by Steve Rzasa
He’d barely cracked the door open and stepped into the sunlight when Gil hollered at him: “Took you long enough.”
Winch stepped carefully over the cracked tar shingles and held up his hand against the glare of the morning sun. Gill had one black shoe resting jauntily on the roof’s edge. He pointed down to the street. Winch swallowed and craned his neck for a better look—not too close to the edge. “You didn’t call me up here for the view, did you?”
“No.” Gil dug a scrap of paper from his pocket. Winch took it and stretched out the long piece. “We got a tele-type from the aerodrome. There’s been a crash to the south.”
“Oh? We haven’t had an aeroplane crash for, what, six months?” Winch’s pulse quickened. “Not since that first winter storm. Was it mechanical trouble?”
“Easy, lad. We’ll know for sure soon enough.”
A low hum built in the distance. Winch could barely make out the bulky lines of several four-engine dirigibles coming through the Far Side Pass to the east of Perch. To the north, snow-capped Mount Alight glowed in the dawn. Mount Roost, shorter and squatter, bulged into the air to the south, all greens and browns and greys.
“That’s just the seven o’clock caravan shipment.” Gil tipped his head toward the southwest. “You’re looking the wrong way, lad.”
“I know.” Winch turned toward the southwest, where he could see Perch’s aerodrome beyond some of the taller hotel roofs on South Street. It was less than a half mile away, its dozen aeroplane sheds and two larger dirigible hangars bright under the morning sun. Several other small sheds were under construction.
Winch shoved the paper in his pocket. He felt no joy about covering a crash story. It meant injury or death. “I suppose Cope sent in the note?”
“Nah, it was the hangar boss. He sent your brother the daredevil pilot out to survey the scene with the sheriff.” Gil wagged a finger at him. “No more dawdling. Get your sketch book—”
“I have it.” Winch patted the bag. “And the camera.”
Gil puffed merrily on his pipe. “Then get on with it! The motorwagon isn’t working—witchcraft, I tell you. The branters are tied up out back. Take Huk.”
“All right. See you in a while.”
“Not without pictures!” Gil yelled after him.
Winch jogged down the steps. He felt as if he were trying to outrun his thoughts. If Copernicus Sark had been the first one out to the wreck, he would be the one to interview. It also meant that in order to get a firsthand look at the wreck before the sheriff sent men to clean it up—which he needed to do if he was going to get good photos—he’d get to the aerodrome quickly and fly to the crash site.
He swallowed again.
Winch took the back door to the Advocate building at the ground floor landing. It opened onto a small, rickety wooden porch that faced the alley behind the building. He crossed the alley to a low structure that served as equipment storage, garage, and stable for the Advocate. His shoes crunched on dirt. The first thing he saw on entering was the newspaper’s lone motorized wagon. All the wheels were off, and the motor was set on a pile of bricks.
“We’ll have to have Sawicki’s shop send a man over.” A stocky youth with curly blond hair sat hunkered over in the dark confines of the garage. He had grease stains on his face that reminded Winch of war paint worn by the Caminante of the Golden Desert. He grinned at Winch. “But don’t let them know I was the one what made the mess.”
“I take it you couldn’t figure it out, Konrad.” Winch tousled the boy’s hair as he walked by. He opened the door to the stall.
There were two branters inside. Both were tall creatures with long snouts, their faces long like elk. They stood on two legs that were long and rippled with powerful muscles. Two horns, curved and as long as Winch’s forearm, protruded from the back of their head. The nearest branter had shaggy brown hair striped with black. The other had a coat of mottled white and grey. They had a pair of arms capped with sharp claws, and long, curving tails.
“Didn’t say that, did I?” Konrad sounded irked, but Winch new better. “Oh, be sure and take Huk. He’s already saddled up, and he’s the fastest runner. I make sure to have one of them ready every day…”
“And Monday is Huk’s turn, I know. Thanks.” Winch brushed the brown and black branter’s hair. “How are you, boy?”
Huk made a moan, which Winch took to mean he was content, as usual. The other branter, Pearl, bleated a greeting.
Winch grabbed the leather reins dangling from Huk’s bit and opened the gate. The branter stepped lightly on his hooves, which were wider than a man’s hand. His tail swayed behind him. Huk was surprisingly graceful given his bulk and the fact that he was so tall he breathed down far above Winch’s head.
Once in the alley, Huk crouched so that Winch could clamber into the saddle. Winch settled in—taking care that his shoulder bag was secure and his notepad tucked in his pocket—before he patted Huk. “Okay, boy.”
The branter moaned again and rose. He snorted once, pawing at the dirt.
Winch snapped the reins. “Hah!”
