The Pegasus spotted me and paused in its impatient quest.
“You are magnificent,” I whispered.
The pointed ear rotated and flicked. It heard me and minced over to me.
“Master Pegasus, will you consent to give me a lift across the Channel to Paris?” With all complex automata, one needed to approach them with caution and respect, until you understood them.
It nodded its head and let loose a whistling whinny, the steam heart of it escaping. It finished this display with its head lowered to look me in the eye. Its thick neck bowed nearly double to come down to my level. The top of my bonnet barely reached its undercarriage. Few men are taller than me.
We took each other’s measure. I saw intelligence in those eyes. And understanding.
Did those qualities come from the complex codex that governed its actions? Or had a soul taken up residence inside the construct?
I did not believe that a soul could grow inside a machine. I did not want to believe that. I suspected rather that a ghost or a lost or stolen soul might seek a machine to complete its life span.
“And wouldn’t you be meeting Bellerophon,” a man said with more than a bit of Irish audacity in his accent. He strolled out of the long building. He was slender, with the lean strength of a jockey, and dark like a Welsh coal miner. The top of his head came to my nose. He wore the standard flyer’s uniform of buff jodhpurs and coffee coloured leather jacket. A soft, fleece-lined helmet with the earflaps tied up on top of his head in the same leather, and a pair of goggles perched above the brim sat back on his well-shaped head. His tall boots gleamed with fresh polish.
“Yes,” I said, watching the man’s jaunty walk. He carried himself with the self assurance required for his dangerous job. “Lord Reedstone promised me a place in the basket as far as Paris.”
“You’d be Madame Magdala, then. M’Lord sent me a message, didn’t he now.”
“And you would be?” Curse it, I sounded as if I’d kissed the Blarney Stone on my way here. But then my ability to mimic accent and phrasing had allowed me to move up from nursemaid to a celebrated and sometimes feared Doyenne.
“And wouldn’t M’Lord Reedstone be calling me Jimmy, Jimmy O’Brian.”
“That may be what Lord Reedstone calls you, but who are you?”
He flashed me a cheeky grin. “Me mam christened me James Padriac Xavier O’Shannasy.”
“If I remember correctly, and I do, one branch of the O’Shannasy clan was outlawed five years ago for rebellion against the crown.”
“Me father’s uncle’s cousin’s nephews.” He grinned again, nearly breaking through my natural suspicions. I liked this young man. Lord Reedstone trusted him. Therefore, I could.
“Still safer to lose the O’Shannasy branch of your family tree.”
Just then Bellerophon reared up, pawing the air and stretching its wings at the first glimmer of light streaking across the cloudy horizon, turning them into a majestic swath of red and gold. The sky looked no more brilliant or awesome than the gems and gold embedded in those wondrous wings reflecting back the primal light of creation.
“Time, mistress. He’ll wait no longer.”
“Very well. How do I climb aboard?”
“Dinna fash yourself.” Jimmy reached up, stretching high to insert a tiny golden key in a notch on Bellarophon’s chest that looked like a tiny bit of tarnish on his metallic fur. He turned the key three times. “Just have to reset the codex to governance mode. Don’t worry old boy, I’ll let you fly independent. You make better time that way, don’t you.” He patted the metal hide as if soothing a living animal.
In that moment I knew that a soul had come to the beast. I resented him, as magnificent as he was. He had a soul and the urchin who ran errands for me didn’t.
The mechanical Pegasus shook his head defiantly, once. I saw a flash in his eyes, almost a red glow. Then he knelt low, folding his legs under him. His hind legs followed suit. The beast’s belly scraped the ground. His back remained a formidable distance above me.
Now I could see the elaborate contraption on his back. It consisted of a wicker box, much like those suspended from hot air balloons. Triads of plaited straps in red, yellow, blue, and white ran from the box beneath Bellarophon’s belly and around his shoulders, fastening with elaborate buckles and knots. Their configuration neatly bypassed his now folded wings, leaving them free.
