The Mammoth Book Of Steampunk Part 32

The generators took the form of two tanks, each one mounted atop a standard-issue army wagon. These tanks were made of reinforced wood and lined with copper, and atop each tank was a hinged metal plate that could be opened and closed in order to dump metal shavings into the sulfuric acid inside. At the end, opposite the filler plate, an escape pipe was attached to a long rubber hose, to which the Sweet Marie was ultimately affixed.

There were several sets of filters for the hydrogen to pa.s.s through before it reached the s.h.i.+p's tank, and the process was frankly none too quick. Even little s.h.i.+ps like these mail runners could take a couple of hours to become airworthy.

Walter did not like the idea of spending a couple of hours alone in Reluctance. He was even less charmed by the idea of spending all night alone in Reluctance, so he found himself a crate of big gla.s.s bottles filled with acid, and with a great struggle he poured them down through the copper funnels atop the tanks. Shortly thereafter he located the metal filings; he scooped them up with the big tin cup and dumped them in.

He turned the valves to open the filters and threw the switch to start the generators stirring and bubbling, vibrating the carts to make the acid and the metal stir and separate into hydrogen more quickly.

It made a G.o.d-awful amount of noise.

The rubber hose, stamped "Goodyear's Rubber, Belting and Packing Company of Philadelphia", did a little twitch. Sweet Marie's tank gave a soft, plaintive squeal as the first hydrogen spilled through, giving her the smallest bit of lift.

But she'd need more. Lots more.

There.

Another one.

A sighing grunt, gasped and then gone as quickly as it'd burst through the night.

Walter whirled as fast as his leg would let him, using it as a pivot. He moved like a compa.s.s pinned to a map. He held his cane out, pointing at nothing.

But the sound. Again. And again. Another wheeze and gust.

At this point, Walter was gut-swimmingly certain that it was coming from more than one place. Partway between a snore and a cough, with a consumptive rattle. Coming from everywhere, and nowhere. Coming from the dark.

Up against the Sweet Marie he backed.

He jumped, startled by a new sound, a familiar one. Footsteps, slow and laborious. Someone was walking toward him, out of the black alleys that surrounded the landing. Nearing the ladder to the refueling platform. And whoever this visitor was, he was joined by someone else approaching the edge near the parked Majestic.

And a third somebody. Walter was pretty sure of a third, moving up from the shadows.

Not one single thing about this moment, this shuddering instant alone but not alone felt right or good to Walter McMullin. He still couldn't see anyone, though he could hear plenty. Whoever they were, lurking in the background ... they weren't being quiet. They weren't sneaking, and that was something, wasn't it?

Why would they sneak, if they know they have you?

Reaching into his belt, he pulled out the Colt and held it with both hands. His back remained braced against the slowly filling replacement s.h.i.+p. He thought about crying out in greeting, just in case but he thought of the dead cows, and his desperate eyes spotted no new lights, and the sound of incoming feet and the intermittent groaning told him that no, this was no overreaction. This was good common sense, staying low with your back against something firm and your weapon out. That's what you did, right before a fight. If you could.

He drew back the gun's hammer and waited.

Lumbering up the ladder as if drunk, the first head rose into view.

Walter should've been relieved.

He knew that head it belonged to Gibbs Higley, the afternoon station manager. But he wasn't relieved. Not at all. Because it wasn't Gibbs, not anymore. He could see that at a glance, even without the gaslamps that lit up a few blocks, far away.

Something was very, very wrong with Gibbs Higley.

The man drew nearer, shuffling in an exploratory fas.h.i.+on, sniffing the air like a dog. He was missing an ear. His skin looked like boiled lye. One of his eyes was ruined somehow, wet and gelatinous, and sliding down his cheek.

"Higley?" Walter croaked.

Higley didn't respond. He only moaned and shuffled faster, homing in on Walter and raising the moan to a cry that was more of a horrible keening.

