Romulus Buckle & the City of the Founders (The Chronicles of the Pneumatic Zeppelin, Book One)

by Richard Ellis Preston Jr.

  Fogg and Nightingale had been busy: the shipboard infirmary was full, and they had erected an emergency tent to accommodate the less urgent cases.

  Buckle felt tired. Damage inspection after damage inspection in the darkness by buglight had strained his wounded body and soul. Weakness flooded his legs. His stamina was shot all to pieces. At least he was well and warmly dressed, wrapped in a soldier’s heavy greatcoat lined with sheepskin, its high collar flaps pulled up around his neck. He had replaced his sleek leather pilot boots with foraging boots, their interiors luxurious with wolf fur.

  And he had a prisoner.

  A steampiper.

  A vengeful energy refueled Buckle’s legs. He was on his way to interrogate the steampiper in the brig, and he wanted answers. Two Ballblasters had found the man lying semiconscious on the Hydro deck after the boarding skirmish. The young fellow had now had time to recover his senses, all of the time he was going to get, at least. And Buckle was in no mood for defiance or obfuscation. Buckle was not one for torture, but he liked entertaining the idea, where a steampiper was concerned.

  Buckle blinked hard. His burst of energy wavered already, but he would mine his marrow for the strength to carry on, reinforced by the rattlesnake juice of spirit. He arrived at the gunnery gondola. Blast marks along the side marked where steampiper grenades had been hurled at the metal plates, denting them with their detonations. He swung into the open rear hatch, immediately encountering the interior darkness and its heavy stink of cordite. He and Kellie swung up the companionway to the keel corridor and strode toward the stern, dodging repair workers and banks of buglights along the way.

  A zeppelin on the ground, not sky-moored thirty feet up or dry-docked, but fallen belly down on the earth, each girder in danger of being crushed by its own weight, is, for her captain, a depressing sight. Buckle’s guts wrenched as he scrutinized every bent screw, dinged hydrogen tank, popped stitch, and warped hinge, peering up into the bombed-out cathedrals of the blasted compartments, where shredded tapestries of burned goldbeater’s skins and imploded stockings hung from deck after deck of melted catwalks.

  Dawn clouds soaked in lavender scudded across the gray sky, visible through the great holes in the roof overhead, looking free and clean and bright.

  Buckle’s grumpiness was rising. The musty aroma of unrolled skin boles and the chemical stink of fabric stiffeners made him slightly nauseous—he was starving—and the constant pounding of the repair hammers and steam-driven metalworking machines antagonized his aching head.

  But beyond his headache and empty stomach, he was primarily annoyed at being grounded. The whack of his boots on the catwalk gratings had too much gravity in it—to a neophyte, a well-trimmed airship on the fly seemed as solid and stable as mother earth, but to an experienced aviator, who could feel the float of the platform, feel the slightest degree of tilt, feel the weightlessness of the machine beneath his boots, it was like riding the back of a butterfly. And when the zeppelin lay bound to the earth, so too the magical lightness of its being was lost to the zeppelineer.

  It was like walking inside the corpse of a loved one.

  Buckle pressed his fingers against the bandages on his wrist and they came back bloody.

  Buckle arrived at the brig door, where Sabrina stood beside a crewman cradling a blackbang musket.

  “Good morning, Captain,” Sabrina said, and smiled grimly, logbook tucked under her arm. She crouched to pat Kellie on the head and looked the pink of health, her skin flushed by the chill of the ocean air, her eyes bright green, her bright-red hair loose under her bowler.

  That damned red hair. Hair so red, it was the color of lava. The color of fire. Buckle had never thought that he could be tortured by a color.

  “Good morning,” Buckle said.

  “How is your arm?”

  “It stings. I should have that quack sawbones sent before a firing squad.”

  Sabrina chuckled as she straightened up. “Nice to see your lousy humor is still intact. But you do look a bit pale.”

  Buckle glared. Sabrina bit her lip. “No more of this dithering over my health,” Buckle grunted. “Did you confirm the casualty report?”

