by Chris Paton
“No,” Jacques slid into the side of the heavy buffet table. “Not that way. Not to starboard.”
The Flying Scotsman heeled over, filling the windows on the starboard side of the airship with the cold, grey threat of the sea. The burr of the propellers increased in pitch, spinning faster on the starboard side to counter the wild roll of the airship.
Hari grabbed the belt buckle of the officer restraining him, pulling him off balance as they slid toward the starboard windows. Luise tumbled past Hari as the German holding her by the shoulders released his grip, clawing his way up the deck to port. She slid through a debris-field of smashed porcelain service. Plates half-filled with slices of roast meat, gravy and potatoes, spun through the air, crashing to the deck among the splinters of cups and saucers as the airship continued to heel violently to starboard.
“Luise,” Hari called out as he slowed his descent, gripping the legs of a dining table screwed to the deck with thick metal plates. Planting his feet, one on each leg, he grabbed Luise’s arm as she slid past him.
“Hari,” Luise clambered up the table. She stared into the eyes of a grey-haired passenger dangling from the table leg beneath Hari. The woman’s eyes widened as her fingers peeled away from the smooth wooden leg. She gasped as Luise gripped her arm. Hari grunted with the extra weight. The deck sloped, leaning at forty-five degrees. Flirting with the sea, the airship began to lose altitude.
Dieter ducked another blow from Blom as the German’s bald head bludgeoned into the back of an elderly couple clinging to one another as they slid slowly along the deck. Letting go of Blom’s legs, Dieter clawed his way to a cluster of passengers clinging to a table.
“There is no room here,” the passengers beat at Dieter like shipwrecked survivors beating the nose of a shark in warm waters.
“There is plenty of room,” Dieter shielded his head as he grappled for a handhold on the table leg closest to him.
“You are too heavy. Find your own table.”
Dieter gave up, distracted by a scream as the first of The Flying Scotsman’s passengers fell onto the large panes of glass in the starboard window. The passengers fell silent at the sound of creaking glass, fissuring across the thick pane, competing with the burr of the propellers, replacing the screams of the children with the silence of horrid fascination. Dieter slid into a jumbled line of chairs snaked between two support beams. Small children hung from the chairs like fruit.
“Hari,” Luise’s arm trembled, her fingers shaking. “I can’t hold her much longer.”
Hari stared past Luise, locking eyes with the man lying spread-eagled on the splintering glass. Letting go of the table, Hari braced his legs, gripped Luise’s wrist with both hands and heaved her along the deck. “Get your knees on here.” Hari wrapped one arm around Luise’s waist and pulled her up as the deck of the airship pitched another twenty degrees. Reaching around Luise, Hari grabbed the old woman by the arm and pulled her onto the table legs. “Hold on.” He shifted position to make more room.
“Thank you, Hari.” Luise sat on the table leg, her legs dangling over the side. She pushed at the woman’s feet as Hari pulled her over the table leg opposite Luise. Hari pulled himself up onto the edge of the table. Planting one sandaled foot against the deck for support, he cast a quick glance at the man quivering on the window.
“Miss Luise,” Hari tried to smile. “I am going to try something rather drastic.”
“Hari?”
“It is all right,” Hari smoothed the folds of his shirt on his chest. “I am feeling much better. Truly,” he nodded. “There is nothing better than a little drama to occupy the mind.” Hari flinched as a second passenger, a young girl, slid out of her parent’s grip and onto the pane of glass of the window next to the man.
“Hari...” Luise stared into Hari’s eyes. “I am not sure what you can do.”
“Neither am I.” Pushing off from the floor, Hari slid onto the surface of the table. Gripping the edge with both hands, he rested his chin on his knuckles. “I will be all right, Miss Luise. But...”
“But?” Luise reached out to grab Hari’s hand. “There can’t be any buts, Hari.”
“In the event that I do not succeed,” Hari looked around the dining room, smiling when he spotted Dieter pressed up against a metal strut rising from the deck to the supporting network of the airframe above it. He turned back to Luise. “You must go with Dieter to Arkhangelsk. Find the man who sent you the note. Uncover the secrets of the khronoglyphs.”
