Aloft (Petronaut Tales) (8 page)

“Sorry, boss,” Ensie said, trying to rub her tailbone surreptitiously.  She was just as eager to call it a day, but the Flicker really wasn’t up to flying form without more work.

“Just so long as you’re comfortable with all the blame.  We take the box out tonight; have it carted to Upforth’s; your man there looks at what’s gumming up the works, and gets it back to us spic and span by tomorrow afternoon for a new and improved round of test hops.”

Ensie nodded.   She began stripping off her pilot’s gloves, feeling a little flush of pride as she tossed them into the storage trunk on the far side of the sandbags.  She had a uniform of her own!  She had a machine of her own, thrumming and arcing through the air at her command, performing feats of aerial agility that no one on the planet had ever attempted before!  As the quivering excitement of the last hour faded away from her body, it left a lingering, radiant enthusiasm behind it.  She was a test pilot now, well and truly, and not even looking ahead to three boring hours of disassembly work could change that.

Only one thing would have made this afternoon better…

Iggy tapped her knuckles congenially against Ensie’s shoulder as the junior tech continued to shed the bulky flight outfit.  As the older woman turned to head across the field, tool belt slung low at her hip, Ensie let out an impulsive, confessional “I—” escape her lips.

Iggy looked over her shoulder.  Ensie closed her mouth and averted her eyes, concentrating on undoing the snaps of her jacket.

“Hmm?  Did you say something?”

“It’s just that,” Ensie said, with a flickering smile, “I, uh, invited Cooper to come watch the test today.”

The senior tech pursed her lips.  “Huh.  He missed out on some fine flying,” Iggy said.  She frowned, putting on a thoughtful face.  “Well, if you can call it flying.  ‘Gliding?’  ‘Hopping?’  ‘Flicking?’”

Ensie giggled and sighed in the same breath.  “He said he was going to try to come.  I don’t know.  Do you… do you think he meant it?”

“Junior tech, if your man is anything like the men I’ve known, he’s probably drunk asleep.  But, since I’m sure a test pilot like you attracts a far better caliber of man in the first place,” she said, her eyes twinkling, “I am positive that he’s got a perfectly good reason why he couldn’t make it tonight.”

I’m sure you’re right, senior tech
, Ensie thought, as she shed the last of the heavy pilot’s outfit and let it drop into her crate. 
I just wish I knew what it was
.

“Right away, Mister Upforth,” Cooper said, feeling sick to his stomach.

It was 3:47 in the afternoon, and thanks to a superhuman effort he was on track to be done with his checklist by five.  Asking Mister Upforth for a bit of an early release would give him enough time to detour through the shops in the Toss on his way to Aerial headquarters, so he could pick up a suitable present for Ensie’s first test flight. 
A blindfold, maybe; or a painkiller from the apothecary?  Burn me if I know what ‘suitable’ is for a case like this
.  But he was sure something would have caught his eye given enough time to browse, and that Ensie would be kind-hearted enough to look grateful no matter what useless thing he brought her.

But without any prompting at all, Mister Upforth was releasing him from his checklist much earlier than expected.  It was not a welcome surprise.

“Flames, Carper, don’t sound so excited,” Upforth said, turning back towards him.  “See if I ever give you an out-of-town assignment again!  Can you believe this guy, Skye?”

“No, sir,” Skye said, adjusting her welder’s goggles.

“Believe me, I’d go to Lethton myself if I could clear it in my schedule.”  Upforth ran a hand over his hair and sighed.  “An overnight in a seaside hamlet; a quick morning of maintenance work at the town mill; back in my own bed twenty-four hours later?  That sounds refreshing to me, Mister Carper.  Wouldn’t you call it refreshing?”

“I’ll let you know, sir.”

His boss just looked at him for a moment, his mouth half-open.

“You must be one of the sourest, most negative people I know, Carper,” he said at last.  “It’s really pathetic that you have so little in your life that makes you happy.

“You know what, Carper?  We’ll play it your way.  If you’re determined not to see a day away from the city as a gift, I’ll make it a punishment.  Go pack your things and hit the road to Lethton now, before I make you pay your own carriage fare.”