  “Yes,” Sabrina said, flipping open the Pneumatic Zeppelin’s large, leather-bound logbook. She took a deep breath before she spoke. “Our expedition has suffered seventeen dead and twenty-six wounded, of which two are in a grave condition. Of bridge officers, Lieutenant Ignatius Dunn was killed in action, and Chief Mechanic Ivan Gorky was seriously injured.”

  The list of the dead. After every skirmish came the list of the dead. The roll call to the tomb. The casualties had not exceeded his own grim calculations, but the sound of Ivan’s name on the list stabbed deep. “What is Ivan’s condition?” he asked.

  “Fogg says he will live. His situation is classified as serious, but not grave,” Sabrina replied, her face belying her own concern over their cantankerous brother. “He was caught in the final bomb blast and thrown into the superstructure.”

  “Continue.”

  Sabrina turned a page. The heavy parchment scraped as it rolled over. “The casualties break down as follows: crew of the Pneumatic Zeppelin, five dead and thirteen wounded, including yourself; of the Ballblasters, eight dead and eleven wounded; of the Alchemists, four dead and two wounded. Of the clan leaders, Balthazar and Lady Andromeda are both banged up but recuperating. Katzenjammer Smelt seems to have escaped without a scratch.”

  “Of course. And what of our prisoner?”

  Sabrina glanced at the brig door. “I am told he is not being cooperative. I made sure that he has not seen me yet, as you requested.”

  “Good. Wait here for two minutes, then come in. And remove your bowler.”

  “Aye,” Sabrina replied, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  Buckle opened the brig hatch and stepped inside.

  PRISONER OF WAR

  BUCKLE STEPPED INTO THE PNEUMATIC Zeppelin’s brig, a small, narrow guardroom with a jailer’s desk, and two small, narrow jail cells beyond. Two people occupied the cabin: the guard, an empennage crewwoman named Zara Kenoff, who stood beside the hatch with a loaded pistol in her belt, and the steampiper, who sat at the table, his wrists and ankles in iron shackles.

  The steampiper grenadier immediately stood, his chains jangling. He was a tall man, young, perhaps twenty-two and a touch more, muscled despite being narrow shouldered, and his pale-green eyes were bright and quick. He looked a bit underfed. His weapons and armor had been confiscated, and he was dressed in his Founders black uniform with silver piping. His cropped hair was red orange and curly, though nowhere near as impressive in color as Sabrina’s.

  “You are the captain of this barge, I presume?” the steampiper asked, his voice deep and even, his eyes haughty, his tone annoyed.

  “Watch your tongue!” Kenoff snapped.

  “It is all right, Miss Kenoff,” Buckle said, with a gentle smile. “Please step outside a moment, will you?”

  Kenoff nodded, moving to the hatchway. “If you need me, Captain, I’ll be right outside the door, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Buckle said, waiting for Kenoff to exit. He turned his gaze to the steampiper, who looked at him and then at Kellie, who peered back. “I am Captain Romulus Buckle of the Pneumatic Zeppelin,” Buckle announced. “I trust you have been treated well.”

  “You would release me immediately if you had any sense at all.”

  Buckle grinned, knowing it would infuriate the Founders man. “You abduct my clan leader and bomb my airship, and you expect clemency from me?”

  If the grin bothered the steampiper, he did not let it show. “What happens to me matters not. Your fate is already decided.”

  “By whom?”

  “By those who are fittest to decide.”

  Someone rapped on the door.

  “Enter,” Buckle said.

  The hatch swung open and Sabrina stepped in, bowler hat in hand, her red hair, brilliant and flowing, on display.

  The st
eampiper gasped, then caught himself, though his eyes shone with confusion.

  Sabrina gave the steampiper a wicked grin. “Chief Navigator reporting, sir.”

  “Commander?” The steampiper sputtered. “What are you doing here?”

  “I am not your commander,” Sabrina answered.

  “Yes, you are,” the steampiper snarled, anger rising in his voice. “You are my officer. You are a scarlet. How is it that you now count yourself among the Crankshafts?”

  “Because I am a free woman,” Sabrina responded.

  The steampiper slammed his hand on the table, rattling his chains, his voice quaking as he turned to glare at Buckle. “What have you done to her, you Cranker scum? What have you done to her mind to make her abandon her family, her blood? To betray the eagles to crawl with the rats?”