“I can’t do all those things without you, Hari.”
“You can, Miss Luise.”
Luise’s cheeks dimpled, collecting a tear from the corner of each eye. “I can,” Luise sniffed. “But I don’t want to.”
“I know, Miss Luise,” Hari slipped his hand free of Luise’s grip. He wiped a tear from her cheek.
“Be careful, Hari Singh.”
“I will be careful and good. I promise.” Hari smiled, let go of the table edge, and slipped out of Luise’s sight.
Chapter 4
Arkhangelsk
Russian Empire
May, 1851
Kapitan Stepan Skuratov slowed as he approached the end of the street. Waiting for Poruchik Vladimir Pavlutskiy, Stepan pulled back the sleeve of his uniform jacket and checked the three timepieces on the leather band around his left wrist. The gravel crunched beneath Vladimir’s feet as he stopped by the side of Stepan.
“I never did understand,” Vladimir turned Stepan’s forearm to look at the watch face on the inside of the wrist, “why you need three watches, Kapitan?”
Stepan looked along the street before answering. “This one,” he tapped the face of the largest watch mounted on the outside of the leather band, “is set for home – here.” Stepan turned his wrist as Vladimir let go of his arm. “The one on the inside is for when I used to use a rifle,” he shrugged. “Sniper habits die hard, comrade.”
“And the last one, the small one at the base of your thumb.”
“Ah.” The muscles in Stepan’s face relaxed. Grasping the watch face between finger and thumb, he unscrewed it. He lifted his hand and pointed at the picture hidden beneath. “Anna and Nikolas. He was just a few weeks old.”
Vladimir bent down to look more closely. “If only I had married your Anna,” he whistled.
“Poruchik Pavlutskiy,” Stepan shook his head as he screwed the false watch face back into place. “It is not done to covet the wives of your superiors.” He stared up at the Poruchik as Vladimir straightened. “Besides,” Stepan chuckled, “you are far too tall for Anna. She likes men to be no more than a few inches taller than she is.”
“She does?” Vladimir made a point of squinting at Stepan. “How did you make the grade, Kapitan.”
“Enough,” Stepan clapped Vladimir on the arm. “It makes me glad to jest, but we must find my son if ever I am to look Anna in the eye again.”
“Yes, Kapitan.” Vladimir relaxed his shoulders and stared along the empty street toward the gates in the distance. “The dockyard gates, Kapitan. The streets have emptied. Perhaps the gates are open?”
“We will try the gates, and then move on to the town hall. Nikolas must have been swept along with the crowd, or,” Stepan turned to look back in the direction they had come.
“Or he is hiding.” Vladimir suggested. “Nikolas is a smart boy, Stepan. He will get through this and more. It may take a while, but we will find him.”
“I hope you are right, Vlad. Come on,” Stepan pointed toward the gates. “Let’s keep moving.”
Jogging toward the gates, Stepan paused to inspect drag marks in the layer of dust and dirt covering the surface of the street. He followed the marks with his eyes, pointing them out to Vladimir. Stepan waited as the Poruchik followed the marks, returning with a pair of shoes a minute later.
“The heels are worn down,” Vladimir turned the shoes in front of Stepan before tossing them onto the street surface. “No sign of the owner. No blood. I think we are going to see
a lot of this, Kapitan, signs of struggle.”
“Yes,” Stepan turned at the sound of gears whining from behind the gates. Pushing Vladimir to the side of the road, Stepan ran alongside the Poruchik until they were hidden behind the corner of a warehouse. Stepan crouched down, pressed his knee into the dirt and leaned in close to the black pitted wooden wall.
“How many?” Vladimir leaned against the wall, towering above Stepan.
“One,” Stepan slid back along the wall. He looked up at Vladimir. “There’s a few men in uniform following it. One of the men has a wooden box harnessed to his chest, and an antenna sticking out of the top of the box.” Stepan eased himself up the wall into a standing position. “Nikolas pointed them out. They were standing on the deck of the freighter. They must be controlling it.”
“Then we just take out the controller.” Vladimir frowned. “Why does that sound too easy?”