To Walter's terror, the keening was answered. It came bouncing back from corner to corner, all around the open landing area, and the footsteps that had been slowly incoming s.h.i.+fted gears, moving faster.

Maybe he should've thought about it. Maybe he should've tried again, tried to wake Higley up, shake some sense into him. There must've been something he could've done, other than lifting the Colt and putting a bullet through the man's solitary good eye.

But that's what he did.

Against a desert backdrop of dust-covered silence the footsteps and coughing grunts and the buzzing patter of the generators had seemed loud enough; but the Colt was something else entirely, fire and smoke and a kick against his elbows, and a lingering whiff of gunpowder curling and dissolving.

Gibbs Higley fell off the landing, flopping like a rag doll.

Walter rushed as fast as he could to the ladder and kicked it away marooning himself on the landing island, five or six feet above street level. Then he dragged himself back to Sweet Marie and resumed his defensive position, the only one he had. "That was easy," he muttered, almost frantic to rea.s.sure himself.

One down. More to go. You're a good shot, but you're standing next to the gas. Surrounded by it, almost.

He breathed. "I need to think."

You need to run.

"I need the Sweet Marie. Won't get far without her."

Hands appeared at the edge of the lifted landing pad. Gray hands, hands without enough fingers.

Left to right he swung his head, seeking some out. Knowing he didn't have enough bullets for whatever this was knowing it as sure as he knew he'd die if any of those hands caught him. Plague, is what it was. Nothing he'd ever seen before, but G.o.dd.a.m.n Gibbs Higley had been sick, hadn't he?

"Gotta hold the landing pad," he said through gritted teeth.

No. You gotta let 'em take it but that don't mean you gotta let 'em keep it.

He swung his head again, side to side, and spotted only more hands moving like a sea of clapping, an audience of death, pulling toward the lifted landing spot. He wished he had a light, and then he remembered that he did have one he just hadn't lit it. One wobbly dash back to the Majestic and he had the lantern in his hand again, thinking "to h.e.l.l with it to h.e.l.l with us" and striking a match. What did it matter? They already knew where he was. That much was obvious from the rising wail that now rang from every quarter. Faces were leaning up now, lurching and lifting on elbows, rising and grabbing for purchase on the platform and soon they were going to find it.

Look.

"Where?" he asked the ghost of a memory, trying to avoid a full-blown panic. Panic never got anybody anywhere but dead. It got Stanley dead. On the far side of a broken, folded fence along a line that couldn't have been held, not with a thousand Stanleys.

Ah. Above the hydrogen tanks, and behind them. A ladder in the back corner of the overhang that covered them.

He glanced at the Sweet Marie and then his eyes swept the platform, where a woman was rising up onto the wooden deck drawing herself up on her elbows. She'd be there soon, right there with him. When she looked up at him her mouth opened and she shouted, and blood or bile something dark spilled over her teeth to splash down on the boards.

Whatever it was, he didn't want it. He drew up the Colt, aimed carefully, and fired. She fell back.

The ladder behind the hydrogen tanks must lead to the roof of the overhang. Would the thin metal roof hold him?

Any port in a storm.

He scurried past the clamoring hands and scooted, still hauling that dead-weight foot, beneath the overhang and to the ladder. Scaling it required him to set the cane aside, and he wouldn't do that, so he stuck it in his mouth where it stretched his cheeks and jaw until they ached with the strain. But it was that or leave it, or leave the lantern which he held by the hot, uncomfortable means of shoving his wrist through the carrying loop. When it swung back and forth with his motion, it burned the cuff of his s.h.i.+rt and seared warmly against his chest.

So he climbed, good foot up with a grunt of effort, bad foot up with a grunt of pain, both grunts issued around the cane in his mouth. When he reached the top he jogged his neck to s.h.i.+ft the cane so it'd fit through the square opening in the corrugated roof. He slipped, his heavy foot dragging him to a stop with an ear-splitting sc.r.a.pe.

He'd have to step softly.

