I must say this was a much more pleasant way to travel. We could see Lunar landmarks passing underneath us almost too fast to account.
“Imagine the missionaries here,” West laughed. “Closest to flying with the angels they’ll ever come, right sir?” McHenry only grunted.
They set us down gently upon the familiar white sands a short distance from the Severn. Nyima immediately stepped forward to examine it.
“Such a wondrous machine!” she said. “How did you build it?”
“My uncle, Robert, who I was named after, was a great inventor,” I said. “I guess it runs in the family. I helped build and maintain the engines.”
Several of the other Chihu started chattering amongst themselves. Nyima said something to them. “Many of my people express their doubts such a thing could have come all the way from Ngernpo.”
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I have never seen the like of this and I have traveled much over the surface of Dawa. I have no reason to believe you have deceived me. How does such a thing work?”
“A great scientist on our world, LaSage, discovered that gravity is the result of particles called gravitons which bombard everything. We discovered how to make a substance, that when magnetically charged, can repel the gravitons and allow our ship to fly. After that, a simple steam engine pushes our ship through the aether, to arrive here on Dawa.”
“Fascinating,” Nyima said. “And your people often make machines of this type?”
“This is the first,” I said. “And now that my people have seen that it’ll work, we can send many more. You could even visit our world. Come to Ngernpo.”
Nyima laughed to herself. “Where there are people like you walking about? You are so strange looking, gangly and wingless and you cover yourselves with such strange skins. No. I will remain here upon Dawa.”
I will admit I was disappointed to hear that, but I suppose it was to be expected. Not everyone would be willing to simply leave their world on a machine they had never seen before.
“What are you two going on about?” McHenry growled. I had almost forgotten the others were there. “Are we trading or not?”
I turned back to Nyima. “Do you wish to trade with us, now that you’ve seen what we have?”
“No,” she said. “All our wants are met here. We have no need of anything you may bring from Ngernpo.”
“Well?” McHenry asked. I turned back to him.
“No,” I said. “She has no wish to trade.”
“Wonderful,” McHenry said. “We didn’t come here to bust. And these people allow a girl to rule them? What does a girl know? We’ll bring her and she can see the wonders we have to offer.” Before I could stop him, he reached out and grabbed Nyima by the arm.
Nyima cried out in her language, which set off all of her people. Like a tide they surged upon us, until West started firing. The report echoed off the amethyst mountains in the distance, but it was only a temporary respite. The Chihu concentrated their effort on him and while West tried to reload his weapon, the Chihu carried him aloft. I had no idea how high they took him, but when they reached a significant distance, they simply let him go and poor West plummeted back to the surface.
As we looked on in horror, Nyima managed to pull away from McHenry. The Chihu turned their attention on our unfortunate captain. They carried him aloft and dropped him just like West.
“Wait!” I shouted, looking to Norton and Bedford who were leveling their guns at the horde of Chihu. “We must stop this now!” I turned to Nyima. “Please. Two of our men are dead. We didn’t come here to war with you!”
“We do not desire war either,” Nyima said. “Fultong, go. Get into your ship and return to Ngernpo and never come back here.”
I nodded. There was nothing else I could say. I took one last glance at those beautiful purple mountains and the white sandy beach of the Mare Nubium before Norton, Bedford and I stepped into the ship and closed the hatch behind us.
We activated the gravity shielding and our craft quickly ascended from the Lunar surface. It was not long before the moon became the same gray disk we had always seen. I felt a pang of regret that I would never see those beautiful mountains or that azure blue sea again. “I suppose it’s for the best,” I mumbled.
“What?” Bedford asked.
“Everything,” I said. “Astor would come in and mine the amethyst mountains down to deserts.”
“A shame to waste them,” Bedford replied. “The Chihu are doing nothing with them.”
I disagreed with him, but knew better than to say so.
And so we returned to Earth. The flight home was sullen. We only spoke to each other when it was absolutely necessary for the running of our ship. Bedford assumed command, while Norton and I attended the engines.
