhouette of the tank now in the eye of their smoke ring. When he saw the cannon swing by them, he cut the wheel to the inside, driving them up to the rear of the tank.

  He had counted on Eliza and Bill to pick up on his plan, and thankfully they had.

  Eliza was sprinting for the tank with Bill, shouldering the modified Winchester, behind her. Wellington saw Eliza free from her bandolier one of her clockwork fuses and jam the device into a single stick of dynamite. As she ran up to the tank’s auxiliary hatch, located in the rear, she removed a few more sticks of dynamite just before heaving the door open. Her lethal package delivered, Eliza dashed back for the car. The top of the tank turret flipped back, and a man appeared with pistol in hand. He was quickly felled by Bill’s Winchester.

  Wellington honked the car horn again and again, aiding Eliza and Bill in the growing haze around them. Once they both landed into the tumble seat, Wellington opened up the throttle and pushed the accelerator forwards, returning them to the wall of smoke. From behind them, a sharp explosion threatened to lift their car off its wheels, followed immediately by a second explosion that did. Their motorcar shuddered on hitting the ground but it was holding together without fail.

  Then the world disappeared in a blinding flash. Wellington engaged the brakes, attempting to shade his eyes against this light that came from everywhere. This California sea cliff, it seemed, was being bathed in blasts of brilliant white and cerulean blue emitting from the air itself . . .