The Flux Engine

by Dan Willis

  “Just some clothes over at Doctor Shultz’.”

  “Forget ’em,” Hickok said. He mounted the steps to the hotel porch and led the way through the open doors. “I’ll have to get you something more suitable anyway if you’re going to be my deputy.”

  John didn’t have to chase Hickok up the hotel stairs toward the skydock. It seemed as if his feet had wings and in no time, he emerged from the cool interior of the Evening Star onto the sturdy planks of the skydock.

  As impressive as the airship was from a distance, it was awe inspiring up close. The upper deck was made of a reddish hardwood, surrounded by railings of bright brass. A short gangplank had been laid across the gap from the hotel to the airship and it bobbed lazily up and down as the ship rocked in the gentle breeze.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,” Hickok said. “Go ahead on.”

  John didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it out in one great gasp. He put his foot on the wooden gangplank and stepped aboard his very first airship. He thought it would feel different somehow, to have nothing under the floor you stood on, but aside from the Desert Rose’s gentle side-to-side rocking motion in the air currents, it felt no different than the skydock.

  Hickok pushed past him and walked to an iron-plated door in the aft cabin, sliding it aside. John followed and found himself in a snug room with a large table in the center. A door led aft and there was an opening in the floor where a stair descended below.

  “Crankshaft,” Hickok yelled down the stair.

  “You don’t have to yell, I can hear you.”

  The door at the back of the cabin opened and a short, stocky black man wearing a boiler suit emerged. He was older than Hickok, his hair beginning to turn white at the temples, and his hands were callused and worn. The coverall had once been tan, but it was streaked and stained with grease, coal dust, and oil.

  “Fire up the boiler and get the lifters cranking,” Hickok said. “I want to be underway within the hour.”

  “Relax,” Crankshaft said, waving one of his enormous hands at Hickok. “I lit the fires when Sylvia saw you coming. We should have a good head of steam in a quarter hour or so.” He turned to look a John and his stubble-strewn face split into a wide grin full of pearly white teeth. “Now who have we here?” he asked.

  “Where are my manners?” Hickok said. “John Porter, this is Henry ‘Crankshaft’ Jones, the best airship mechanic in the territories. Crankshaft, this is John.” Crankshaft’s bearlike paw enveloped John’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  “John’s going to be with us for a while,” Hickok said.

  “He made me his deputy,” John informed the mechanic.

  A strange, suspicious look passed across Crankshaft’s face and he looked intently at Hickok.

  “It’s just a temporary measure,” Hickok said with a shrug. “John here was having some trouble with the local authorities.”

  “Well it’s good to meet you, John,” Crankshaft said. “I’ve got to get below, but once Bill here gets you squared away, why don’t you come down to the engine room and I’ll show you around?”

  “Yes, sir,” John said, barely able to contain his enthusiasm.

  As Crankshaft disappeared below, Hickok removed his duster and hat and hung them on a brass hook. With the coat off, John could see the broad leather belt that held his sword and pistol.

  “Why didn’t you shoot Morgan?” John asked. “I mean, you had a gun, why fight him with a sword?”

  Hickok laughed and drew up a chair at the big table, motioning for John to do the same.

  “You saw how he moved, didn’t you?”

  John nodded.

  “Well that means he’s been Jekylled,” Hickok said. “Not all Jeks are the same. Some of them can make a man’s skin tough and hard so a bullet won’t go very deep. Some make a man able to shrug off getting shot altogether.”

  Having personal experience with being shot, John simply couldn’t believe that last one and he said so.

  “The point is that if I’d shot him, he might have still been able to kill you,” Hickok said. “The best way to handle someone like that is to get in close with a blade.”

  “How come you’re Jekylled?” John asked. “I thought Jeks were dangerous.”

  “Bill is a special case,” a woman’s voice interrupted. It sounded scratchy and dull, as if it were coming from somewhere else.

  John looked around, but he and Hickok were still alone in the galley.

  “It’s not polite to eavesdrop, Sylvia,” Hickok said.

