Cogs in Time Anthology (The Steamworks Series) (15 page)

*****

As the sun rose, Cassie sat on the deck of the S.S. Liberation, Barrington’s aptly named airship. Her body may have been in the golden-hued clouds, but her mind was still down on the Mainland. As she thought over the night before, crystal tears fell down her cheeks. Her mind replayed the scene repeatedly. She heard the gunshot and saw the anger in Adrian’s face, the sounds of the screams had nearly deafened her as the bullet found its mark, and the shock of the explosion shook the ground under feet.

“Hey, there. You okay?” Justice came to join her at the railing.

“I was just thinking about him.” Cassie wiped at her face, trying to be strong.

Justice wrapped her arm around Cassie’s shoulder and leaned their heads together. “You know, he always wanted to be your hero. He finally got what he wanted.”

Cassie’s voice turned bitter. “I hope it was worth it.”

“Don’t waste your tears on Westing. He’ll hold this over my head for the rest of my life. The day he saved Maxwell Gauswald’s ass.” Max laughed as he joined the women.

“I hope he’s okay,” Cassie said as she leaned into Max’s chest and his arms came around her.

Giving Cassie a squeeze, he tried to sound shocked. “Okay? He looks like a hero, Cassie. He shot the man believed to be trying to destroy the Time Clock. That speech he gave, that was brilliant. He will claim he didn’t know about the explosives. He will tell them he thought that I was trying to hurt you, and he couldn’t let that happen.

“He will smile, and charm, and con his way out of it all.” Justice added.

Cassandra finally smiled. She knew they were right. Overall, things had turned out okay. The Clock Tower was destroyed, they had escaped undiscovered, and even though the police had Adrian in custody—that was just another adventure to be had.

By MJ Baerman

New Orleans, March 1887

Whoever heard of a pirate on the Mississippi River, anyway?

Ignatius Thor had, and he thought it was ridiculous. He scrubbed at the stubble on his cheek, rubbing at the sharp angles of his jaw as he contemplated his plan. The
Dixie
rocked gently in the river dock as the cold breeze ruffled Thor’s salt and pepper hair.

Captain Gideon Rhettson swaggered across the deck, snapping his suspenders and stomping his boots, an overconfident peacock in full display. The top hat he had stolen that morning was precariously perched upon his too-large head.

“Iggy!” he called loudly, clapping him on the back. Thor lurched forward, his upper half numb. “Ah’m proud o’ you, son. We had a good haul today, thanks to y’all.”

“Aye, sir,” Thor muttered, rolling his shoulder. The day’s work was not a point of pride. He could still see the desperation and anger on the old man’s face. Thor had exposed his lie, told to protect his wife’s modesty. He could still hear the screams as both were tossed overboard, naked and penniless, into the oil-polluted water.

He had been asked if the man was telling the truth, and Thor could not lie.

“Wipe that frown off’a your face, boy,” the captain insisted, “Ya got a gift!” His pearly white grin stretched from ear to ear, and he leaned his heavy frame down to whisper conspiratorially in Thor’s ear. “And that gift is makin’ me rich.” Another clap on the shoulder and a laugh obnoxious enough to annoy the entire dock in which they were moored.

Thor rolled his eyes, glancing briefly into the darkening sky. He caught sight of a small airship, chugging low across the cityscape with an enormous dirigible and numerous propellers. What he wouldn’t give to be on one of those.

A crewman brought Rhettson his favorite red coat, a questionable dinner jacket he always wore for evenings in town. A bit narrow for his shoulders, he shrugged it on with some difficulty, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeves.

“You goin’ inland, Cap?” Thor asked casually, and Rhettson grinned at him, tipping his stolen hat.

“’Course Ah am! You gon’ watch mah ship?”

“’Course Ah am,” he replied with a grin. His blood burned and his heart raced, laced with fear and excitement. It wasn’t a lie. He’d be watching the beautiful sternwheeler for years to come if he had his way.

With a purposeful nod, Rhettson and half the crew left the boat, striding off to get their fill of pleasure—women, opium, gambling—disappearing under the bright gas lights of New Orleans.