  Sabrina’s green eyes suddenly turned ice cold. “My family is corpses. My blood knows only murder.”

  The steampiper lunged in Sabrina’s direction, only to be jerked back by his chains. “Commander—you have been brainwashed. Think! Tell me your name.” He glared at Buckle. “Curse you to hell, Cranker!” He paused, breathing heavily through his nose, then looked sternly at Sabrina. “Tell me your name.”

  “My name? My name is one of the dead.”

  The steampiper took a deep breath, turning his eyes to Buckle. “It is you who has done this, this crime. Isambard Fawkes shall hear of this, and your life will be worth nothing.”

  Sabrina stepped forward. “It is you who is mistaken, sir. I am not the person you think I am.” She looked to Buckle. “If we are finished here, Captain?”

  “Absolutely. Thank you, Chief Navigator,” Buckle said.

  Sabrina planted her bowler on her head, turned on her heel, and departed the brig, shutting the door behind her.

  “Remember your name!” The steampiper howled after her. “Remember your name and you shall remember everything, Commander!”

  Buckle stood quietly, giving the man a moment to compose himself. The steampiper did nothing but stare at the deck.

  Whoever Sabrina was, her presence had certainly thrown this otherwise highly composed Founders officer into a fit. “I was hopeful that we might attempt a diplomatic solution to our problems, to whatever grievances you Founders seem to have,” Buckle said.

  The steampiper raised his green eyes to meet Buckle’s. “I don’t know how you turned one of our own, Cranker, a steampiper officer, and a scarlet at that, but the day is coming, coming very soon.”

  “And what day is that?”

  “The day the strongest take all that belongs to them.”

  “And what belongs to them?” Buckle asked.

  “Everything,” the steampiper replied.

  I HAVE SEEN THE STARS BUT NEVER THE SUN

  BUCKLE AND SABRINA WALKED, SIDE by side, under the belly of the Pneumatic Zeppelin, the snow swishing around their boots as they approached the stern. It was very quiet—work had stopped for the funeral ceremonies, which were soon to begin. Kellie loped out under the stern and they followed her paw prints, passing under the gigantic driving propellers, which had been folded up to prevent bending in the ground landing; their bronze blades glittered overhead as they hung motionless amidst the hundreds of exhaust, smoke, and heat pipes of the Devil’s Factory extending out the back of the airship.

  The number one port side propeller was missing, of course—destroyed in the steampiper attack—all that remained of it were its struts. The last fragments of the nacelle had already been cut away by the repair teams.

  Buckle saw Newton and a handful of Ballblasters manning a redoubt on the northern rise. He noticed the deep, earth-churned drag marks left by the four cannons as the crew had dragged them up to the top of the hill. Pluteus had sent out compass-point patrols. Pure textbook. There had been no sign of enemy activity. Not a hide nor a hair of anyone.

  Beyond the stern of the Pneumatic Zeppelin it was a beautiful morning. The low, white slope of the valley descended gently northward, down to the dark-blue sea, cut down the middle by the trough of frosty brown earth created by the zeppelin’s gondolas. The sea air was clear, and across the channel Buckle could see the fog bank that hid the coast. Overhead, the white clouds soared high into stupendous vaults, backlit white and pink by the rising sun that found no gap to shine through.

  Buckle saw from the corner of his eye that Sabrina was looking at him. The moment had been long and awkward since they had departed the brig. He knew there was much that she wanted to tell him. He also knew that she would not. At least, not for now.

  Buckle eyed the fog bank in the far distance. “It is encouraging that there were no further signs of pursuit by the Founders.”

  “No, nothing,” Sabrina said. “No airships, especially no dreadnoughts, and we are too far away for steampipers now.”

  “What of dreadnoughts?” Buckle interjected. “Fables of gargantuan gunships made up by the Founders to make everyone afraid to resist them? Where were these dreadnoughts when they needed them? Perhaps the Founders rely only on myths.”

  “Those myths very nearly popped us, though,” Sabrina said.

  Buckle nodded, though defiantly. “Yes, Serafim. They very nearly did.”

  “It is a lovely morning,” Sabrina said with a sigh. “It feels as if, at any moment, you might see the sun. That would be grand.”

