Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  After watching him strain a while, Barlow gave a thick laugh. “Alright, little master. We’ll take a peek up top. For your sake.” He opened the flume a bit more and the dinghy lurched forward as the propellers picked up even more speed.

  “Simon, would you give us a bit more lift?”

  Simon twisted a lever on what looked like a large thurible that hung below the skirt of the main balloon and the vessel climbed. He added a bit more fuel and left the chutes open as he took a seat again.

  They climbed steadily now, and soon they breached the upper limits of the city, the expanse of the bay opening up on them like a burst bubble.

  Seeing the world around them, Chance understood why Barlow had been hesitant. The skies weren’t just crowded, they were swarming. It was easy to forget when walking through the streets, but, between the ships coming and going from both the shipyard on the bay and the platforms throughout the city, the air lanes were a mess of chaos.

  Barlow removed his hat and hung it on a peg beside him as he craned his neck around, keeping his eyes peeled for other ships. They sped forward, like a dart through the sky. Rhett gasped as he looked around him. The ships appeared to move in tiny currents, clusters falling in behind one another as a string of them moved inland, and then another as they traveled seaward.

  Some moved with no predictable pattern at all, and Chance did not envy Barlow as he struggled to anticipate their movements.

  What caught their attention more than anything was the great warships. They counted eight massive ships with heavy plating and many-handed crews, hovering near the cliffs below the Spire. As he looked, Chance realized they were being outfitted. Not with cargo, but with decorations. With Septigonee’s Day nearing, they were being prepared with great white drapes and ribbons along their bows. The balloons which held them up were similarly draped in large swaths of golden fabric.

  It was odd, seeing something exude a spirit both awe-inspiring and intimidating.

  One of the ships was not clustered with the others, however. It came up fast behind them, passing not a hundred yards away, going out toward the sea with none of the decorative trimmings. Its massive frame blocked out the sun as it overshadowed their small dinghy.

  “Probably off to join the armada,” Simon offered, guessing at Chance’s thoughts. “Interesting they have so few of them here for the celebrations this year. Usually they bring in twenty ships or more. Must be having more trouble with the colonies.”

  “The colonies are the least of their worries,” Barlow said. “Selaria’s the one they’re worried about.”

  “Why would they be worried about them?” Chance asked. Hatteras had a peace accord with Selaria ever since they’d beaten them back in the Great War all those years ago—the same war in which Harper had earned his distinctions. From what Chance gathered, Selaria had been perfectly compliant ever since.

  “Because they’re massing a fleet off the coast of Madura—as rumor has it.”

  “They’ve broken the treaty?”

  “Well, I don’t think so. Not technically. I don’t think they’ve done anything but relocate their fleet, but you can imagine how uncomfortable it is for trade ships to pass by them.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Likely a show of force,” Simon ventured. “Selaria is tired of being overlooked. Perhaps they’re trying to flex their muscles a bit. Get Hatteras’s attention. It’s sending a message, that’s for sure,” he chuckled. “I’ve already had requests come my way from Hatteras. They’re forming a temporary militia. Seems they’re going to make a statement in return.”

  “Give it a week, and Hatteras will scare them back into their ports,” Barlow said. “Hopefully it doesn’t cast too much of a shadow on the festivities.”

  He turned the helm over and they glided smoothly beside the great warship. Chance saw the crews working the deck. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to face off with a ship that size.

  This particular vessel had two cannons at opposite ends, each mounted on a pivot. For an airship like that, even with a large portion of their hull dedicated to thick air compartments, weight was still an issue. But then, all it took was a well-placed scatter shot through one of those compartments to stop a ship in its tracks.

  Two trained guns were plenty to do the job.

  Barlow peeled away from the warship and sped out over the open bay. Chance shook off the heavy feeling that had come over him being so near the warship and tried to think of something else.

  “Hey, Rhett,” he said as he dropped his pack on the deck and pulled out Rhett’s flying contraption. Rhett couldn’t contain his excitement at the sight of it. “What do you say to sending her off on her maiden voyage?”

  “Can we?”

  “You’re not going to get another chance like this for a while.”

  “But we might lose it,” Rhett said, looking at the waters below them.

  “You’ve already seen what Barlow can do with his ship,” Simon said. “He’ll snatch it up again before it ever touches land.”

  “Go for it,” Chance urged.

  Rhett snatched the contraption from Chance’s hand and was about to cock it back when Barlow cried out.

  “Hold boy! Didn’t you hear a thing I said before? You got to name her before you send her off like that. It’s bad luck to sail without a proper name.”

  Chance laughed. “We’re not the best when it comes to naming things.”

  “Even so,” Simon warned. “Best to appease the captain. He’s mighty superstitious about things like this, and for good reason. Omens. He reads them like a map.”

  “A map of the sky,” Barlow said. “And none more accurate has man ever made.”

  “But what should I call it?” Rhett asked.

  “Whatever you feel she is to you.”

  Rhett looked at the contraption a moment. “I think I’ll call her... Spirit.”

  “A fine name,” Barlow nodded with approval.