Huk took off down the alley. He jounced Winch around in the saddle. Winch held onto the reins and swayed with Huk’s gait.
Winch turned him down a side alley just past the photography studio. Huk was soon trotting down South Street. Winch kept him straight but hardly needed to—the branter was trained enough to know when to look for the intersection with Cliff Road.
Another set of aeroplane engines buzzed overhead. Winch craned his neck and saw a pair of biplanes coming from the north. They were cargo craft and were moving quite slowly. “Probably copper wire from Picksborough.”
Huk snorted. Branters didn’t care much for the noise of aeroplanes, even as quiet as they were.
Winch glanced back and forth at the hotels, saloons, and stores lining this end of South Street. It was usually busiest here in the mornings and late afternoons, when pilots from all across the continent of Galderica were either readying to depart or just getting in. Now, a handful shoveled down their breakfast of teratorn eggs on a hotel porch. They waved to Winch.
He pulled back on the reins at the checkpoint at the end of South Street. The constable on duty here was a tall man wearing the signature navy blue longcoat and cap. He had a splendid handlebar moustache. A procession of five wagons drawn by diprotodons lumbered by, heading south. Winch frowned at the sight. Not much trade went south toward Trestleway.
“A good sight of traffic today. They’re taking goods to Fort DeSmet,” the constable said. “At least they’re not speeding, like them doggone motorwagons.”
Once the caravan passed by, Winch turned out onto the Cliff Road. It was then that a familiar noise greeted his ears—the drone of a two-seater Hunt-Hawes Buzzard. He looked up and spotted it.
The winged aeroplane sported black and yellow alternating stripes on its tail. Its top wingtips were black and its bottom ones bright yellow. The biplane descended swiftly from the blue sky, headed right for the cluster of barn roof hangars that comprised Perch’s sprawling aerodrome.
Well, that cinched it: Cope was back, and Winch would have to ride with him. In the air. He sighed.
Leave it to his little brother to be first on the scene.
Monday
Winch watched Copernicus Sark leap down from the cockpit of his Buzzard biplane, looking for all Galderica like a hero straight from the nickel adventure magazines
Cope yanked off his leather flying cap, and the wind coming up over Trafton’s Cliff blew that curly brown hair of his out of kilter. The black gloves went into one of the wide pockets of his flight coat. He wore a blue tall-necked quilted shirt under a deep blue vest. He pulled the silver jacket clasps open and laughed as the wind blew the flaps open. Winch was glad those coats were lined with mastodon hair—it could get cold in the aeroplane, and he for one wanted to stay warm.
“Hello there, Winch!” His cheery voice carried far across the stone tarmac. “Are you ready?”
&
nbsp; Winch waited patiently with his hands tight on Huk’s reins. They stood by the aerodrome terminal, a long, one-story brick structure with dozens of windows facing the runway. There were so many hangars around that it reminded Winch of a mountain field strewn with boulders—small boulders shaped like barns dotted most of the aerodrome. The two massive dirigible sheds at the far end were empty. Aeroplane engine noise filled the air. Huk moaned low and long—a sure sign of his uneasiness. “Easy, boy. At least you don’t have to fly,” Winch murmured.
He saw scores of aeroplanes all over—three-engine Maybachs, twin-engine Cortland-Vasquez biplanes, dirigibles painted silver and white hovering over the edge of Trafton’s Cliff as they began the descent to the landing fields below. Busy skies.
Cope helped a stocky, balding man with a close-trimmed black goatee down from the back seat of the cockpit. Sheriff Luis Tedrow shrugged grumpily out of a heavy flight jacket, revealing his olive green vest and bow tie. He wore the silver, four-pointed badge of the Perch Sheriff’s Office. He had gnarled fingers that mangled the brim of a sandy brown hat as he pulled it on. Winch supposed his outfit had been neat and pressed when he’d left his office—Tedrow was a natty dresser—but now it was rumpled. His pant legs rode so far up his ankles were bared for all to see.
“Come on now, Winch, we can get you over the crash and back in no time!” Cope waved him over.
Winch whistled to one of the aerodrome attendants. The young man came sprinting over from the nearby terminal. There were several stalls erected on the south end. Winch handed over Huk’s reins and gave the branter an affectionate pat. “See you in a while, I hope.”
Huk bleated his farewell. The attendant led the branter away.
Winch met Cope with a half-smile. “Hello, Cope. I thought you would be on the mail run to the ranches this morning.”
Cope grinned. “Finished it ten minutes early today. I was on my way back from the Cross Four T Ranch when I saw the crash.”
