by Chris Paton
“Trafalgar, all over again.”
“No,” Smith shook his head. “Something much worse.”
҉
Hands clasped to the sides of his head, Dieter circled the Wallendorf steamracer. Stooping at the left-hand front wheel, he tugged a shard of wood from the tire. Dieter sighed as the wheel hissed, the mechanic and the racer sinking to the dirt road outside the ruined pottery shop.
“It’s bad, isn’t it, Dieter?” Romney crouched next to her mechanic.
“Bad?” Dieter turned to stare at Romney. “Nein, this is not bad, this is catastrophic.”
“So, bad then,” Romney tried a smile.
“Romney,” Dieter pointed at the steamracer, the bent axles morphing the streamlined form into that of an oversized caterpillar as it sank lower into the dirt. “We cannot race with this machine. The race is lost. Your f-father will suspend all f-funds. I will have to f-find a new job.” Tucking his knees to his chest, Dieter rested his forehead on top of them.
“You will work something out, Dieter. You always do.”
“No this time, Romney. Not so f-far f-from home.”
Romney turned at the sound of scuffing in the dirt. She looked up at Robshaw. He waved. Squeezing Dieter’s shoulder, Romney stood up and walked over to the British driver.
“Problems?” Robshaw buttoned his leather jacket.
“Perhaps,” Romney shrugged. “Are you cold?”
“The wind is blowing in off the Thames. Can’t you feel it?”
Romney tucked her hand into the crook of Robshaw’s arm. “Show me.”
“All right,” Robshaw glanced at her hand and led Romney past the broken Wallendorf racer. He nodded at Dieter as he passed. “I’m just walking Romney through the course.”
“Whatever,” Dieter ran his hand through his thick hair. “It does not matter.”
“He’s taking it hard,” Robshaw whispered.
“Yes,” Romney matched her stride to Robshaw’s long legs.
“So are you. You are a lot quieter than when I found you parked inside the shop.”
“The adrenalin is gone,” Romney pulled Robshaw close. “I need a pick-me-up.”
“Well,” Robshaw brightened and quickened his pace. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Hey,” Romney giggled. “Not so fast. I can’t keep up.”
“I’d like that in writing.”
“You won’t get it.”
Romney leaned on Robshaw’s shoulder as he led her to the banks of the Thames. The wind whipped at the dresses and skirts of the wives, lovers and mothers walking the Thames Path, children darted between them on piston bikes, the exhaust fumes from the slow motorised bicycles painted the air with the smell of burnt poultry.
“I used to have one of them,” Robshaw stopped and pointed at two boys racing down the path, their feet a blur of peddles and spinning sprockets. “Top speed is five miles per hour,” Robshaw grinned. “I could get five and half.”
“Take me to lunch,” Romney pointed to the other side of the river. “Over there, on that boat.”
“You want to eat aboard The Steamer’s Den? That’ll cost you a pretty penny.”
“It will cost you. Remember?” Romney pulled Robshaw across the path of a girl pushing her piston bike in the wake of the two boys.
“Of course,” Robshaw steered Romney onto Regent’s Bridge.
The brown water of the Thames streamed under the bridge, bending the limbs of broken trees and discarded refuse around the rounded caissons poking out of the river. A steam carriage puffed onto the bridge from the south bank, Robshaw pulled Romney to one side to avoid it.
“Ungainly things, steam carriages,” he nodded at the driver as it passed them. “The piston bikes are faster than that ugly thing. Look at it. A square coffin on wheels.”
The carriage slowed as it drew level with the steamracing drivers, the passenger window grating downward as a gloved hand forced it open.
“Fräulein Wallendorf?” The passenger leaned out of the window. “Driver,” he slapped the side of the carriage. “I am getting out.”
“Do you know him?” Robshaw nodded at the man as he dropped to the ground and adjusted the long tails of his Burberry coat. Reaching inside the carriage, the man retrieved his cane and hurried over.
“You do remember me, Fräulein?” the man tugged the glove off his right hand. “My name is Bremen. I visited your father’s factory.”
“Herr Bremen?” Romney shook the man’s hand. “I vaguely remember. Something to do with father’s robots?”
