Mechanicals

by Jordan Stratford

  Certainly she would not withstand another storm. Repairs other than makeshift were unlikely, and as it was a shorter hop back to Tanaga and Adak than it was the long stretch to Kiska ahead, there were calls to turn back. Colt, predictably, insisted they could follow the spine of Amchitka for some forty miles, and then if the winds were not with them, veer north to Sitkin and Segula, cutting their exposure to open ocean by half.

  Still, Kiska was only a gate to the long trek to Agattu, and the longer journey to Medney, Ostrov Beringa, before their destined landfall on Kamchatka. A thousand miles at sea, with a thousand miles to go. What seemed to Billings miraculous upon leaving Syracuse, and a certainty upon their arrival in San Francisco, now seemed as impossible and daring as common sense would have maintained all along, had it been asked.

  Reports came in. Half the batteries had exploded during the lightning strike, but the dynamo was intact, as was the heating filament. There was no leak to the gas bags, which was a blessing, but the net holding the three balloons together had been severely compromised. A few windows had blown out in the crew cabins, but these had been boarded up in the night. They were set for fuel, water, and food. Further, the hunting party had returned with caribou, which elevated everyone’s spirits.

  It was decided to repair the net with rope and tackle, traverse the long, narrow island, and see both how the Celerity performed and what the weather had in store. Certainly, the ship needed a forge, and preferably a shipyard, before attempting to cross all of Siberia, but that was getting ahead of themselves.

  It was a simple enough thing lashing the net to the gondola frame, despite its being the size of large yacht. They all squeezed back aboard, and despite an uncomfortable groan or two that set the crew to wincing, the Celerity took to the sky with little effort, though little altitude. The wind having blown itself out with the storm, it was barely more than half an hour when the ship had traveled the length of Amchitka, staring west at the unusually calm Pacific.

  “Best speed for Kiska, Captain,” said Colt, who retired to his quarters. Billings and he had hardly spoken. Billings didn’t know whether to remain on the bridge, sleep, or resume drinking. He ended up by simply staring at his pocket watch for the next six hours, which, it turned out, was in fact the best speed for Kiska.

  A crewman’s knock on his cabin door alerted him to the sighting of landfall, and Billings raced for the bridge. The sun eked out welcome daylight through the perpetual overcast, the wind only occasionally gusting from the north. On the whole, the weather had done them a great mercy, and the men did not contain their good cheer. In addition, the caribou slaughtered on Amchitka was now roasting fragrantly in the galley, and this helped bolster their spirits. They bled altitude and released the ground-hook, coming ashore on a sheltered beach on the south part of the island. The news on examination of the exterior of the ship was good; the repairs had held. The question hung in the air: press on overnight to Agattu in case the break in the weather was fleeting? Or take flight at dawn, so they could better react to any weather in daylight? With uncharacteristic prudence, Colt declared they would spend the night on the ground. For the first time, the Celerity’s passengers, officers, and crew dined together in the crew’s mess adjacent the galley. Rum was festive break from whiskey for Billings, who was beginning to equate peat with self-pity.

  Common sense be damned; the impossible was again possible.

  TWENTY SEVEN

  “Good heavens, George!” exclaimed Avery at the shark-toothed monstrosity. “What could you possibly be doing here?”

  “Oh, you know,” replied the demon. “This and that. Trying to make a go of this little cult. Devouring. That sort of thing.”

  “And how is that coming along?”

  “Not too well, as you can see. I mean, it’s hardly palatial. And the help! Goodness gracious me! I mean honestly, just look at them.” The djinn paused for a moment before resuming. “My dear fellow, you must forgive my appalling manners.” He turned to bark orders at the other two, impossibly confused cultists. Hurriedly, they set about unshackling Avery from the storeroom wall.

  “Why in heavens did you decide to kidnap me, of all people?” asked the priest.

  “Had no idea, old chap. Seems these fellows decided to show some initiative, and about bloody time, too! But look at you, fine English clergyman. You’d make an ideal sacrifice, I’m sure their thinking went. As far as that goes.”