  “Sorry,” the voice came again. “It’s an occupational hazard, I’m afraid.”

  “Was there something you needed?” Hickok asked.

  “Yes,” Sylvia’s voice said. “We now have sufficient steam. Would you like me to release the docking clamp and get underway?”

  John finally managed to track the source of Sylvia’s voice to a small box with a cone-shaped amplifier on it. It reminded him of a phonograph, just without a place for the cylinder recording.

  “Go ahead,” Hickok said. “Set our course for Castle Rock.”

  “Castle Rock?” John said. “Is that where Sira is going?”

  “I doubt it,” Hickok said. “But Castle Rock is the best place in the territories to pick up her trail.”

  John wanted to ask why, but there was a sudden metallic clank from outside and he had a momentary bout of vertigo as the airship swung free of the skydock. A moment later the floor seemed to push up underneath him, as the Desert Rose gained altitude. From the engine room below, he could hear the accelerating chug of the steam engine and finally a grinding lurch as the propulsion arms dropped into place.

  Hickok stood and made his way to a round spiral of metal that occupied one wall of the cabin. Several steam pipes ran around the outside of the circle, attaching at regular intervals to tiny pistons. A lever on one side regulated the flow of steam through the pipes and, when Hickok pulled it, the metal disk opened like an eye adjusting to the darkness. Beyond the shutter was an enormous round window.

  “Come take a look.”

  With the metal shutter out of the way, John could see Sprocketville stretching out beneath them. He pressed his nose to the glass as Doctor Shultz’ Thurger lab slid by in the distance. From up here it looked strange, like a model of something not quite real.

  The Desert Rose continued to climb. Gradually the buildings became smaller and more distant, until all John could see of Sprocketville was the haze of coal smoke that hung over the city. It was the most amazing thing he’d ever experienced, with the possible exception of being shot and almost dying, but this experience was one he wanted to hold on to. At long last, when it was clear there was nothing more to see but rolling hills and grassland, John turned away.

  “If Sira’s not taking my crystal to Castle Rock, why are we going there?” he asked again.

  “You ever hear of the Prophet?” Hickok asked. When John shook his head, he continued. “He’s a psychic, a really powerful one. He’ll tell us where your crystal’s headed.”

  “How?” John asked. “I mean I had it for years and he didn’t know where I was.”

  Hickok held up the tintype of Sira. “We weren’t looking for you,” he said. “But we know who has the crystal, what she looks like, and, most important of all, her name.”

  “So, what do you need me for?”

  Hickok laid the tintype down on the table and sat back in his chair.

  “You had that crystal a long time, John,” he said. “You might know things about it—important things.”

  “I doubt it,” John muttered. Everyone seemed to know more about his crystal than he did; Sira, Morgan, and now Hickok. “So what happens to me now?”

  “Oh, don’t worry John, I’m sure the Prophet can find someone for you to continue your studies with.”

  “But you’re not taking me with you, when you go after Sira,” John accused. “Are you?”

  Hickok dropped his eyes for a moment and John k
new the truth of it. The enforcer only needed him so the psychic could poke around in his brain.

  “John, the last time you tangled with that woman, she damn near killed you,” Hickok said. “If I hadn’t come along when I did, the undertaker would be measuring you for a pine overcoat.”

  “But that doesn’t …” John started.

  “And then, her combat-Jekylled partner tried to finish the job,” Hickok went on. “I had to save you again.”

  “What’s your point?” John asked.

  Hickok leaned forward in his chair, his blue eyes boring into John.

  “These people are dangerous, boy,” he said. “Going after them is man’s work, and more than that, it’s enforcer work. I’ve got experience dealing with this kind of thing. The last thing I need is some tenderfoot getting in the way and maybe getting himself killed.”

  “It’s my crystal,” John said. He understood Hickok’s logic, but he wasn’t ready to give in yet.

  “And if you want to keep it from doing more harm, you’ll stay out of my way and let me do my job,” Hickok said. His mustache had turned down in a frown and his voice made it plain that the discussion was over. After a few moments, his expression softened.