“Yes,” Bremen glanced up and down the length of the bridge. “Yes, robots,” he smiled. “And who is this dashing young man?”
“Beau Robshaw,” Robshaw gripped Bremen’s hand.
“Yes, from the newspaper?” Bremen pointed at Robshaw’s face with a finger from the hand holding his cane.
“I have been in a few issues of the local rag.” Robshaw released Bremen’s hand and put his arm around Romney. “How do you know Romney?”
“I have had dealings with her father,” Bremen pushed his hand back inside the glove, rested both hands on the silver skull-shaped pommel of his black mahogany cane and leaned on it. The wind teased the black hair thinning upon his head. “Actually,” he looked at Romney, “it has developed into a little more than just dealings, of late. I managed to convince the President to take a broader interest in Wallendorf Industries.”
“More robots?” Romney folded her arms across her chest.
“Robots?” Bremen chuckled. “Gosh, no. Well, not exactly. The robots have their place, Romney, dear. But what I am talking about is far more interesting, and fun. I have convinced the President that the German Confederation needs a more congenial public and international image. This is the reason I have come all the way to England, in the hopes of finding you.”
“Finding me?”
“Yes, and here you are,” Bremen smiled.
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course not, but then I haven’t told you anything yet,” Bremen paused and nodded at Robshaw. “Is he the enemy?”
“What enemy?” Robshaw slipped his hand from Romney’s shoulder.
“Not enemy. Bad choice of words,” Bremen placed his hand upon his chest. “Your pardon. I should have said competitor.”
“Well, that’s different,” Robshaw relaxed.
“Indeed it is. But I must ask Fräulein Wallendorf how much information she wishes I should indulge at this juncture.”
“I have no secrets from Beau, not anymore. I parked my racer,” she smiled at Robshaw, “in the inside of a pottery shop. I am out of commission and in need of a new racer. So Beau is actually no longer my competitor.”
“I see,” Bremen nodded. “That is unfortunate. What would it take to get you back in the race?”
“The Greater London Derby?” Romney slid her hands to her sides.
“The very same,” Bremen waited.
“Well...”
“Allow me to tell you what it would require,” Bremen smoothed his palm over his errant hair as the burly driver of the carriage presented him with a dark grey stovepipe hat bound with a maroon band. “Thank you, Armbrüster,” Bremen smiled. “I think you can take the carriage down to the wharf over there. It is time for a spot of lunch.”
“Javel, Herr Bremen,” Armbrüster dipped his head and returned to the steam carriage. The boiler whistled as he tugged on the throttle chain.
“I trust you will join me aboard The Steamer’s Den?” Bremen waited for the carriage to turn around before walking behind it.
“Yes,” Robshaw grinned. “Who’s paying now?” he whispered to Romney.
“As I was saying,” Bremen slowed his pace as Romney and Robshaw fell in beside him. “Mr. Robshaw, I hope my English is sufficient?”
“Your English is flawless, Herr Bremen.”
“Kind words, Mr. Robshaw,” Bremen touched two fingers to the rim of his hat. He resumed his brisk pace. “I have encouraged a rene
wed investment in your father’s factory and we have agreed upon an independent department for research and development, responsible to me and me alone.”
“Ludvig must be furious,” Romney laughed.
“Yes, your brother did at least pretend some form of protest, but your father quickly quashed that with the promise of further investment in the emissaries – your robots – and other interesting machines.”
“So what are you researching, Herr Bremen,” Robshaw guided Romney around a large puddle.
“Whatever I find to be of interest to the German Confederation.”
“And that is?” Romney pulled Robshaw to a stop as Bremen paused to lean on his cane.
“Steamracing,” he smiled. “And the development of a new injection system.”
“Injection system?” Robshaw snorted. “What are you talking about?”
“Herr Robshaw,” Bremen resumed walking with a flick of his cane, “your boilers are antiquated. Wait,” he held up his hand. “You are burning the wrong fuels. At current efficiencies, your stoves are running at forty-seven percent.”
“Forty-nine,” Robshaw lengthened his stride to keep up with Bremen. “Fifty on a good day.”
“But with the correct injection of seasoned wood pellets...”