  “But surely you must have some willing sacrifices?” said Avery, rubbing his wrists.

  “You’d be surprised, old boy,” replied the grinning horror. “Not much incentive, it seems.”

  “Oh, tosh. With your charm? Charisma? I’d have suspected you’d have a harem of virgins lined up around the block waiting to hurl themselves in the gaping maw of your doom.”

  “Don’t tease.”

  “I’ve no cause to gull you, dear chap. Honestly, that’s how I always imagined you’d set yourself up.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  Avery clapped his hands on the fiend’s filthy shoulder. “You know,” he said, “when Grigori and I...installed you in your present condition...”

  “Installed? Why you practically created me!” the demon interjected, teeth flashing. “You are in every sense imaginable my father, and I owe you my very existence. Such as it is.”

  “No, no...” resisted Avery.

  “Why it’s the gospel truth, man. If you and the Russian hadn’t chosen to undertake the ritual, I’d be scraps of nightmare flitting about causing wet sheets, not a corporealization of cyclopean inhumanity...”

  “Please. Please, think nothing of it.” Avery was visibly uncomfortable with the subject. “Now, while I cannot stress the degree to which it is a delight to see you, I’m afraid I must be going and see to my companion.”

  The demon shifted, in posture and expression.

  “Oh yes. Your companion. Grigori seems to think she has the most alluring rump. She’s some snap in her garter, that one.”

  “Now, George, that is hardly gentlemanly,” Avery rebuked. “But do tell, have you seen our Russian friend recently?”

  “I have, although he has not seen me. He’s been, shall we say, on my side of the street of late. Looking back at yours. And spying on your little Miss Protégé in the negligé.”

  “That’s quite enough of that, thank you, George. I must say your display of your baser instincts...”

  “Need I remind you, Sinjin, that you practically carved me from a solid block of your baser instincts.” The djinn let this sink in. “It’s all I am.”

  Avery composed himself. “Are you suggesting that Grigori knows that I, or rather we, are here in Alexandria?”

  “Now that you mention it,” commented the demon, “there’s a very familiar scent to these gentlemen present. Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Grigori put them up to your detention. In fact,” he said, staring into the eyes of one of his minions, “I’d swear to it.”

  “Thank you, George,” said Avery. “That’s most edifying.”

  “Oh dear,” offered the djinn, “I do hope she’s all right.”

  “She’s got some rum in her. She’ll not fall to pieces, unless set upon.”

  “You’d best go fetch her then. And Sinjin?” asked the demon.

  “Yes, George, what is it?”

  “You can always bring her back here, you know. If you’re not going to devour the girl, I might as well. Seems a pity to waste such a pretty little thing.”

  Avery went to tip his hat, and realized that he’d lost it. “You couldn’t,” he regretted it the second it came to his lips, “tell me where she is, could you?”

  With a gregarious gesture, the djinn flung his arms wide. “Sinjin! I can do better than that! Why, I can put you on her very doorstep.”

  “No, thank you, George. I’ll find her on my own, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “But it’s not the same. It’s not the same at all. On her very doorstep, I promise.”


  In the next instant, Avery discovered it was night. He sat on a doorstep, in the rain, and it was obvious to him at once he was no longer in Alexandria.

  ---

  Three days. Eleanor dared not fear the worst, but after hours of attempting to distract herself with tea, books, and looking out the window, her thoughts returned to whatever might have happened to Sinjin. She had ventured twice now to the hotel’s parlour, but as she was the only lady in residence, and she was unescorted, the European gentlemen either ceased their conversations upon her appearance, or tipped their hats graciously and excused themselves. Three days.

  Impropriety be damned, she was determined to orient herself to the city and her situation. She had instructed the maid to locate Farouq at once, and the maid, with expressed reluctance, acquiesced.

