Abney Park's The Wrath Of Fate (5 page)

When I woke I was disoriented, cold, wet, there was blood on my face and a crushing pain in my legs because they were pinned by the pilot’s seat in front of me. From my viewpoint our plane was precariously squished to the side of a cliff. The tail of the plane was missing, it had broken off just behind Kristina and my seat, and rest of the band was nowhere to be seen. In times like these people tend to shut down parts of their brain so they can deal with the task at hand. I did this now, ignoring my missing bandmates and burying all the emotional trauma to deal with later.

I looked through the broken windshield. Impossibly, the cliff seemed to be made of canvas! There was no going out through the windshield. That way was blocked by the wet fabric “cliff”. The right window of the cockpit was shattered but still intact, and the combination of the pelting rain and the spider web of cracks in the glass made it impossible to see through. Our only escape route was through the missing left side window.

I saw a rope ladder just within reach of the window. In fact, our entire plane seemed to be hanging from rope ladders. They started above us, dropping into the black abyss below. This left us with a tricky decision, climb up to where the ladder stayed close to the cliff, which seemed to level off, or climb down to where the rope ladder dangled over the black abyss.

Finally, and after a little discussion in the raging rain, we decided that going down was best. This accursed trip was not going to be over until we got “down” from wherever we were so, after a few minutes of struggling to push what was left of the pilot out of our way, down we went.

As we descended, the ladder separated from the side of the “cliff”, and we came to the most baffling scene yet. There was a sailing ship hanging from hundreds of massive ropes in the blackness of the sky. It was made of ornately carved wood, like a classic pirate ship. Copper and brass machinery protruded from huge sections of it, as well as giant glass orbs filled with swirling pink gas that glowed dimly. Networks of glass and copper tubes occasionally shot little lighted capsules through them. At least a dozen weathered figures in long oiled raincoats, leather helmets and massive goggles ran on deck, climbing the ropes in a general panic, looking like enraged ants when you step on their hill.

We clambored over the railing, and I noticed Kristina was shivering. Not from fear, mind you, but from the icy cold, wet and pure exhaustion of the day’s misadventure. I hoisted her with one arm and, unnoticed by the crew, we headed for a large door aft of the ship.

Swinging open the door we found that it led to one of the most beautifully furnished living rooms I have ever been in. Deep leather sofas, chandeliers dangling as the ship swung on its ropes, edged tables filled with glass bottles of all shapes and sizes – now rolling around on a bar, some had fallen and smashed on the floor. A massive winged-back chair lay overturned just behind a huge brass captain’s wheel, and what I guessed was a periscope showed the view out the front of the ship.

Suspended from the ceiling was a very detailed model of what looked like a pirate ship hanging under a zeppelin. The pirate ship was bristling with cannon, surrounded with miniature glass orbs and tubes. Could this be where we stood now: on a flying ship, hanging under a massive zeppelin, some Victorian-Era airship? This certainly accounted for what we seen so far. I could see the “canvas cliff” rope ladder we descended, and the railing we climbed over, and the deck we stumbled across, all in miniature.

The far wall of this room was fitted with ornate stained-glass panels. Gorgeous deep reds, greens and teals, with gilded leading, cut to depict different nautical and aeronautical themes. Just outside the windows, two massive propellers could be seen spinning furiously, and there was a man-sized hole in the glass wall just behind the captain’s overturned chair. Near the hole stood two silhouettes engaged in somber debate, looking quite distressed.

“Well, he was sitting right in his chair, wasn’t he?” asked the tallest silhouette. I would later learn his name was Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul was Creole: huge, black, bald and intimidating, if you didn’t know him. When you got to know him, you knew he was quiet, kind, and always genteelly cheerful. He wore silk harem pants and a mandarin jacket which made him look like a cross between a genie and a South Seas pirate.

“Where is he now? Did he fall through the glass?” asked the silhouette next to him, pointing to the hole in the window. This was Tanner. He wore a plain black bowler, huge boots that came nearly to his knees, and a ragged vest which might at one time have been an army field jacket. Completing his attire was a kilt.

“Yes! It looks like he went right through the window. You’d better tell Daniel what’s happened, and possibly Calgori.” Jean-Paul then turned to leave, and as he did he saw us. “Who are you?”

“I’m Robert, this is Kristina. We are really sorry to be here, but I’m afraid we…” and just in the middle of speaking, the man with the bowler turned, slipped and fell to the floor. As he tried to get up, he slipped again. When he looked at his hands they were covered with blood, as was the floor around him.

INTRODUCTIONS

We were taken to a small cabin, and given some odd looking clothes, hand stitched, dark colors, military but formally cut – not like the baggy fitting chamois of today’s armies. As we sat on the edge of small bunks under itchy, stiff blankets, we were given cups of hot, incredibly strong, bitter tea.

For the first hour, we said nothing. None of it seemed possible, and none of it seemed good. I shivered under my blanket worried that Kristina was under her blanket blaming me for everything that had gone wrong. Blaming me for the crash she warned me about, blaming me for the death of our bandmates, our friends. I feared her opinions of me so much, I didn’t dare start the conversation, so I sat as silent as she.