“Pellets?” Romney let go of Robshaw’s hand and hurried around to walk on the right of Bremen.
“Aspen and birch pellets, fed into the stove to provide an extra burst of heat.”
“But the cylinders can’t take more heat,” Robshaw glanced at Romney for approval.
“He’s right. Otherwise we would all be burning high-output woods. Dieter says it can’t be done.”
“And Dieter was right,” Bremen stopped at the entrance to the wharf. He waved at Armbrüster waiting by the carriage. “Until, that is, your father and I set up the new department and we were able to procure a new triple-folded cylinder moulded from a new rare earth from Sweden called Ytterbium. Very strong. We blended it with brass, increasing the durability of your cylinders way beyond what was ever thought possible,” Bremen rested on his cane.
“Remember those piston bikes?” Robshaw grinned at Romney.
“Yes.”
“I think we are about to push the boundaries of steamracing into a whole new category.”
“Indeed we are,” Bremen leaned forward on his cane. “But not before lunch,” he winked. “Shall we?”
҉
“Yuu?” Hari leaned around the heavy wooden door of his cell. “Are you coming?”
“Yes,” Yuu unfolded his legs and stretched into a standing position in the middle of the cell, between the cots. He winked at Hari.
“Truly,” Hari smiled and pushed the door open. “The armoury?”
“Yes,” Yuu reached up to clap Hari on the shoulder as he slipped past him and into the mouldy corridor. Luise held out her hand as he passed her. “No time,” Yuu waved a gnarled hand in the direction of the guard room at the end of the corridor.
“Hari?” Luise shrank behind Yuu as the iron door at the end of the corridor clanged open, the handle chipping another layer of stone from the groove in the wall. Three guards linked arms and blocked the corridor with a wall of grey plaid suits stretched tightly around the muscles of their brutish arms and necks. The guards on either side of the man in the middle tapped the walls with charged copper batons.
“Give it up, Mr. Singh. There’s a good fella,” the middle guard winked at Luise. “It’ll all be over in a jiffy, Miss Hanover. Nothing to worry about.” Sparks from the batons flickered green in the gloom of the corridor. “This is an old game of Hari’s. But,” the guard shrugged, “we are not in the mood today. Governor’s orders.”
“Yuu,” Hari stepped closer to Luise. “Would you like this?” Tugging the baton from his waistband, Hari stretched his arm, tapping the end of the baton on the shoulder of his wizened cellmate. “It’s not as fancy as theirs,” Hari apologised.
Yuu glanced over his shoulder at the baton and shrugged. “It is okay. I will take it.” Wrapping thin fingers around the baton, Yuu rolled the handle between his palms and padded toward the guards, the soles of his bare feet silent upon the stone floor.
“Hari?” Luise whispered.
“Yes, Miss Luise?”
“What is he going to do?”
“Yuu?” Hari took a step past Luise, turned and smiled. “I believe his is going to talk these fine gentlemen into some form of agreement.”
“Agreement?”
“Yes. I think they will agree it is best to let us go.”
“They have charged batons, Hari.”
“Yes, and...” Hari paused as Yuu let the baton slip out of his grasp. The wooden pommel fell to the floor with a thud. “Well, he had a baton.”
“He let it fall?”
“Truly,” Hari clasped his hands in front of him, “Yuu is a clumsy fellow.”
“Clumsy, Hari?” Luise held her breath as the guards closed the gap between them and the barefoot samurai.
“Quite,” Hari smiled at Luise. “You may want to close your eyes, Miss Luise.”
Chapter 4
The Steamer’s Den
London, England
May, 1851
Romney picked at the meat inside the crab claws and licked the tips of her fingers. She stopped, her index finger between her lips, and stared at Robshaw.
“What?”
“Amazing,” Robshaw picked up his glass of hot punch. “I have never seen someone enjoy crab quite like you.”
“You don’t like crabmeat, Mr. Robshaw? It is the new thing on the continent.” Bremen placed his fingers over his glass as the waiter arrived at the table with a second carafe of punch. “No more for me. Perhaps for the lady?” he gestured at Romney.