After a few days of this, I was grateful when we touched down onto the beaches of Connecticut. After the seas on the Moon, our terrestrial beaches seemed so mundane.
But there was much fanfare when we arrived back. Telegrams were sent and John Jacob Astor arrived on the next train. His expression quickly fell when he saw only Bedford, myself and Norton waiting alongside our craft.
“Where’s McHenry?” he asked. “And the other one?”
“West and Captain McHenry were killed, sir,” Bedford said.
“Killed?” Astor asked. “So those creatures there were hostile?”
“Yes,” Bedford said.
“McHenry provoked them,” I said, drawing Astor’s gaze.
“You are no doubt aware of the mineral wealth there?” Astor asked. “I have no intention of letting a few creatures keep me away from it. Do you know how much money I spent on this venture? More than the three of you will ever see in your lives, put together! I was the one who sent the first ship to China and I sent the first ship to the moon. I can send an army to the moon if I wish, and take those gems by force!”
“Sir, I don’t think that would be wise—”
“I don’t care what you think!” Astor shouted. Then he took a breath to steady himself. “Good day, gentlemen. I wouldn’t bother returning to New York. I’ll see that you never work there again. Nor will I send you on my next Lunar Expedition.”
There never was another Lunar Expedition. In light of the Panic of ‘37, John Jacob Astor had other concerns and the Lunar Expedition was forgotten. That did not stop Astor from slandering us whenever he got the chance. Our heroes’ welcome never came.
I don’t know what became of Bedford; he disappeared from public life. Some say he returned to the Navy and retired a Captain. Others say he died a drunk.
Norton engaged on a successful speaking tour, but lost much of his money to bad investments.
I wrote a book of my experiences, but due to Astor’s influence, it remains unpublished. But every night I still look up at that silver moon and wonder what could have been.
Andrew Johnson was born in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania and currently lives in northern Arizona. To date, his fiction has been published in magazines like Tales of the Talesman and Nebula Rift. In addition to writing, he is also an avid photographer and carver.
Plattery Will
Get You Nowhere
by
Charlotte Frankel
Mr. and Mrs. Bartle had enjoyed their day out at the Great Exhibition.
They had admired the phonograph that could store an incredible twelve wax cylinders and play them in any order; they had seen the amazing hydraulic hand (which had a slightly unfortunate range of gestures); and they had even made a purchase—a vessel that was kettle, pot and cup combined, and sold already filled to the brim with steaming tea.
And now to finish the day off, they were watching a charming gentleman in one of the booths demonstrating a serving platter.
“...so you see, you wind it up here—” The gentleman placed the platter flat on a table and rotated a handle. “—and then put this lever to ‘on’…”
The platter vibrated into life.
“
Now you just have to enter your instructions.” The gentleman indicated the keyboard on the side of the platter. “For example…” His fingers clattered over the keys and there was a ping. The gentleman took a step back, and after a pause the platter grew a leg at each corner. It hopped down to the floor and began stomping rather awkwardly around the room.
“Gracious!” laughed Mrs. Bartle.
“Splendid!” said Mr. Bartle.
The platter returned to the table and hopped back up. The legs disappeared back into its main body and the platter settled back down.
The gentleman smiled proudly. “As well as transporting your food from kitchen to dining room, it will keep it warm on the way. Though the legs and internal workings are made of brass, the casing is made of silver to be a good conductor of heat. You will never suffer from cold dinners again!”
“That is astonishing,” said Mr. Bartle. “But may we actually see it carrying something? What about this?”
And he placed his steaming vessel of tea on the platter.
“Ah, now,” said the gentleman. “This is where you must take care. The mechanism cannot tolerate temperatures above 180 degrees Fahrenheit. If it should become too hot, then it may take preventative measures to protect…”
The gentleman turned pale.
“Oh, dear.”