  “Hand her here,” Simon said. He took the toy and used his knife to etch the name into the side. “There. Now she’s got a name.”

  “Alright,” Chance said. “Let’s see it fly!”

  Rhett climbed up the dinghy’s side, a hand secure in the rigging and the other holding the flying contraption. He gave it one last check to be sure the wings and tail were straight and leveled it off over the bow.

  “All clear to launch!” Barlow belted.

  Rhett thrust his arm forward and released.

  The flying machine sailed forward steadily, its wings cutting through the air as smooth as a gull. They watched it with fascination as it caught a gentle swell and curved slightly until it was flying parallel to them.

  Barlow tracked it skillfully.

  “It’s flying!” Rhett shouted. “Chance, look! It’s flying!”

  Rhett’s eyes were wide and his toothy smile could not be restrained. Again, Chance couldn’t hold back a smile of his own. There was something inspiring about a boy who could smile like that.

  But, Rhett’s smile faded, until it was replaced by a look of pure distress. The flying machine was veering off to the right—cruising straight for the warship!

  Chance jumped up from his seat.

  “It’s going to crash!” Rhett cried out.

  “Can we try and get to it?” Chance asked.

  “No good,” Barlow said, tilting the helm a little, but not enough to pursue. His eyes were on the warship. “We come up on her too quickly and I’m afraid what she might do to us. Best we can do is hope it catches another swell and misses her.”

  They held their breaths, eyes glued to the tiny flying machine, but there was no saving it. It flew true and struck the warship’s plated hull with a crack. Rhett let out a sob and the four of them watched helplessly as the Spirit plummeted into the bay.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Desperate Measures

  Right? What is right? There can be nothing more right than unhindered progress!

  — Excerp
t from Mechanarcissism

  A storm had blown in from the bay, blanketing everything in a dark screen as it chased away the sun. Even the Spire was caught in its gloomy atmosphere. The sound of thick, heavy droplets striking on rooftops sustained a metal timbre, as though many voices were arguing just beyond the walls.

  Stoddard leaned against the window in his study, pressed up close enough that the cold coming off the glass chilled his forehead while he listened to the otherworldly conversation.

  He favored this space. The drapes gave him a sense of privacy, even from his work. He could think clearer, watching the comings and goings of the city below him. He thought often of moving his desk here, but each time he resisted the idea. This space was sacred to him, and he feared disturbing it with his constant presence. And so, for now, he simply let his mind run like the rain down the glass—slowly sinking as it clung to some transparent pain.

  “Doctor,” Arden said, looking up from Stoddard’s desk. Stoddard turned his head slightly. The young man was reading over a passage from one of the many journals Stoddard had kept over years. “I’m not sure I’m making sense of this.”

  Stoddard stepped away from the window. “What exactly isn’t making sense?”

  “All of it.” Arden leaned back into the chair with a sigh. “I don’t understand half of what you’re referencing, and when I do I end up spinning around in circles again.”

  “I warned you it would be a challenge,” Stoddard said. Walking by his bookshelf, he pulled a thick volume and laid it down over the journal. “Why don’t you begin with this? If you wish to make sense of it, you’ll need to study both mechanics and medicine simultaneously. Read from the best books, and once you understand how we came to where we are, perhaps I can show you where we might go from here.”

  “That could take a long time,” Arden sighed.

  “Undoubtedly it will,” Stoddard agreed. “But, unless you have something of greater importance with which to occupy your time, I recommend spending it on an endeavor with promise.”

  Arden nodded reluctantly and opened the book, starting from the beginning.

  Stoddard smiled. The boy was perhaps a little undisciplined, but he wasn’t lazy. It was only a matter of anchoring his mind to a task or purpose. If he could conquer his wandering mind, Stoddard expected the boy would see his endeavor through to the end.

  There was a light knock on the door, and Donovan let himself in.

  “I have the news prints you requested, sir.”

  “Set them on the desk there,” Stoddard said. “I’ll get to them in a moment.”

  Donovan hesitated as he approached the desk; a wealth of reports and newspapers were piled high across it, in some places dangerously close to overlapping. But, he managed to find a space for the news prints and set them down carefully.

  “I also have your informant’s report here,” Donovan said.

  Stoddard nodded. “Perhaps it would be best if you continued your reading in the comfort of your own home, Master Arden?”

  “That might be a good idea. May I?” he asked, holding up the book.

  “It’s yours as long as you need,” Stoddard assured him. “And if that one doesn’t deter you, I have another I’d like to recommend when you’re finished.”

  “I’ll try not to lose heart,” Arden said. “Thank you.” He gathered up his coat and saw himself out, closing the door behind him.

  When he was gone, Donovan handed the report to Stoddard who took a seat as he opened it. His eyes swept briefly over the piles. At times, he felt like his whole life had become a sum of all the forms and reports which passed through his office.

  How dull and lackluster it all was.

  For a moment, he allowed his mind to wander to days when he’d spent more time in a workshop designing and perfecting his mechanisms than he did keeping up with protocol and politics. It had only been a short while, a little over a week, yet the demands to be present at social functions and entertain public figures had left him little time to do what he truly longed for.