  In preparation for every opportunity, she had packed her belongings atop Avery’s unopened things, leaving a note that they were to be forwarded to the British consul in Jerusalem–the next destination on their road to the emerging front–with any outstanding expenses (and this she added with some degree of guilt) to be settled upon their arrival. She hoped that she would return in a few hours, safely on Sinjin’s arm. But she had learned that crossing one’s threshold was the most unpredictable thing in the world.

  With determination, she buttoned up her camel suit, set her broad brimmed hat in place against the impending sun, checked the blade secreted against her wrist, and selected her stoutest parasol. She silently prayed to Helen of Troy, Boudicca, Cleopatra, and Hypatia–women of substance in trying circumstance–for their encouragement.

  Farouq waited on the veranda outside the hotel–Arabs were not permitted in the lobby, of course–while the concierge scowled disapprovingly.

  “Madame!” called Farouq. “It is most excellent to see you again, and I am honoured that you remembered your humble servant.” It struck Eleanor that he must have practiced this phrase, his English much improved in the last few days.

  “Madame?” interrupted the concierge, in a thick French accent, “If it is an escort your require...”

  “But I have an escort, thank you, as you can plainly see.” Turning to the grinning Arab, she added, “You do me a kindness, Mr. Farouq.”

  She thought, instinctively, to take his arm. But something told her that propriety would forbid contact, and that it best to carry herself as a lady out with her servant. On her instruction, Farouq led the way to the market where she last saw the priest.

  “Is it true that everyone here is named Muhammed, as you said?” Eleanor asked.

  “It is true if you ask the English,” replied Farouq.

  “And is your name really Muhammed? Is that part true?”

  He grinned broadly. “A kind of true.”

  The heat made itself known, but was tolerable, like a large maiden aunt on a train. No denying its presence, but one carried on. The streets were the colour of sand, and wove through shadow and morning sun in turn. Merchants seem to crowd in, here in the fringes of the market proper, and offers began to be thrust towards her.

  A man struck a loaded donkey with a switch, calling “Ay!” as the beast lurched forward. Another merchant came towards Eleanor with an upraised hand: “Wait!” while another inserted himself in her path with a date offered on pristine palms and a smile: “For you.”

  Farouq turned to drive the vendors away with a harsh expression, which softened instantly as he met Eleanor’s eyes. “In the future,” he began, only to be cut off by a gem merchant’s cry of “Opal!”–and suddenly Eleanor swooned. The streets seemed to undulate beneath her, while the walls of the street became liquid. The experience was uncanny, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

  Ay. Wait. For you. In the future. Opal.

  The world was restored to its solidity, and Farouq looked at her with concern. She laughed. Sinjin. It was bizarre, impossible, and personal. And so very like him.

  “Mr. Farouq,” she stated boldly. “I must get to Constantinople with all possible haste. I shall need to get to the train station immediately.”

  “Sorry, Madame,” he answered. “The trains do not yet...” he struggled for the word, and gave up, merely interlacing his fingers. There was apparently no completed railroad to her destination.

  “I see. By boat, then.”

  “If I may, Madame,” Farouq continued. “I have a cousin. He get you there much fast.”

  “A cousin,” Eleanor repeated.

  “Much fast.” Farouq’s grin was implacable.

  ---

  Sinjin took stock of his midnight doorstep. A worn, stone sill. The streets paved with stones, but flat and grooved. An ancient city. Inhaling, there was the residue of cooking smells, spices. So he was still somewhere in the East. He strained his ears for sounds of language, anything, but there was nothing. The rain was slight, yet still he gathered his clothes around the nape of his neck, to discover his cassock had been replaced with a riassa, the black cloak of Orthodox clergy.

  Patting himself down, he found he had no handkerchief or wallet or pocket-watch, and on his face he had sprouted something of a beard. Digging his fingers in and giving it a good scratch, he surmised that it was about two week’s worth. So he had been moved in time as well as in space. What had he been doing then, in time? He had no memory.

  Hell and blazes and buggery, George.

  Right. Doorstep. Where did George know where Eleanor was to be, some two weeks from that Alexandria storeroom?

  Constantinople. Had to be.