I did not see how I could delicately, or even indelicately climb into the box.
Jimmy grabbed my cloak and satchel from my hand, took a running leap, placed his left foot on the beast’s thigh and ricocheted up to grab a shoulder strap with his right hand. Then another foot on the back and a vault into the box. He turned and grinned at me again.
“I’ll not duplicate that manoeuvre. I won’t even try.”
“No need, Mistress.” He bent down and dropped a rope and slat ladder over the side. The bottom rung landed a scant twelve inches above my feet.
I climbed quickly, the way a sailor had taught me many years ago. Rope ladders are not rigid and tend to twist. I understood why Jimmy O’Brian took the more adventuresome route overland, so to speak.
Jimmy opened a little gate in the wicker box as I hauled myself up level with Bellerophon’s back.
“And didn’t you do well for a lady,” he chuckled.
I straightened my bonnet and my dignity.
“Normally I just strap myself on, when I carry letters that need to get to Paris in a hurry,” Jimmy said, counting boxes strewn about the interior of the basket and setting aside a black shoulder satchel bearing a red royal seal. “But seein’ as how we got a passenger, Lord Reginald decided to send these packages.” He stacked them into a rough bench and secured them tightly with crossed plaits in the same pattern that bound the basket to the beast. Then he bowed grandly, indicating I should sit.
I sat, grateful to find my bonnet well within the shelter of the basket. I paid a lot for the black Chantilly lace veil that adorned the beaver felt. The lace makers of Chantilly were all making white lace this decade. Finding the real thing in black had me reusing bits and pieces of older garments.
Jimmy climbed out once more and fiddled with the golden key in a different key hole. Then he bounded back into the basket and crouched on his knees, handling reins threaded through ports in the basket.
The seemingly solid surface beneath me surged and flexed. My stomach lurched. I clung tightly to two straps within the basket.
Bellarophon’s back rippled with each thrust of his powerful wings and the running stride of his long legs.
This was not at all the smooth and silent lift of a dirigible. I had embarked on an adventure.
Another adventure.
“Best wrap up in the cloak now, mum,” Jimmy said over his shoulder moments later. “Get’s cold up here, it does. There be blankets in the box to your left as well.”
I obeyed.
I kept track of time by the increasing light above and the streaks of sunlight creeping through the wicker weave. We rose and rose, becoming a part of the clouds. The flowing mist reminded me of the Wili drifting through the forest in search of vengeance. Then we were above them. I chanced a peek through a tiny opening. My stomach rebelled at the sight of a vast expanse of water visible in the breaks between clouds.
I leaned my head back and breathed shallowly, swallowing down my breakfast.
“And t’isn’t it a grand view,” Jimmy chuckled. “Amazing ’tis to think we are five thousand feet above the Channel.”
“Five thousand?” I replied weakly, trying desperately not to think what it would feel like to fall out of this precarious basket and to . . . to land.
“Not to worry. I felt the same the first time I flew bareback. But now? Now ’tis glorious, ’tis awesome, ’tis like looking in the face of God.”
“If you say so.” I kept my eyes firmly shut and endured the shift and twist of the beast beneath my feet. It seemed like he took larger movements when I couldn’t see. But th
at was better than seeing how high we flew. Another few feet up and I was sure we’d enter heaven.
<<>>
The sun moved ever higher. Though it shone directly on my face, it did little to warm me. The air five thousand feet above the waves of the English Channel felt more suited to December than mid June.
And all the while I saw in the back of my mind a silver dancer growing stronger and more fluid with each repetition of the haunting music. I hadn’t much time. My visions are never wrong. Something dire hovered around the image.
Hours passed slowly. Too slowly. And yet we travelled far faster than a steam boat or even a dirigible.
“Won’t be long now, Mistress.”
I risked peeking out and saw green pastures, brown roads, and bleached white or grey stone buildings. The structures increased in number, grew closer together.
The air grew warmer.
“That be Paris,” Jimmy said.
“Finally.”