  “Don’t take it hard, John,” he said. “This is the way things have to be. If there’s any way to get that crystal back to you after it’s been examined, I’ll do it.”

  John didn’t want to believe him, but something in the way Hickok spoke made his every word seem trustworthy.

  “You promise?” John asked.

  “You have my word,” Hickok said, sticking out his hand.

  John shook it, sealing the deal, then Hickok stood.

  “Well I’d better get some dinner on,” he said, turning a valve on the stove so that steam flowed through the pipes below the griddle. “You didn’t eat anything at that diner your girlfriend picked out.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Hickok laughed as he took a sack of potatoes from a cupboard.

  “Did you think I was just walking by and saw you and the girl in trouble?” He laughed again. “Son, you have to get up pretty early in the morning to fool me. I followed you from the moment you stepped out of the jail house.”

  “You knew I would escape?”

  “Not you,” Hickok said, cutting up the spuds with a long knife. “I figured that girl would bat her eyelashes and you’d run to help her.”

  John suddenly felt foolish, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Hickok couldn’t have known he would escape, after all. He decided to change the subject anyway.

  “Why are you doing the cooking?”

  Hickok shrugged, adding sliced potato ovals to the griddle. “Someone has to,” he said. “Crankshaft’s job is to keep the Rose flying, so that just leaves me—unless you want to.”

  John shook his head. He’d done some cooking for Doctor Shultz but it had never turned out very well. Based on how much Doc had eaten, John came to believe the older man had lost his sense of taste.

  “I thought there was someone else on board,” John said, suddenly remembering the woman’s voice that had emerged from the speaker box.

  “You mean Sylvia,” Hickok said.

  “Is she the pilot?” John asked, noting her continued absence.

  “She’s the heart and soul of the Desert Rose,” Hickok said. “Sylvia is a—”

  “I can speak for myself, thank you,” the scratchy voice filled the little cabin again. “Hello, John, I’m Sylvia. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  “Where are you?” John asked. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Sylvia could see him somehow. The voice hesitated.

  “I’m between the engine room and coal storage,” she said. “It’s the safest place on the ship for me.”

  John was lost. It must have shown on his face.

  “Oh dear. Perhaps I’d better just show you,” Sylvia said with a sigh.

  There was a metallic clack and a hiss of steam and a section of floor opened along the back wall. The floorboards rose up, pivoting from the rear like a trap door, revealing a long, rectangular hole. A strange machine rose from beneath, pushing up until it nearly reached the ceiling. It looked like a cabinet made out of mismatched wood panels and set with all manner of pipes, switches, and dials. In the exact center of the device was a metal cylinder that emitted a muffled ringing like a dozen crystals working in harmony.

  John had heard a lot of crystal devices work and most of them sounded like a box of glass being kicked down a staircase. This sound reminded him of his mother’s crystal. It was pure and musical, each tone blending in a ringing chord that sent chills running down his spine.

  “What is it?” John asked.

  “Not what,” Hickok said. “Who. That’s Sylvia.”

  John heard the hiss of a steam piston engaging and the metal cylinder began to rotate. It was open at the back and as it turned, he could see inside. A series of crystals lined the inner walls of the cylinder, surrounding a glass tank filled with bubbling green liquid. A triangular arm below the tank held three crystals upright and spun them in the space between the crystals mounted in the cylinder and the tank itself. It was a simple design, for a third-order device, but the tone produced was angelic.

  There was a loud clack and the noise of an electrical spark. Light flooded the little compartment, and John gasped. In the tank, magnified to twice its normal size by the thick glass, floated a human brain.

  “It’s a brainbox,” John blurted.

  “I beg your pardon,” Sylvia’s indignant voice came out of the speaker again. “I have a name.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” John stammered. He’d worked around all kinds of crystal devices, but even the humanoid Tommys were just gears, pipes, valves, crystals, and inert metal. He’d never seen one that literally had a mind of its own.