  But, that was the way it had to be. Every piece must be in order if the whole was to function. Procedure followed exactly. Directions clear. Their execution meticulous. It was a tenant Stoddard had committed to in all aspects of his life—more in recent years than ever before. It was the defining attribute of a civil society.

  Until a single cog comes loose, he thought.

  “He still won’t meet with me?” Stoddard asked as he read.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. At least, he hasn’t responded to your invitations as of yet. We’ve sent him several telegrams by personal carrier, but I’m afraid they’ve been unable to persuade him of its urgency.”

  “Then nothing is improved. If he won’t meet with me by now, he won’t meet with me at all.”

  The week spent trying to track the captain down had been a nightmare. With members from the capitol looking to expand Stoddard’s work, he needed Harper’s endorsement. At the very least he needed to see the man for a medical evaluation.

  Yet, Harper remained aloof.

  Stoddard let out a long, labored sigh. “These days are beginning to wear on me, Donovan. He’s undermining me. And intentionally!”

  “It might appear that way, sir.”

  “Might?” Stoddard stared hard at the reports. A week he had kept a man trailing Harper, and he had received nothing but disturbing news. His copious time spent in the Basin districts was enough to cause alarm, but his apparent association with alchemists left Stoddard unsettled.

  What business did he have with that lot? Stoddard couldn’t be sure. The easy answer was that Harper was in pain, and therefore seeking relief through their cheap narcotics. But that answer wasn’t sitting well with Stoddard.

  Taking a notebook from his pocket, he flipped to a marked page and glanced over a set of notes he’d jotted down before.

  Mechanism’s design flawless. Operation executed perfectly.

  Yet, captain dies.

  Tapping Aether after death impossible; too weak a link.

  No Aether, therefore no power to the mechanism.

  Yet, mechanism functioned?

  Somehow, beyond all probable expectation, it had functioned after the captain was dead. How? The question perplexed him greatly. But more than that, another matter pressed upon his mind.

  He scribbled a new series of notes.

  Harper won’t see me; meeting with alchemists.

  Pain?

  Something else?

  Of what was happening behind closed doors, Stoddard couldn’t be sure. But the captain’s association with the alchemists coincided with another bit of news which had also reached his ears. News he couldn’t ignore.

  Alchemists’ success?

  He penned the last line with a sneer. Rumor had surfaced from the crevices of the city—the faintest whispers—that it was the alchemists who were responsible for Harper’s revival. He’d not been able to confirm the rumors himself, but his informant swore by them. And with the captain’s recent actions, Stoddard was prone to trust his man.

  It was the worst scenario Stoddard could have imagined, playing out right before his eyes. He rubbed his brow. “Who put these things into his head? You know he’s meeting with an elector this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t, sir.”

  “Do you look at these reports? Do you even know what’s going on under your nose?” Stoddard threw the folder across the desk, the papers scattering.

  Donovan shifted uncomfortably.

  “He’s preparing to criticize fifteen years of legislation—fifteen years of my work! I never expected he’d devise some reason to withdraw his endorsement. It could shake my whole industry.”

  “It appears that way,” Donovan agreed.

  “He endorsed the bills that made my work possible! I didn’t hear him complaining when the capitol permitted us to test the mechanism! You realize if he keeps on like this everything we’ve done will come under scrutiny?”

  “You think he would
be capable of halting your work?”

  “No,” Stoddard said firmly. “But he could impede it. He could cast doubt where doubt isn’t needed. What we need most is trust—trust enough to permit us to step further than anyone has been compelled to step. The timing is undeniable. All events of the last century have pointed to this moment—to my work.”

  “If providence is with you, sir, then I hardly think one man could undermine you.”

  “Yes,” Stoddard said, eying his assistant. “If. Funny that word crept into this very conversation. You think the citizens of this city will be more believing than you, Donovan?”

  There was another knock at the door, and Stoddard waved Donovan to answer it.

  “Lieutenant Vanzeal, sir,” Donovan announced, allowing a uniformed officer into the room. He wore the typical military suit of Hatteras, except for the red cape draped over his left shoulder, signifying his status as a gentleman duelist.

  “Ah, Lieutenant.” Stoddard rose to greet the man, shaking his hand firmly. “I’m glad that you could meet with me.”

  “I came as soon as I received your missive,” Vanzeal said. “Your message was… alarming.”

  “Not without just cause, I assure you. That will be all for now, Donovan.”

  “I should take my leave, sir?” Donovan asked.

  “Could I have meant something else?”

  Donovan nodded and stepped out of the room, closing the doors behind him.

  “I’ll try to keep this visit brief,” Stoddard said. “I’m sure your time is precious.”

  “We serve the gentlemen of the meritocracy, Doctor,” Vanzeal said. “And as Elector Sinclair has given you his endorsement, I am at your disposal.”

  “Let me come straight to the point then,” Stoddard said. “It’s about this whole business with Captain Harper. It’s sparked a great deal of commotion recently.”

  Stoddard walked back to the nook by the window, and Vanzeal followed him.