  Buckle nodded. He almost spoke, but suddenly he felt too weak to do so. He sagged. He felt heavy, weirdly waterlogged…as if he had been dropped down a well.

  “Captain,” Sabrina asked. “Are you all right?”

  Buckle straightened his back, removing his gloves and tucking them into his pocket. The chill of the air did not penetrate the surface of his skin. If he spoke of his discomforts, he would give them too much effect in his mind. He turned his eyes to the sky where the undulating glow of the sun behind the clouds was the greatest. “I have seen the stars, but never the sun.”

  “You have seen the stars?” Sabrina said, amazed. “I never knew that.”

  “It is my oldest memory, I think. When I was a little boy—very small, perhaps four or five—there was a terrible storm up in the mountains where our cabin was. It was at night, and after it was over my mother and father woke Elizabeth and me and carried us outside. I remember—I remember that the air smelled funny, like hot metal, and it was absolutely still. And the sky, there was a huge gap in the clouds where you could see the night sky. It was black and full of stars, hundreds and thousands of them, glittering white stars scattered across the heavens. It was as if they had spilled out of eternity.” Buckle paused and swallowed, watching Kellie investigate a small animal burrow on the slope. “I don’t know if I saw the moon, I don’t remember it. The whole thing lasted only a few minutes before the clouds closed again. I watched until the very last star disappeared.”

  “That is an incredible thing to have witnessed, Romulus,” Sabrina said. She was close to him, right at his shoulder, and her green eyes were shining when he turned his head from the sky and looked at her.

  “Strange,” Buckle mused. “Strange are the things a rap on the head and blood loss bring back to you.”

  “Not so strange,” Sabrina said, with a sad smile. “It is hopeful. No storm lasts forever.”

  The sounds of boots hurrying through the snow made both Buckle and Sabrina turn. They saw Jacob Fitzroy approaching. “The funeral ceremony is almost ready to begin, Captain.”

  “I shall come straight away, Fitzroy. Thank you,” Buckle replied. He cleared his throat. His fingers felt cold, and he pulled his gloves back on.

  OLD SALT AND HUMMINGBIRDS

  THERE WERE HUMMINGBIRDS ON CATALINA, little flitting creatures with blurred wings that appeared at dawn and danced across the snow in flashes of color, of green and blue and crimson. They were one species that had found a way to flourish after The Storming. Max liked watching them: she was an engineer down to her bones, but there was a naturalist’s bird’s nest in a corner of her heart.

  The hu
mmingbirds darted in and out of the long row of funeral pyres, twenty-two in all, poking at the stacks of wood and dead grass, apparently attracted by the kerosene oil that had been poured across them. Their little flicks of color added something ethereal, something eternally alive, to the dead whose bodies rested atop the pyres, mummy-wrapped in white linen.

  “It is said that hummingbirds float free of time,” Sabrina said, as she and Buckle arrived at Max’s shoulder. “And since they know eternity, they always come to welcome the dead.”

  “That is a fine thought,” Max replied. The funeral and the sadness attached to it were keeping her mind off the Pneumatic Zeppelin and her monumental list of repairs. The overnight crews had accomplished everything that had been asked of them, and more, but they were going to be grounded for the rest of the day—at least.

  Max coughed, both to clear her cold throat and to force her mind back into the moment. Midmorning was not far off, the overcast bright overhead, but the cold was still deep in the stillness around them. She glanced at Sabrina and Buckle, both standing to her right, and they both looked red eyed and tired. Buckle looked especially pale.

  The entire ship’s company—with the exception of those on patrol and those too badly injured to move—had been mustered in the ravine. Many of them were walking wounded, swathed in bloodstained bandages. Several had been carried out of the infirmary on stretchers. Even the steampiper prisoner, glowering in his shackles, had been brought forth to attend.

  Balthazar was front and center, facing the ranks, with Pluteus and Katzenjammer Smelt at each shoulder. Due to her injuries, Lady Andromeda, who was reportedly not recovering well, was not there, but Scorpius and Kepler were. The Alchemists did not usually cremate their dead as the Crankshafts did, preferring ground burials, but Lady Andromeda had insisted that her people respect the Crankshaft tradition even in death, and honor those who had died helping to save her.