Just then the Pegasus tilted downward. It loosed a bellow of steam as the wings folded back. At the last second I dug my heels into the woven wicker and grabbed the strap to keep from plunging forward. My stomach revolted.
“Our Father who art in heaven, hollowed be thy name . . .”
Jimmy just chuckled. Annoying young man.
The Pegasus brought us down smoothly enough. A thud, another lurch, the plop of metal hooves hitting the solid turf, then a gradual slowing. He came to a halt graceful as any prize stallion, before a station building.
“You stay low in the basket until I deal with the diplomatic pouch.” He shrugged the straps of the black satchel with the royal seal around his shoulders. “No need to trouble the authorities with your presence. It’ll just delay things and alert people you don’t necessarily want to know you’re coming,” Jimmy said quietly as he prepared to depart.
“How did you know I need to move quietly and quickly?”
“Figured. You ain’t the only one Lord Reedstone ’as sent about the world coming from the Book View Café.”
“I should have known Countess Lovelace had connections.”
“Aye, Mistress. Now you stay put until Bellerophon settles in his stall in the hanger over there. He’ll be gentle in helping you down. I promise.” He leaped over the edge of the basket without bothering with the gate.
Seconds later the Pegasus turned and walked with a smooth and elegant gait away from the station. Inside the hanger he ambled directly to a stall, backed in and sank onto a thick wool blanket spread on a slightly raised wooden platform.
I used the ladder, much easier going down than up, and jumped clear. “Thank you, Bellerophon. I appreciate the swift flight.” I patted his nose and slipped out with my small satchel.
Warm air caressed my skin, smelling of fresh flowers, newly mown grass, and the ever-present coal fires required for the dirigibles and other machinery that made modern life convenient. Half a day’s travel and I’d crossed into another climate. I shed my oiled woollen cloak and draped it over my arm so that it concealed the satchel.
A tall fence hid the hanger from the station. I heard wheels turning and hooves pounding the main carriage way to and from the station. Directly behind the hanger, out of sight from the station, two fence boards gaped conveniently. I shoved myself between them, being careful not to scrape or tear the sturdy fabric of my gown. A moment to straighten my costume, breathe deeply, and centre my attention on my task, then I hailed a passing cab with a real horse, not a mechanical beast as had become the rage in London, and gave the driver directions to La Théâtre de l’Académie Royale de Musique in the heart of Paris.
I needed to find a silver shadow dancer before the first performance of Giselle. Perhaps before the dress rehearsal. Or so the clues in my vision led me to believe.
The carriage wheels took on the cadence of the lively polka. The driver hummed in the same rhythm.
In my mind I saw the silver dancer leaping high, arm in arm with her prince, matching his jump precisely in height. Their feet synchronized in complex patterns.
A tiny bit of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth when he presented her with a posy.
I jerked awake, realizing I’d nodded off.
“How much longer,” I yelled at the driver, sticking my head out the carriage window. The rush of thickening traffic near drowned my words. The drivers of Paris made London look calm and orderly—too much hurry, not enough progress, taking terrible chances speeding past an intersection with equally hurried cross traffic.
“Two minutes, Madame,” The Théatre came into view as predicted a few moments later, a massive Baroque structure with white washed columns, porches, false balconies, and a profusion of steps upward.
The cabbie brought his horse to a halt at the front of the building.
“The doors will be locked at this hour, Madame,” he said and spat a wad of chewing tobacco.
I winced at the unsanitary crudity. “Take me to the back entrance. My business is with the director.”
“Oui, Madame.” He clucked to his horse and we jerked forward once more. At the end of the block, he turned left then left again pausing at the opening into a narrow alley. The vehicle could go no further.
The drab, windowless stonework on either side had not been whitewashed or cleaned in decades. Smoke and filth grimed the mortar. Trash collected in the gutters. A stark contrast to the inviting front of the theatre; a severe reminder that those who entered by the narrow and heavy door did not pay admission like those at the front.
I paid the cabbie.