From this vantage point, holding up the quivering black lantern, he could see all of it, and he understood everything and nothing simultaneously. He watched the mostly men and sometimes women of Reluctance stagger and wail, shambling hideously from corners and corridors, from alleys and bas.e.m.e.nts, from broken-windowed stores and stables and saloons and the one wh.o.r.ehouse. They did not pour but they dripped and congealed down the uncobbled streets torn rough and rocky by horses' hooves and the wheels of coaches and carts.

It couldn't have been more than a hundred ragged bodies slinking forward, gagging on their own fluids and chasing toward the light he held over his head, over the town of Reluctance.

Walter stuffed a hand in his vest pockets and felt at the bottom of the bag he still wore over his chest. Bullets, yes. But not enough bullets for this. Not even if he was the best shot in Texas, and he wasn't. He was a competent shot from New York City, orphaned and Irish, a few thousand miles from home, without even a sibling to mourn him if the drooling, simpering, snap-jawed dead were to catch him and tear him to pieces.

Bullets were not going to save him.

All the same, he liked having them.

The lantern drew the dead; he watched their gazes, watching it. Moths. Filthy, deadly moths. He could see it in their eyes, in the places where their souls ought to be. Most of the men he'd ever shot at were fellows like himself boys, mostly, lads born so late they didn't know for certain what the fighting was about; just men, with faces full of fear and grit.

Nothing of that, not one shred of humanity showed on any of the faces below.

He could see it, and he was prepared to address it. But not until he had to.

Beneath him, the Sweet Marie was filling. Down below the twisted residents of Reluctance were dragging themselves up and onto the platform, swarming like ants and shrieking for Walter who went to the ladder and kicked it down against the generators, where it clattered and rested, and likely wouldn't be climbed.

He sat on the edge of the corrugated roof and turned the lantern light down. It wouldn't fool them. It wouldn't make them wander away. They smelled him, and they wanted him, and they'd stay until they got him. Or until he left.

He was leaving, all right. Soon.

Inside the satchel he rummaged, and he pulled out his tobacco and papers. He rolled himself a cigarette, lit it off the low-burning lamp, and he sat. And he watched below as the cranium-shaped crest of the Sweet Marie slowly inflated; and the corpses of Reluctance gathered themselves on the landing pad beside it, ignoring it.

Finally the swelling dome was full enough that Walter figured, "I can make it. Maybe not all the way to Santa Fe, but close enough." He rose to his feet, the flesh and blood one and the one that pivoted painfully on a pin.

The lantern swung out from his fingertips, still lit but barely.

Below the lantern, beside the s.h.i.+p and around it, the men and women shambled.

But fire could consume anything, pretty much. It'd consume the hydrogen like it was starved for it. It'd gobble and suck and then the whole world would go up like h.e.l.l, wouldn't it? All that gas, burning like the breath of G.o.d.

Well then. He'd have to move fast.

Retracting his arm as far as it'd go, and then adjusting for trajectory, he held the lantern and released it, tossing it in a great bright arc that cut across the star-speckled sky. It crashed to the far corner of the landing pad, blossoming into brilliance and heat, singeing his face. He blinked hard against the unexpected warmth, having never guessed how closely he would feel it.

The creatures below screamed and ran, clothing aflame. The air sizzled with the stench of burning hair and fire-puckered flesh. But some of them hovered near the Sweet Marie, lingering where the fire had stayed clear, still howling.

Only a few of them.

The Colt took them down, one-two-three.

Walter crossed his fingers and prayed that the bullets would not bounce would not clip or ding the hydrogen tubes or tanks, or the swollen bulb of the Sweet Marie. His prayers were answered, or ignored. Either way, nothing ignited.

Soon the s.h.i.+p was clear. As clear as it was going to get.

And reaching it required a ten-foot drop.

Walter threw his cane down and watched it roll against the s.h.i.+p, then he dropped to his knees and swung himself off the edge to hang by his fingertips. He curled the good leg up, lifting his knee. Better a busted pin than a busted ankle.