There was a click and a clunk, and the section of the platter the vessel was resting on rose smoothly two inches.
“Well, isn’t that clever,” said Mr. Bartle. “Nice and straightforward way of making things safe.”
“Yes, indeed,” agreed his wife.
She turned to smile at the gentleman and was somewhat surprised to find him crouched on the floor with his arms braced over his head.
“Er…” said Mrs. Bartle.
She turned back to the platter. The platform holding the vessel abruptly pulled back a little way and then shot up, propelling the vessel into the air.
The Bartles watched in bemused fascination as it sped towards the ceiling.
“What a shame. It’s going to break,” said Mrs. Bartle.
But it didn’t. The vessel bounced off the light fitting and headed back towards them.
“Heavens!” Mrs. Bartle grabbed the platter and held it in front of their faces. The vessel thumped off, hit the wall, and then was once more travelling at speed in their direction.
“Save yourself! Get under the table, Horace!” Mrs. Bartle moved the platter to her midriff as the vessel made violent contact yet again.
There then followed several minutes of Mrs. Bartle showing off a naturally talented backhand and the commendable suppleness of the busy housewife, as she dashed around the booth thwacking the vessel away.
Eventually she managed to hit it out of an open window, and the vessel disappeared out of sight.
Mrs. Bartle breathed heavily. Mr. Bartle got out from under the table and the gentleman straightened up. They all stared at one another.
“So,” said the gentleman eventually, “would you like to place an order for the platter..? Now that I’ve given you a demonstration.”
Mrs. Bartle looked him in the eye, and gave him a thorough and adept demonstration of the hydraulic hand’s repertoire.
Mr. Bartle cleared his throat. “You know,” he said. “I think we’re going to think about it.”
Charlotte Frankel has been writing seriously for the past five years. Comedy and flash fiction are her particular passions. She lives in the North West of England, and in between all the writing tries to fit in working as a shop assistant.
Obelisk
by
G.H. Finn
“The chances of anyone colonizing Mars are a million to one!”
Or so the newspapers said.
But still we came.
Over fifty-years ago, the human race had taken its first tentative steps on its way to the stars. Our eyes had been opened to the possibilities by the projectile spacecraft invented by the American pioneer Barbicane and his fellow explorers.
Now the English dockyards at Manchester, Liverpool and Birmingham were producing the new wrought-iron, steam-powered rocket-ships designed by Bedford & Cavor Ltd.
Coal-fusion technology had made travel between the planets a dangerous but achievable reality, resulting in a frantic scrabble to colonize outer-space.
Like so many others, I came to Mars to seek my fortune. And a little adventure along the way. Had I known what I would face, I’d never have left England.
It began one fateful night in a small prospecting town, far to the west of the Mars colony’s main water supply at Verne Wells.
“It crushed the robot first. Next it ate my mother. Then the thing ripped off my arm.”
The old Jamaican man paused and glanced pointedly at his empty glass. Then he looked meaningfully straight at me.
I was surprised he could even meet my eyes, considering the sheer number of barefaced lies he’d just told me. I bought him another drink anyway. His tales were so tall they were practically in orbit. But he was a good storyteller. Listening to him passed the time. I had nothing much else to do until daybreak. I figured I may as well share a drink and hear his outrageous fabrications until it was time to sleep. But I needed to be up early and leave at first light.
I’d only been on Mars for a little over a year, but I’d already started a small cobalt mine. I’d registered my claim as the Barsoom Mining Co., although in truth the “company” was really just me, a pickaxe, a shovel, one steam-driven horse, a clockwork mule and plenty of blood, sweat and tears.