I felt deep, dark self-loathingly horrible. If only I could take it back, redo the day in a way that didn’t end like this. But is that what I really wanted? Part of me was screaming, “See, you’re not supposed to leave that life of reliable employment.” While another quieter part was whispering excitedly, “This is better, you’re traveling again! You’re off the grid, and on an adventure! This is where you are supposed to be.”

That night a meeting was called to assess damage and form a plan. Kristina and I were invited, since the crew seemed to feel we could add something to the conversation. It turned out they
needed
us.

We were led down dark wooden corridors, past many round portholes, and through large double doors. The less expendable members of the crew were assembled in the map room which was a very long narrow room with no maps at all. In the center of it was a massive and very complex slide rule, about fifteen feet long, with dozens of shifting scales (the parts of a slide rule that slide). Above this, and in full motion, was a beautiful brass, copper, and pewter orrie.

Let me explain: if a globe is a three dimensional map of the Earth, then think of an orrie as a dimensional map of the solar system. This one was not only in motion, but you could increase or decrease its speed, or reverse its motion using one of the scales of the slide rule in the center of the room.

Another machine about the size of a school desk sat at one end of the room. It was connected both to the orrie and the glass orbs around the ship. The machine was covered with gauges, dials and one very large throw switch, just the kind you might see in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

The excitement of this scene was pushing the dark feelings of guilt from my mind. It was only a temporary distraction, but one that was welcomed nonetheless.

Tanner was speaking as we entered, “I really don’t think we can ask any more of Dr. Calgori while he’s in his present state. He’s very ill, and I don’t think we should disturb him.”

“Well, he’s not in command,” said a tall, slender, and very “proper military” man “I’m not sure he could help us much anyway. He seems as lost as we are. I had been trying to get our orders out of the Captain over the last few days, but the plans were not very forthcoming. And now the captain is lost. I don’t suppose it would make sense to declare him dead, but he’s certainly not onboard. It would appear in the collision he was knocked from his chair, and fell through the window of his cabin.”

“He didn’t tell you the ‘plan’, Daniel, because he ’ad no plan! Capt’n was stumped!” said a third, whiskery man with a fresh eye patch that he occasionally mopped under with a rag. I was beginning to notice that most of the crew in the room was filthy, wet, and very battered. They obviously had not been having an easy time of things.

Kristina and I had been sitting quietly listening to all of this. Although I felt unexpectedly at home in this strangely ornate and luxurious environment, I’m sure I looked quite out of place, so I kept my mouth shut. At this point it became apparent that nobody here was any more “in their element” then I was. “What exactly is the problem?” I asked.

There was a long pause as it seemed people were working out just how to begin, or who I was, or who was to fill me in on what was going on.

Finally Daniel answered, “You are aboard the
HMS Ophelia,
an experimental vessel designed in 1897 by Dr. Calgori for Her Majesty’s Fleet. It’s a time traveling vessel. The good Doctor’s experiment was funded by the British Empire with the direct goal of correcting the outcome of any historical battle the crown viewed as a failure. When fully functional, our mission will be to travel back in time, and turn the tides of previous military failures to the favor of the English crown. This journey you’ve caught us on was our maiden voyage – it was a test run that seems to have gone awry. We left port on January 8th, 1903, and arrived here two hours later.”

“1903. You’re from 1903?” I asked calmly.

Now, you might think I’m taking this a little too well. That’s not the case. I have a rule in life, when someone presents me with an outrageous story, instead of arguing with them, I let them finish their tale. After I’ve heard their whole story it’s easier to decide how it affects me, and if it hurts me at all to pretend I believe them. Whether or not I actually believe them is irrelevant, and telling them so would interrupt the story. In this case, the tale was too much fun to contend. I wanted to hear the whole story, true or not. Although I wanted this to be true. Besides, the night had already been more than unusual, so this crazy tale didn’t really seem that far out of left field.

“You’re from 1903?” I asked again.

“Yes. Although construction was well funded, the Crown was a bit skeptical as to the ability of Dr. Calgori’s contraption to
accurately
navigate through time and return. Because of this, we were not particularly well crewed. The British navy didn’t want to risk anyone of value.”

At this there were some protesting grunts and groans from around the room.

“The quality of your poorly articulated dissent proves my point, I think,” Daniel continued in an even more authoritative voice. “Most of the crew was drafted from various prisons around the Empire, including myself. I actually am ‘career military’, just not
this
military. Still, the number of trained and competent sailors is slim.” At this point I noticed that Daniel’s accent was not English, but American, like my own.

Tanner continued Daniel’s narration, as if to smooth over what he considered too harsh a description of the crew around them, “It’s a fine crew, despite anyone’s prior profession. Everyone is doing their best.”

At “doing their best” Daniel made a disapproving sound. “Anyway, this is the maiden voyage, but instead of returning to the Napoleonic wars, we seem to have found ourselves elsewhere. We have no idea where or when we are. I am hoping you have some idea.”

“The year is 2004,” I said. “You are flying somewhere over Utah, um, in the United States of America.”

“That’s not far from what we were guessing,” said the shaky voice of an old man who was just now hobbling into the room. He was leaning heavily on an ornately carved cane, and the room became reverently silent as he entered. “Although I’m a little surprised that this is only ninety-eight years in the future.”