And before he had time to reconsider, he let go.

The pain of his landing was a sun of white light. His leg buckled and sc.r.a.ped inside the sheath that clasped the false limb; he heard his bone piercing and rubbing through the bunched and st.i.tched skin, and into the leather and metal.

But he was down. Down beside the Sweet Marie. Down inside the fire, inside the ticking clock with a deadly alarm and only moments maybe seconds, probably only seconds before the whole town went up in flames.

At the last moment he remembered the clasp that anch.o.r.ed the s.h.i.+p. He unhitched it. He limped bloodily to the back port and ripped the hydrogen hose out of the back, and shut it up tight because otherwise he'd just leak his fuel all over North Mexico.

He fumbled for the latch and found it.

Pulled it.

Opened the door and hauled himself inside, feeling around for the controls and seeing them awash with the yellow-gold light of the fire just outside the window. The starter was a lever on the dash. He pulled that too and the s.h.i.+p began to rise. He grasped for the thrusters and his shaking, searching fingers found them, and pressed them giving the engines all the gas they'd take. Anything to get him up and away. Anything to push him past the hydrogen before the fire took it.

Anything.

Reluctance slipped away below, and behind. It s.h.i.+mmered and the whole world froze, and gasped, and shook like a star being born.

The desert floor melted into gla.s.s.

A Serpent in the Gears.

Margaret Ronald.

We unearthed the serpent's corpse just before the Regina reached the first gun emplacement that separated the greater world from the forgotten valley of Aaris. The reports from villagers on the border had placed the serpent half a day out of our chosen path and much higher than the dirigible should have been, and while the Regina's captain grumbled about "sightseeing" expeditions, she agreed to let us send up a dinghy.

Truth was, captain and crew alike had signed on for the story as much as for the Royal Society's generous pay. The Aaris valley forgotten mainly because just after the first isolation guns were erected, the Great Southern rail line obviated the need to venture near the Sterling Pa.s.s was a story even jaded 'nauts revered. A side trip such as this only added savor to the tale. Indeed, the same villagers who'd informed us of the serpent's presence had already traded well on this news: a desiccated carca.s.s halfway up one of the snow-capped peaks that made the Sterling Pa.s.s all but untraversable, only revealed by the spring thaw.

"Thaw, my a.r.s.e," Colonel Dieterich muttered as we disembarked from the gently bobbing dinghy. "It's cold enough to freeze a thaumaturge's t.i.ts off."

"The villagers said that this is the first time it's been warm enough to spend more than an hour on the slopes, sir," I said, and draped his greatcoat around his shoulders, avoiding the creaking points of his poorly fastened andropter. "For them I suppose that would const.i.tute a thaw."

"For them having ten toes is a novelty." He snorted his pipe into a greater glow, then noticed the coat. "Ah. Thank you, Charles. Come on; let's go see what the barbaric snows have brought us."

The doctors Brackett and Crumworth were already wandering over the carca.s.s, pointing and exclaiming. All of the Royal Society party (excluding Professora Lundqvist, who because of her condition could not leave the Regina) were in better spirits now than they had been for weeks, and I began to understand the captain's decision to send us up here. Unusual as the moment of domestic accord was, though, it paled in comparison to the serpent.

The thing had the general shape of a Hyborean flying serpent, though it was at least twenty times the length of most specimens. It stretched out at least fifty feet, probably more, since the sinuous curves of the carca.s.s obscured its true dimensions. It had no limbs to speak of, though one of the anatomists waved excitedly at shattered fins and shouted for us to come see. "Yes, yes, fins, any idiot can see that," grumbled Dieterich. "Of course it had to have fins, how else could it steer? What interests me more are these."

He nudged a pile of detritus with the end of his cane. Rotten wood gave under the pressure: old casks, long since broached. "Cargo, sir?" I said, hoping the possibility of commerce into Aaris might distract him from the carca.s.s. "We may be able to figure out what they held."