But at the moment things were good. After nearly losing my way (again), I’d ridden into town, a place with the picturesque name of Iron Springs, due to the iron deposits in the surrounding hills which could wreak havoc on magnetic compasses, and this morning I’d sold a mule-load of cobalt. I’d banked the bulk of the money and bought supplies, ready to head back for another month of digging. Flour. Beans. Butter. Coffee. Salt. Bullets. Dynamite for blasting. Pipe tobacco. Some peppermint humbugs as a treat. Enough rum to keep the cold at bay but not so much I’d get drunk every night in the thin Martian atmosphere. I wanted to leave early because, much as I hate to admit it, I was afraid I might get lost going back to the mine. It wouldn’t be the first time. The exact route from the small mining town to my claim was long, winding and went through enough twists and turns that a man could easily lose himself. I’d strayed off the trail more than once before. The last time it took three days to find my way back again. To me, one stretch of red, rocky, dusty Martian desert looked much like any other. If I didn’t make the most of the daylight and ended up doing the final stretch of the journey in darkness, I’d be lucky not to end up falling off a cliff and breaking my neck.
I’d become distracted, thinking about the journey back to the mine. The old black man, Beauregard Luggins, known to his friends as Bo Luggs, had eventually finished his ridiculous and extremely bloody tale. He jolted my attention back to the saloon as he slapped his mechanical, brass arm and declared, “And that’s how I lost me my dear old mother and gained me a metal limb. I can still see the look on her poor face when she died. May she rest in peace. I pray that the thing only ate her body, not her soul.”
With that, the white-bearded Bo Luggs shuddered, downed his drink and limped off across the barroom, probably intending to answer the call of nature. Unsurprising, given the amount he’d drunk since beginning his weird and morbid story. I shook my head and gave him no further thought. There were always plenty of eerie tales told by pioneers out on the Martian frontier, but I didn’t believe a word of them. It was time I headed for bed.
The morning was unusually cold for the season, even for Mars. But I was warm enough, dressed as I was in a thick shirt, a worn denim jacket, and a somewhat battered bowler hat.
I was aware I’d have to pay attention on my way back to the claim. Although I knew a few landmarks to guide me, I wasn’t naturally gifted when it came to navigation and I knew very little about the rest of this region. Indeed, a
lmost no one did, as it was completely uninhabited until the first prospectors arrived. I donned a pair of regulation brown leather and polished brass goggles to protect my eyes from the glare of the Martian sun. Harsh red light streamed across the crimson rocks and steam rose from my horse’s nostrils as I stoked his boiler and headed out of town, towing the reluctant robot mule behind me. I’d had the steadily chuffing horse for a year and the mechanical mule for six weeks. I’d instantly named the horse Wellington. It didn’t really suit him. I still hadn’t decided what to call the mule. Possibly Boot. Either that or something which I doubted it would be possible to repeat in polite company. The mule was tightly wound. Its gears were stubborn and refused to work smoothly, no matter how often I oiled them.
The first few hours of the journey were dull and boring. I found the barely used red dust track toward Tripod Gulch. Then I took the narrow, twisting pathway below Sphinx Ridge. Next I navigated the uphill pass by riding to the east of White Ape Rock. After that, I wound my way through a boulder-strewn canyon, doing my best to stay on the Viking trail. I think that must have been about the time I went astray. I tried to find the Ares Crossing over the massive and long-dry Carter Canal. When I didn’t, I realized my horse had also lost its bearings. I replaced them and steered the clanking horse, and the ever-reluctant clockwork robomule, back through the vast, dead canyon, still fearing I’d taken a wrong turn. But I was sure that I could find the right path.
By mid-afternoon I still hadn’t found the canal, let alone the crossing. I had to admit I was well and truly lost. The deep red canyon with its high rocky walls made it almost impossible to gauge my way, obscuring landmarks, hiding the nearest mountain peaks and even masking the position of the sun sufficiently that I became unsure of anything beyond my general direction. I had no choice but to head for higher ground in the hope of spotting a familiar sight. I was probably still too far away from my claim to reach it before nightfall. It looked like I’d be spending the night camped out in the wilderness. Again. I turned Wellington uphill and crossed my fingers in the hope of quickly finding my way.
Phantasmical Contraptions & Other Errors Page 5