A trilling of flute notes drew me inward. I paused to listen for further clues. The flautist played exercises designed to limber his fingers. I hoped that meant the orchestra had not yet begun to play for the rehearsal. Today was twenty-seven June. The ballet would premiere tomorrow according to the notice in the newspaper.
If my dream held true, even now I might not be in time.
I tried the back door, a stout affair with sturdy hinges. It resisted pressure inward or outward. The knob did not turn. I banged furiously on the wood.
A chill coursed up my spine.
I was ready to flee when the door swung outward noiselessly. “Yeah, wadda ya want?” asked a tall, unshaven, and unwashed young man with broad shoulders and huge hands knotted into fists. He was a solid barrier between me and the enticing music beginning to leak from the interior. His French sounded slurred and as broken as his teeth. Probably French was not his native language.
“I have urgent messages for the Countess Lovelace,” I informed him in impeccable, perfectly accented French.
“Whyn’t you say so.” He pushed the door open further and half stood aside, still holding the door.
I swept past him, handing him my cloak and satchel. “Mind these, please. I shall retrieve them shortly.”
“Oui, Madame,” he replied, suddenly docile. Servants are trained to respond to an imperious tone.
I’d progressed only a few steps when the door creaked open again. “Forgive me for being late,” a young woman said. She ran past me on incredibly light feet. Surely a member of the corps de ballet. I caught only a brief glimpse of wisps of dark hair curling beneath her plain bonnet. Her skirts appeared draped in the latest fashion with surprisingly good lace and embroidery about the border and shawl collar. I’d seen a similar embroidered Spanish shawl in a London shop and passed it by because I considered it too dear.
Mentally, I moved her up from the corps to a principal dancer. She had more leeway in being late.
She disappeared into the dim backstage area filled with ropes and stage sets, props, and curtains in odd places.
I made my own way to the stage, following the still disjointed music. Individual players practiced scales and troublesome phrases. The place smelled of sawdust, paint, sweat, and something resinous. I kicked aside a tray of yellow clumps and crystals. The scent of pine sap thickened. Ah, the rosin box where dancers dusted their shoes for better traction on slippery wooden floors.
<
br /> “We need more time,” Lady Ada, Countess Lovelace said in French from behind the stage set of a Black Forest village. She spoke loudly, so her voice would carry over the growing cacophony of orchestra, stagehands, and dancers all making noises at once.
Underneath it all, I heard the low rumble of a boiler building steam to move sets and power illusions. If allowed to build steam much longer untended, it would need an escape, through a whistle louder than all the human voices combined.
“There is no more time. We must begin the rehearsal,” a Frenchman replied, agitated. Panic edged his voice.
“I will pay extra for the orchestra and dancers to delay the rehearsal a bit,” Charles Babbage added his own distressed voice to the melee. “Lady Ada, I do not understand what is wrong with the gears at the knee joints. Why does she lock them so?”
I trod softly on the polished wooden floor to approach them unseen.
“Perhaps she seeks only to straighten her leg and foot into a perfect point,” Lady Ada replied. She stood with her arms crossed around her slender frame, wearing a serviceable leather apron over her plain working costume of dark brown dress with few petticoats and no lace. A tall woman, handsome of face, she drew attention in any gathering by sheer force of personality. Just like her father. Her mother had spent decades trying to stamp out that quality in her. She fed Ada the logic of mathematics, trying to trample all traces Lord Byron’s artistic legacy. “I need access to the codex so I may give her the power to bend the knees, too.”
“If she has overridden a primary command, then the process has begun,” Babbage replied. He sounded satisfied. Lady Ada’s business partner had grown round with prosperity, but no less enthusiastic, or less of a genius in devising automata to serve humanity’s needs.
Lady Ada snorted. “Perhaps the complexity of the codex has merely allowed contradictory commands and the dancer falls back to the default. There is no chance the machine can grow a soul. And this experiment of yours will prove it.”
Steampunk Voyages Page 7