“Agreed,” Stepan nodded. Smoothing the palm of his left hand along the black timbers, he peered around the corner.
The heavy clank of the emissary’s cloven feet shivered the dust into small clouds drifting along the surface of the street in its wake. Stepan stared at the heavy sword grasped in the machine’s thick metal fingers. The men following the emissary carried Polyphase rifles. Gripping the barrels in their left hands, they cranked the charge handle with their right.
Stepan turned back to Vladimir. “Take a look,” he whispered.
Switching position with Stepan, Vladimir watched as the emissary clanked past. He shrank into the wall, pushing Stepan along as the emissary twisted its can-shaped head to scrutinise the alleyway.
“Move, Kapitan,” Vladimir pushed Stepan into a run. Dodging debris and leaping over broken crates and wooden boxes, Vladimir hounded Stepan’s heels as the emissary squeezed between the warehouses at the entrance. The machine’s massive metal tank, rotund and adorned with bolt heads standing proud of its outer layer of armour, squealed between the wooden walls of the alley sides. Holding the sword before it, the machine ground to a halt, pinched between the warehouses.
Vladimir stopped. Reaching out for Stepan, he tapped him on the shoulder. Stepan turned and stared around the Poruchik.
“It’s stuck?”
“It is,” Vladimir chuckled. “So much for technology.”
“Careful, Poruchik,” Stepan stepped around Vladimir. “Our lives depend on technology.”
“There’s a big difference between the Imperial Navy’s submersible fleet and that thing.”
“I am not so sure,” Stepan stared at the emissary as it wrestled back and forth between the buildings, the whine from its gears grating along the walls. “You were with me when we almost got stuck in that tiny trench outside Murmansk?”
“That was a navigational error, Kapitan. A human error.”
“So is that,” Stepan pointed at the emissary. Crouching down on one knee, he stared at the machine’s controller as he paced behind the powerful metal legs. “It seems their technology is not so different from ours, Vlad.” Stepan stood up. “We may find a way to get the upper hand, yet.”
“I hope so, Kapitan. As for now...”
“Yes, we should move.” Taking one last look at the controller, Stepan waved at the man and turned to jog after Vladimir to the end of the alley and into the next street, the grating of the machine’s gears protesting as the controller struggled to work it free.
҉
Working its way toward the mouth of the Thames, the bow of the Pride of London slammed into the waves whipped along the river by the tumultuous wind. Khaos leaned over the gunwales, shaking the spray from her hair with rapid flicks of her head. Between screams of delight, she turned to stare at the occupants of the wheelhouse, the glint in her eye sparkling like the river water beading the soft skin of her cheeks, beads of blue energy pearling her hair. The Master leaned forward, peering through the glass of the wheelhouse, shaking his head at the woman twirling at the bow of his boat.
“She is quite something,” the Master pointed with one finger as he gripped the wheel with both hands. “A wild one, I bet.”
“She is an imposter and a rich fraud.” The wooden chair at the back of the wheelhouse creaked as Hannah von Ense rocked back and forth on the chair legs, the toes of her bare feet gripping the wooden rail between her and the Master.
“Have you known her long?” The Master waved at Khaos as she twirled again.
“I don’t know her anymore,” Hannah stopped rocking as the chair slammed onto the deck in the brunt of a large wave. “In the last twenty-four hours she has changed.” Hannah braced her feet against the railing and held onto the arms of the chair. “And so has Herr Bremen,” she whispered.
“What was that?” the Master twisted around to look at Hannah.
“Nothing,” Hannah stood up, swaying upon the deck until she found the rhythm of the waves crashing into the bow and shuddering along the hull. “When will we arrive?”
“About an hour from now.”
“Then I will go below and make preparations.” Hannah moved around the railing. Pausing by the side of the Master, she sneered. “I will pay you extra if you can knock her overboard.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” Hannah collected her heels from the wicker basket secured to the deck with a metal plate screwed through the base of the basket into the wood. “I will go below.”