The young boatswain glanced about the deck of the steamer he called home. The men on deck watched him expectantly, and he stared at each of them, letting his pale, hazel eyes bore fearlessly into theirs. The back of his mind tingled, and with the sharpening focus came a trick of the eye—vibrancies that appeared in an ethereal palette about each crewman’s head and shoulders.

Thor had tried to explain it to a starry-eyed girl once, and that was the day he’d been thrown out of his hometown and beaten half to death. Prowessors, people like him with a little extra gift of the mind, weren’t welcome.

The men that stayed aboard felt dark blue to him—loyal and honest. It had taken Thor the better part of a year to organize the watch crew into only the loyal ones—loyal to
him
. Those unwilling to let a respectable carrier business get twisted into a poor excuse for pirating. Now, it was finally time to do what he had wanted since she became the only tyrant steamer on the Miss.

Take the ship and run.

~*~*~*~*~

London, September 1887

His blood burned in his veins, awash with adrenaline. Uncertainty nearly ruined the giddy rush, but he kept his head down and walked on, pulling his tattered military cap low over his brow. The piercing howl of a train’s steam whistle briefly drowned out the calls of the man behind him. That voice may as well have come from the grainy boom speakers that dotted London, for how could a brother ignore a brother?

“Chris! Christian!” the younger man’s voice called, tense, annoyed, and undeniably upset. Christian Fleet tried to hunch a little lower as he walked, bending to hide his tall frame among the shorter masses. He needed a distraction.

Chris veered to the edge of the station, pushing his back against soot stained brick ticket building, and closed his greasy coat about him. With a collecting breath, he stood to his full height to scan the crowd. The train he intended to board sat in its intimidating glory on the other side of the station—the steam bullet to Dover Strait.

Stretching his mind out across the crowd, he searched for any sign of aether energy in the masses. Ember Bloods, Prowessors, it didn’t matter to him, he’d make up a lie about finding a…there.

A man nearly as tall as he was slowly walked the outskirts of the busy center. He was not an Ember Blood. He bore none of the distinctive features of the Gifted Ones. The way the air shimmered around him made it obvious that he was a Prowessor.

It took only a flash of his Seeker’s watch to garner a nearby policeman’s attention, and a few whispered words to lead him to the unsuspecting Prowessor. The official was blowing his whistle and crossing the crowd the next moment. Chris’s brother rushed after him to intercept.

Chris squeezed through clusters of canes, top hats, petticoats, walking suits, and umbrellas. He pushed a conductor automaton out of his way when the crowd got too thick. The copper body uttered a grainy “pardon me, sir” as he shoved past.

The steam bullet train loomed larger than the other engines, with its gleaming oiled bronze panels, massive wheels half-hidden under steel skirts, and the sloped grating of the pilot that reared up from the tracks to meet the engine, forming a fearsome grin. This was his ticket to freedom and adventure. The path that lead to a better, more honest life was just beyond the tracks. It did little, however, to bury the pang of guilt that lanced through his heart.

Christian looked back, watching his brother, not even nineteen years, struggle to apprehend a man that had done nothing wrong.

Was it worth leaving?

Was it worth staying?

The answer was obvious. With one last glance over his shoulder, he boarded the train.

~*~*~*~*~

Port Allen, October 1887

He was winded, filthy, and the happiest he’d been in his life. The crew weren’t mechanics, but the
Dixie
was taking shape beautifully. She would soon be ready to take flight and leave the waters behind for a far greater conquest—freedom.

“Cap’n,” said the boatswain in awe, “this is the ugliest ship Ah ever seen.”

“Shut up,” Thor retorted.

This was the ugliest ship he had ever seen.

The semi-rigid balloon grafted onto the steam stacks was old, covered in patches and too large for the mid-sized ship to support without gas to lighten the load. The propellers attached to the ballast frame were noisy. Some were off balance, and there weren’t enough of them. The catch sails on the nose of the ballast were motley. Thor still wasn’t certain the rudder they had rigged would work. The only thing about the new
Dixie
that seemed solid was the fresh coat of paint that hid her water lines.