So Cooper left Upforth’s Hydraulics and shuffled his way to his tenement, navigating the cobblestone sidewalks and weaving through the crush of people without seeing them.  He didn’t even have a good way to get word to Ensie why he wouldn’t be there at her test tonight. 
I could put a letter in the post for her from Lethton tomorrow morning
, he thought as he packed.  But his note would arrive at least a day after he was back in Delia.  The seaside village was only six hours by carriage along the coastal road, and the threadbare stagecoach Upforth’s was hiring for him would be leaving the hamlet as soon as his work was done tomorrow. 
At least I’ll be back for her test tomorrow evening, if all goes well.

Funny
.  He folded down the flap of his leather bag and slung it over his shoulder. 
It isn’t too long ago that I would have loved the chance to get out of the city for a change in routine.  Now, all of a sudden, I’ve got a reason to want to stay.

The stagecoach was loitering outside his four-story tenement when he came downstairs.  The driver was picking his teeth with his unlit pipe as his pair of gristly horses fidgeted in their traces.  Cooper looked west towards the Petronaut corner of Workshop Row, the sinking sunlight getting in his eyes.  Ensie and Ignatia would be starting their test flight soon.

“I’ll miss you,” he whispered before getting in the coach.

Sir Tomas turned the knob and the gaslight popped on with a hiss.

The hallway was empty.  Drafting rooms with their well-worn brass knobs flanked him on either side as he walked forward, boots echoing on the tiles.  Room 26D went past on his left, though he didn’t recognize it as his team’s designated workspace.  He had no business in the drafting wing; he was just on his way to the mailboxes at the center of the administrative building, and had decided to come in out of the cold.  Things tended to get cold in Delia after midnight this time of year.

Something Iggy had said earlier that day—or perhaps yesterday—had annoyed him.  Most of what the senior tech said tended to blur past him, too uninteresting to hold his attention for very long.  But there was some jibe about never staying current on her reports that had gotten under his skin.  The taunting implication was that he wasn’t ignoring his team’s activities because they were on a dead-end project; he was avoiding the reports because he couldn’t understand what his own techs were doing.

Sir Tomas smiled to himself and took another draught from the bottle of fortified wine in his hand. 
I know this burning Flicker better than you do, senior tech
, he thought. 
And don’t think you’re rid of me just because I’m working with the thrust pack team by day. 
“I’m all yours at night, girls,” he crooned aloud.

Tomas snickered with disgust at the thought of pressing flesh with that stringy old crone or dumpy little Ensie. His bottle tipped up and sank down again as he came to the grid of cubbyhole mailboxes along the wall.

Tomas ran his fingertip along the lower lip of a row of cubbies, enjoying the softness of the gray dust.  His smile wavered as he came to his own mailbox, crammed top to bottom with folded squares of paper and rolled-up scrolls.  The Petronaut glanced over his shoulders, feeling oddly sheepish.  Nobody else’s mailbox was half as full as his.

That busybody
, he thought with sudden venom. 
Iggy must be doubling up on her paperwork to keep my box stuffed and make me look bad.

He snatched a handful of papers from the top of the stack, letting a sheet or two drift down to his feet.  He leaned the open bottle carefully against the wall and narrowed his eyes, examining the dates.  The oldest of these was a week-and-a-half ago.  That meant the oldest reports in his cubby probably only dated back three to five months.  Tomas pursed his lips, relaxing.  “Not so bad,” he said to himself.  Who hadn’t let things build up now and again?  He was getting back on top of his communiqués now, and that was all that mattered.

Reviewing reports from the beginning of Expo preparation was just a waste of time at this point, so he let paper after paper join the pile at his feet before reaching the most recent report.  It had been filed that very afternoon, Stettimer 8.  Sir Tomas scanned the paper carefully, struggling a bit with Iggy’s freewheeling handwriting.  He could feel the wine now, pleasant and heavy just behind his eyeballs.

Chatty Ensie hadn’t killed herself during her first stint as a test pilot, he gathered.  Sir Tomas snorted.  An endless series of conservative single leaps had yielded some boring data about in-flight control responsiveness, the sharpness of the landings, and unexpectedly low lifting power from the ranine box…

Sir Tomas frowned. 
Still?  I told them to have that box pumped up days ago.