A blast of frigid air pummelled Hannah’s body as she opened the door of the wheelhouse and stepped out onto the deck. Pinning her high heels underneath her left arm, she gripped the edge of the door with both hands and forced it shut. Bouts of rain and river spray whipped up by the wind soaked Hannah’s back, plastering her short blonde hair to her cheeks and forehead. Hannah held onto her heels with her right hand, using her left to steady herself along the deck to the hatch leading down to the crew quarters below. Lifting the hatch, Hannah cast a quick glance at Khaos in the bow before disappearing below deck.
“Hannah,” Aether looked up from where he worked at the Master’s table. He tucked a paper beneath a stack of maps. “Where have you been?”
“In the wheelhouse.” Hannah glanced at the men sweating and retching in the tiny cots of the cramped sleeping quarters beyond the workstation. The door connecting the crew quarters with the cargo area was open; Hannah spied Armbrüster vomiting through a porthole on the starboard side of the boat. “The men are sick. Why did you not send them on deck?”
“Me?” Aether tapped his fingers on the desk.
“You are their master, Herr Bremen.” Hannah sat down on a chair opposite Aether.
“Yes, of course,” Aether shuffled the papers in front of him. “I have been distracted.”
“What are you working on?” Hannah leaned over the desk. “Are these some of Wallendorf’s plans? Another project for research and development?”
“These are just my personal notes.”
“You used to have me take care of them, Herr Bremen.” Hannah leaned back in the chair and studied Aether’s face. “Your skin has healed incredibly quickly.”
“A salve,” Aether ran a hand over his cheek. “Something one of the men gave me.”
“Who?” Hannah folded her arms across the damp fabric of her corset jacket.
“I don’t remember. Are you testing me?”
“Yes, Herr Bremen, I am.”
“I see.” Aether lifted the stack of maps and retrieved the paper he had hidden there. “Can you read this?” He pushed the paper across the surface of the desk. Hannah leaned forward to take it. “Just read it,” Aether pressed his finger onto the top of the paper, trapping it between his skin and the desk.
Angling her head from one side to the other, Hannah stared at the symbols and markings scrawled across the paper. Unfolding her arms, she traced one set of symbols with her finger. “This one looks familiar.” She looked up. “It looks the same as one of the symbols on the impediment machine.”
“That is because it is,” Aether pulled the paper away
from Hannah and placed it on top of the sheaf of papers in front of him on the desk. “Khronoglyphs,” he dipped his head toward the paper. “Ancient symbols, known to but a few people in this world.”
“This world?”
“Yes,” the corners of Aether’s mouth spread into a languid smile. He stared at Hannah. “You have questions.”
“Yes.”
“And this,” Aether gestured at the men groaning and sweating in the cots behind them, “the motion of the sea, it does not bother you?”
“No. My grandfather had a fishing boat,” Hannah spread her toes, pressing them onto the dark wooden deck. “I spent a lot of time on his boat.” She looked up. “When did you learn to read khronoglyphs, Herr Bremen?”
“I have always known some of the language of time.”
“Always? I don’t understand. You have never mentioned it before.”
Aether opened the drawer of the desk. He pulled out a small bottle, removed the cork and sniffed at the amber liquid. “Whisky. Scottish, from Speyside, I believe,” Aether put the bottle on the desk and removed two glasses from the drawer. “How terribly clichéd. Will you join me?” Wiping the glasses with the tail of his shirt, he emptied the bottle, pouring a generous measure of alcohol in each glass. Aether slipped the empty bottle into the drawer and slid it shut.
Hannah leaned forward and took a glass from the desk. She sniffed at the liquid, lifted the glass to her lips and drank half of the contents. She put the glass down. “Who are you?”
“Who am I?” Aether chuckled. He sipped at the whisky, rolling the glass along his cheek before he answered. “I am your master, and theirs,” he nodded at the men in the cots. “As you continue to remind me.”
“That’s not all,” Hannah finished her drink. Curling her lips she sucked the thick cabin air between her teeth. “You have changed. Most recently.” Hannah clipped the bottom of the glass as she pushed it onto the surface of the desk.
Aether watched Hannah from behind his glass. Sipping his drink, he studied her until the glass was empty. “Can I trust you, Hannah?”