“Yes,” Romney picked up her napkin and wiped her fingers. The glow of the sodium crystal lamps reflected in the green glass of the carafe as the waiter poured a generous measure into her glass. Romney smiled as the man walked around the circular table to serve Robshaw.
“We will have dessert on the top deck,” Bremen nodded at the waiter. “Pastries and coffee.”
“Yes, sir,” the waiter stepped back from the table.
“Italian coffee,” Bremen called after him. He leaned forward. “I can’t abide that American stuff, and I can’t tolerate tea,” he glanced at Robshaw. “No offence intended.”
“Coffee will be just fine, Herr Bremen,” Robshaw raised his glass. “I have enjoyed many a glass of punch, but this particular blend is unknown to me.”
“Chilean spices,” Bremen picked up his glass and held it to the light. “A touch too much sediment for me,” he turned it. “But very palatable.” Tipping the glass to his lips, he drained the last drop.
“How can you help me, Herr Bremen?” Romney brushed a tangle of red hair behind her ear.
“You might recall, Fräulein, that I expressed an interest in steamracing when I met you on the factory floor back in Frankfurt? Although,” Bremen smiled, “I remember you being rather insistent over something or other.”
“Yes,” Romney took a sip of punch. “A weakness of mine.” She turned to Robshaw. “I tend to get what I want.”
“And now I am here to ensure that the good name of Luther Wallendorf...”
“My father,” Romney winked at Robshaw.
“...is not muddied by inferior parts and engineering,” Bremen studied his glass. “Of course, your man Dieter will have to go,” he flicked his eyes at Romney.
“Dieter? But why?”
“I have brought with me a number of exemplary mechanics, far superior to Dieter. Only they will be able to install the injection system.”
“But I cannot just let Dieter go,” Romney wrapped her fingers around the stem of the wine glass and set it down hard on the table.
“Romney,” Robshaw reached out to take her hand.
“Don’t,” Romney started. Robshaw withdrew his hand and leaned back in his chair.
“I have reserved Dieter pas
sage on the new airship leaving Edinburgh at the end of the month.” Bremen turned to Robshaw. “Have you heard of The Flying Scotsman, Mr. Robshaw?”
“Only what I have read in the papers.” Robshaw flicked a glance at Romney.
“A marvel,” Bremen leaned back as the waiter arrived to remove their plates. “Surpassed only by our own Confederate dirigibles – top secret, of course,” he winked.
“I won’t let Dieter go.” Elbows on the table, Romney crowded her plate until the waiter left empty-handed.
“You don’t have much choice, Fräulein,” Bremen pushed back his chair to stand. “Now then,” he stood up. “We will continue our discussion on the upper deck. Armbrüster?” Bremen turned as the driver of the steam carriage stepped out of the shadows beyond the lamps and approached the table.
“Ja? Herr Bremen?” Armbrüster tucked his paddle-like hands, knotted and scarred behind his back.
“I am taking Fräulein Wallendorf and her friend upstairs for dessert. See that we are not disturbed,” Bremen turned to address Robshaw as the British steamracer stood up. “If you will escort Fräulein Wallendorf to the upper deck, I will join you in a moment.” Bremen smiled at Romney before picking up his cane and weaving between the tables to the bathroom on the starboard side of the restaurant.
“He can’t send Dieter away,” Romney bristled as Robshaw guided her out of her chair and to the stairs. Armbrüster followed a discrete distance behind them, his heavy footfalls creaking along the wooden restaurant deck. “I won’t let him.”
“You might not have much say in the matter, Romney,” Robshaw shrugged. “This Bremen fellow doesn’t strike me as someone who experiences much in the way of resistance.”
“Maybe not,” Romney huffed. “But Dieter stays. Injector or no injector.”
҉
The tips of the guards’ charged-batons blistered against the mouldy stone walls as they advanced along the corridor toward the barefoot and unarmed Japanese inmate. Slowing to a stop, Yuu waited in the middle of the corridor as the guards closed around him.
“Time to get back in your cell, old man,” the centre guard, embroidered sergeant patches sewn into the lapels of his plaid uniform, planted his feet squarely in front of Yuu. The guards to either side of him, their batons spitting green gobs and sparks of electricity, grinned and winked at one another.