  He’d heard of brainboxes, of course, but only a handful of them had survived the war. They were built by the greatest Architect of the age, Ben Franklin, as a response to Britannia’s automated Dreadnoughts. While the Dreadnoughts could carry out simple tasks unsupervised, much like Tommys, an airship or gun platform with a brainbox was completely autonomous. The brain, harvested shortly after its donor’s death, could think and reason, just like a living crewman, but without the need for a crew. A single brainbox could operate an entire gun platform or combat airship all by itself, only needing live crewmen for maintenance work. Brainbox-enhanced weapons were devastating and helped turn the tide of the war in the Alliance’s favor.

  Franklin regretted his invention almost immediately, fearing unscrupulous men or governments would take his invention and harvest brains from the living to build vast armies. When he died, Franklin took the secret of their construction to his grave. Now only a few remained.

  John took an involuntary step forward. He had so many questions.

  “Are you the one flying the ship?” he asked, peering at the jar with its floating brain. Tiny copper wires ran over its surface, disappearing occasionally into the folds of the gray tissue.

  “Yes,” Sylvia said. “I am also regulating the lift engine and adjusting the cabin temperature.”

  “What happens when you need to sleep?”

  “I only need a few hours of rest per week.”

  “What—”

  “That’s enough,” Hickok said. He plunked a plate full of fried potatoes and ham steak on the table. “Plenty of time for questions later; now it’s time to eat.”

  Reluctantly, John left the machine and returned to the table.

  “Bill,” Sylvia said as John sat down. “I’ve been monitoring the lift engines since we left Sprocketville and I found something disturbing.”

  Hickok put down the fork he’d just picked up and turned to Sylvia.

  “The lifters seem to have lost some of their efficiency,” she went on. “I expected to see some degradation from adding John’s weight to our total, but it is more pronounced than I would have expected.”

  “How far off?” Hickok sa
id. John noticed that there was a hard edge in his voice, and though he was still sitting behind his plate of ham and potatoes, his whole body seemed tight and coiled, like a rattlesnake ready to strike.

  “It seems like we’ve picked up an additional one-hundred to three-hundred pounds,” Sylvia said.

  Hickok swore, jumping from his chair to the hook where his gun belt hung. Without bothering to put it on, he jerked the heavy short sword from its scabbard.

  “That bald friend of yours is a solid two-twenty if he’s an ounce.”

  John’s blood ran cold. The idea that Morgan could have slipped on board before they left was utterly terrifying.

  “Crankshaft, get up here!” Hickok roared. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and opened a locker built into the wall beside the round window.

  “What’s going on?” Crankshaft asked, emerging up the stairs from the lower deck at a run.

  “We’ve got an intruder,” Hickok said, pulling a shatter gun from the locker and tossing it to Crankshaft. “Stay here and protect the boy.”

  If Crankshaft thought this was strange, he showed no sign. He flicked the activator forward on the shatter gun and took a seat next to John. Behind them, Sylvia slid back into her protective space beneath the floor.

  Hickok buckled on his gun belt and loosened his pistol in its holster, then headed to the stairs going down.

  “Watch yourself,” Crankshaft said.

  “You too.” Hickok nodded.

  “Don’t worry,” Crankshaft said, patting the shatter gun. “I’ll just shoot anyone who isn’t you.”

  Chapter 13

  The Stowaway

  John sat in silence as the minutes ticked by since Bill had gone. Crankshaft sat beside him, leaning back slightly in his chair and wearing an air of easy confidence, as if he were expecting dinner to be served any moment. The long, slender shatter gun sat cradled in his lap with the man’s rough, grease-stained hand on the grip and trigger. The gun was shorter than a flux rifle but heavier, with two side-by-side barrels.

  Shatter Guns were simple weapons in principle. A flux charged cartridge held a crystal plug. When the crystal hammer hit the cartridge, the plug was fired down the barrel where it shattered into dozens of razor sharp shards. John had never seen one fired, but he imagined it would shred anything living to ribbons.