It would do for now, as long as their improvements got them out of Port Allen and into the air, away from Rhettson’s territory and out of his vengeful reach. The twin steam engines below deck roared with the effort to finish filling the ballast, and the ship began to creak in her new hull, rocking a little as she lifted out of the dry dock.

Thor smiled as
Dixie
swayed free. Flight, freedom, and business potential made him tingle with excitement. He took in a deep breath, intending to savor the accomplishment.

“Cap’n!”

He deflated as the boatswain’s urgent shout drew Thor’s attention to the gangway. He jogged to the side rail, peering over the port ramp. A scuffle had broken out on the dry dock, men scrambling to surround someone, shouting and waving their fists. Thor focused on the crowd, and was struck by a seething mass of color. Negativity, vengeance, and fear rose up, swirling about and darkening into a deep, angry red.

A slender old man in a white suit and straw sunhat struggled out of the writhing mass, huffing and puffing as he dashed to the bottom of the
Dixie’s
ramp.

“Help me!” he shouted up to Thor. “Get me out of here!”

Thor considered him for a moment, studying the vibrancy around him. To anyone else, it looked like an awkward silence and an unsettling stare. “You do somethin’ wrong?” Thor asked at length.

“No! Ah’ll pay ya’ll anythin’ ya want, jus’ get me out!” Among the roiling colors surrounding the man, bright yellow and pale blue were easily distinguished. He was scared, and he was honest.

“All right,” Thor conceded, turning to stride toward the helm. “Hurry up. We’re leavin’.”

The man wasted no time boarding. The
Dixie’s
anchors lifted, and she rose unsteadily into the sky.

~*~*~*~*~

Szob, Hungary, March 1888

Hungary was too cold, Christian decided, but it had no shortage of Ember Bloods. The Gifted Ones were walking about the cities in stronger numbers than he had expected. Though most of them had little potential, it was refreshing to see men and women accompanied by small dragons, gryphons, and mystic beasts—none of which he had Sought and shipped off to the highest bidder. Those days were long gone.

Chris took a swig of his dark ale and focused on the journal before him. It was full of inventions and ideas, and he had plenty of time and resources to find someone who would take an interest. He ran long fingers through bright blue-streaked hair and tugged on the new piercing in his ear. A shock zipped through the earring at his touch, giving him a tiny jolt. He had hated the constant static of the cold, dry climate at first. It grew on him now—a feeling he was learning to enjoy more and more. It was something to spark new ideas in his mind, and he was learning to love it.

An excited shout carried across the buzz of the tavern. It was enough to draw Chris’s attention, and he walked across the room to the windows where everyone gathered. He leaned against the sill to watch, slouching to peer through the latticework over the heads of the shorter patrons. A hideous little airship was descending on the fallow field across the mud road. He wasn’t sure whether to be delighted at the sight of an airship, or appalled at how poorly this one appeared to be built.

The ship yawed sideways. Crew ran about on her deck, pulling ropes and pushing at seized propellers. She collided into the half-frozen ground with a thud he felt through his feet, the bow bucking with a recoil that sent a man flying over the rail. She plowed across the rocky soil, leaving a deep trench behind and scraping bright white paint off her belly. She rocked to a stop,
settling off kilter on her keel. The farmer that owned the field rushed out waving his arms and yelling about the new trench.

Then the dirigible collapsed, deflating against the semi-rigid frame and draping her dirty canvas over the deck and crew. The patrons broke into raucous laughter, slapping shoulders and sharing jokes in a language Chris hardly understood. An Ember Blood with wolf ears and tail leaned heavily against the small blue dragon that lounged on the table beside him. He guffawed until he was breathless, and shared a friendly slap on the back with Chris, who winced at the strength of the blow.

Chris was the only silent one in the room. His mind was across the field, cataloging parts, combing over the ship, and fixing her in his mind. It looked like a steamer plucked out of a river. The half-exposed waterlines beneath her once-bright paint suggested her conversion to air travel was recent. He couldn’t fathom how she had been able to fly with so few propellers and no air fins to help her steer. Even the sails were mismatched. She was the Frankenstein’s monster of airships.

He could barely make out her bright copper nameplate near the bow: the
I.H. Dixie
. What was a Heartlander ship doing in the middle of Hungary?