  Which meant she was here, but only if she continued the journey. She would go to ground after his disappearance, at least to gather her wits, he was sure of it. At some point in time she must have resumed travel here, or George would not have placed him upon this doorstep. So in order for them both to be in the same place at the same time, he would have to intervene in something of both, and moving in space seemed contrary to his eventual objectives. The intricacies made his head hurt.

  Time then. Bloody hell, George. Honestly. He was going to have to interfere with time, and goad Eleanor to arrive here, so that to his timeline, she would be here already, just as the djinn had promised. Demons, he thought to himself. Don’t know why I even bother.

  He exhaled deeply, sitting rigidly upright in the doorway, his feet flat against the alley’s stones. He started to think of the earth, hurtling in space, turning on its axis, delineating days, hours. How elastic it all was. Each person thinking that one tree, one hill, was stationary, yet in reality every position was fluid, dancing against a backdrop of stars, the backdrop itself in motion. It was so vast a system, so incomprehensible, that surely a wrinkle here or there would go unnoticed by any divine plan. Surely a tug at the fabric of it all would be smoothed out again soon enough.

  And that was that. He saw her, in the morning market streets of Alexandria; saw her through the eyes of beggars, of merchants, of shopkeepers and women hanging laundry from windows. Their minds all bent on their business for the day, already leaning towards his own purpose, that here, there, the slightest push was all that was needed. A change in word, a shift in language, and then the world reeled drunkenly for an instant, and was restored.

  She received the message, he knew she had. An instant ago, two weeks ago. So she was here, now, she had to be. He simply had to wait for her to open the door. Settling deeper into the doorway, succumbing to exhaustion, he noticed that his nose was bleeding.

  TWENTY EIGHT

  INAUGURAL CROSSING OF THE PACIFIC BY AIRSHIP: AMERICAN INDUSTRIALIST SAMUEL COLT TRAVERSES RUSSIAN AMERICA TO KAMCHATKA

  Mr. Samuel Colt of Connecticut, having acquired the means to design and manufacture an airship, the Celerity, the dimensions of which are heretofore unseen, has successfully undertaken the premiere crossing of the Pacific Ocean, from Russian America to the peninsula of Kamchatka, at a record speed of only seven days and the loss of a single life; a crewman struck by lightning ashore. The passengers and crew including this reporter were accommodated in s
ome luxury, the airship having pleasant quarters for travelers, an excellent galley, and even a library with all the comforts of a gentleman’s club known to Boston or London. The vast airship, with a length to rival any sailing vessel, including the Russian whalers of intimidating proportion, is driven by a great steam-engine, stoked by coal and consuming vast quantities of fresh-water supplied by the trans-Pacific archipelago of the Aleutian islands at great peril of inclement weather. Indeed, damage to the craft upon a forced landing and lightning-strike was only recently repaired upon the craft’s arrival in Petrapavlovsk, the Russian city named for Sts. Peter and Paul, with access to a forge and craftsmen skilled in metal fabrication. This amidst the city’s preparations for war – its guns pointed towards the unforgiving Pacific and the impending British Fleet, war having now been declared between those nations.

  The vessel, already famous among adventurers around the entire world for its record crossing of the United States from Syracuse, New York to California in under three days, is now attempting to set yet another record for speed in its journey across the whole of Siberia, and is set to arrive in the Russian capital of St. Petersburg in just five days–a feat never before accomplished in human history–and Mr. Colt expects to be rewarded with an audience with the Tsar of Russia, who will of course be welcomed aboard to tour this marvel of the age.

  Colt grinned. “‘Marvel of the age.’ Well done, son. I must say, that’s some might fine history you’ve taken it upon yourself to compose.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Colt,” Billings replied.

  “What I haven’t yet decided is what to do with it.”

  “It, Mr. Colt?” asked Billings.

  “The story, Mr. Billings. Right now of course there’s no telegraph to send it along too, let alone an operator who can send it in English. As it is, I don’t know if I want the whole damned world knowing what I’m doing ‘til I’ve done it.”