He crouched down among the loose reports at his feet and sifted through them. 
Stettimer 7, Stettimer 6…
He navigated his way through Iggy’s detailed accounting of the techs’ activities, including their dealings with the civilian jokers at Upforth’s Hydraulics.  There wasn’t a single line about Upforth’s being told to ratchet up the power of the ranine box.  In fact, even though his techs had disassembled the Flicker just this evening to send it to the civilian machinists for work in the morning, their work order was flagrantly lacking in the one thing Sir Tomas had ordered them to get taken care of.

That’s why the flaming thing can’t break five point five
, he thought. 
Increase the pressure, increase the lift, and their problems will be solved.
  All this garbage Iggy was ordering Upforth’s to do to the ranine box—inspections, cleaning, recalibration—was too little too late.

“Timid,” he said aloud, his voice echoing in the hallway.  “Flaming timid.”

With great care, Sir Tomas scooped up the pile of reports into a neat stack and wedged them back into his mailbox.  The bottle was back in his hands. 
If Iggy won’t pass my orders on
, he thought, grinning into the gaslight,
maybe I’ll do it myself.

Billy Upforth, Jr. adjusted his vest again.  The thick khaki wasn’t draping properly today.

It kept spilling over his right shoulder so the collar pressed against the left side of his neck, leaving an uncomfortable red line against his skin.  He flipped open his pockets, double-checking that there wasn’t anything unusual that was throwing off his alignment.  He’d very carefully mapped out which of his tools went where to ensure an even distribution of weight across his body.  If something was out-of-place, or a heavy item had been inserted into his pockets without his knowledge, he’d be paying for it by the end of the day. 
Proper distribution of weight isn’t something you play around with
, he thought sternly, inspecting his belt loops. 
I need to make sure the staff understands—

“Mister Upforth?”

He looked up.  Skye was walking past, her hair tied back and two long lengths of tubing in her arms.  She inclined her head toward the deliveries door.  “Kini says there’s a carter pulling up.  Probably Petronaut gear.”

“Fine, Skye,” he said, nodding at her.  He ran a hand over his lacquered hair.  “Carry on.”

She headed over to the metal saws as he strode towards the door, projecting leaderly confidence. 
It’s been so long since I’ve worked the floor
, Upforth thought, smiling. 
I spend so much time with negotiations, networking,
and overseeing the staff.  Answering the door like this is quite the nostalgia trip!  I remember when Pop had me doing grunt work like Carper normally handles.  Spheres, did he ride me harder than I’ve ever treated that soft pile of a man—

“Welcome to Upforth’s Hydraulics,” he announced proudly as the delivery door rolled up into the ceiling.

The two carters in their drab uniforms and long-brimmed caps barely nodded at him as they wheeled a mighty hulk of a machine in from the street.  Upforth’s eyes scanned the box on their sled, sizing up its eight symmetrical chambers and the silvery coils linking them together. 
Wonder what the flames this thing is
, he thought.

“If you’ve brought a work list from the Petronauts, friends, just pass it over and we’ll get cracking on the gear,” he said.

He extended a hand towards the carter closest to him, and she hesitated.  She looked back towards the door just as a tall, lean man sauntered through the door behind them.

“I’ve actually got that work list here, Mister…?”  Sir Tomas said, holding up a folded piece of paper between two fingers.

Upforth blinked.  This man wasn’t a carter, that was for sure; nor was he just a messenger from the Petronaut side of Workshop Row.  This was a ‘naut.  He had to be.  His confident carriage, and the fine fit of his expensive jacket and tall rider’s boots, marked him as a person of true quality.  There was a lazy superiority in his face that allowed him to take status instantly, as certainly as if he’d had a crown on his head and royal fanfare announcing his arrival.  Upforth would have done anything to be able to radiate the casual disdain of command half as well as this man.

“Upforth, sir,” he said, making a showy genuflection.  “William Upforth Junior the Second, General Manager of Upforth’s Hydraulics.  To what do I owe the esteemed honor of your calling?”

Sir Tomas blinked, and a dark canine amusement settled on his face as his smile deepened.  He tipped his head in a barely perceptible bow.

“Sir Tomas Frissande, senior Petronaut in the Aerial squad.  I’m here because you’re doing some work for me.  Tell me—William—what do you know about this box of mine?”