The attendant who’d taken Huk away sprinted back over. He busied himself with the aeroplane’s engine. Winch plucked his notepad from his pocket. “And Sheriff—do you have any statement to make about the crash for the Advocate?”
Tedrow started to say something. Suddenly he pressed his hand to his mouth. His face went sickly pale.
“Do you need a drink, Sheriff?” Cope offered a shiny brass flask.
Tedrow waved it away. He removed his hand. “Pack it away, Cope. Noxious aeroplanes. Winch, I figured you’d show up here. Look, the pilot is dead, and that’s all you’ll drag outta me without a pair of branters.”
Winch’s heart sank. He didn’t want to know that, personally. But he jotted it down. “Cause?”
“Impact trauma. Chest caved right in.” Tedrow frowned. “That’s all there is to say about him so far. Now step aside so I can round up my constables and get a proper investigation going.”
“You’re flying down there?”
Tedrow scowled. “Skies, no. You think I’d traipse around in that canvas bucket any longer than I had to?”
“Maybe.” Cope winked at Winch. He shook the sheriff’s hand vigorously. “Pleasure having you along for the flight, Sheriff. But it’s time to strap my big brother in before he loses his gumption.”
Winch hoped his face didn’t look as ill as the sheriff’s.
Tedrow shared a knowing glance with Winch before he hurried away from the biplane. “Winch, you’d best let me see whatever photographs you take before they get run. And tell that Crims editor of yours to not make a sensational mess out of this story, whatever you wind up writing.”
Winch frowned. “I don’t appreciate your calling him that, sir.”
“True all the same.” Tedrow tipped his slightly crumpled hat. “Gentlemen…”
Cope rolled his eyes. He put his arm around Winch. “Don’t get all huffed. The sheriff can be an old sourpuss. Especially when it comes to any Tirodani, right? Look, there’s a spare cap in the back seat. You can use the coat Tedrow had on.”
“All right.”
Before he could think of a way to get out of this assignment, Winch found himself squeezed into the back seat of the Buzzard. The coat was thankfully still warm with the sheriff’s body heat. Winch tucked his shoulder bag between his knees. He noticed that the seat was loose—he could probably make it turn in a full circle if he pulled his legs up to his chest. Behind him was a skysail pack—Winch positioned it for easy donning in case they had to bail out. The thought did not cheer him. There were also some levers stowed behind him that he did not recognize.
Cope grinned over the back of his seat. “Snug?”
“That’s a fair assessment.” Winch reached up and slid the glass canopy shut. What was that bulge in the fuselage just behind him? Well, better to ask Cope later. He pulled the coat tight around him.
“Don’t worry about being too cold. I’ll keep mine shut for your sake.”
“Seems like there’s a lot of aerocraft up there today.” Winch peered at a four-engine aeroplane rumbling down the tarmac.
“That’s putting it mildly. Those Maybachs are all bringing freight from the Golden Desert trade bazaars.”
“Will we have to wait for take-off?” Winch watched a pair of white and blue biplanes land one right after the other on the cross-runway.
“Not if the sky shines on us… Ah!” Cope rapped the glass. Winch craned his neck and saw the attendant wave a bright green cloth. Cope put his goggles into place. “Contact!”
Cope pulled a chain out from his collar. He rubbed something small and pale brown with his thumb three times. Then Cope yanked on a long cord. The propeller spun twice in a full circle. The biplane’s engine roared to life, and Winch mashed the flight hat onto his head. He squeezed his eyes shut. The plane rolled across the rough tarmac. Winch refused to look.
“Steady and ready!” Cope yelled. The plane slowed. Winch felt it turn. Then the engine roared even louder. Suddenly it leapt forward on a headlong rush. Winch was pressed into the back of his seat. He was bounced around mercilessly.
Then the tail lifted, and the bouncing stopped.
“You can look now.”
Winch cracked open one eye. Then the other.
The plane was soaring over Wright Valley. He could see for miles up and down the Cobalt River—the hills and forests, the ranches below, the puffy white clouds above. Behind them, Perch sprawled in all its grandeur. Those dirigibles Cope mentioned were clustered across the grassland at the base of Trafton’s cliff, where the skeletal frames of two new hangars sat awaiting completion.
There were the massive red brick barn-style sheds of the Hunt-Hawes Aeroworks. There was the hydro-power plant, its crenellations and parapets giving it a medieval appearance. There were the long rows of hotels, shops, and markets. The greenhouses were shining pyramids of glass and iron. The steamworks jutted out from the foothills like giants emerging from the ground. Long pipes snaked out into the city-state. Sawmills, granaries, copperworks, and even the methane fields further north in the valley…he could see it all.
Take-offs were always nerve-wracking. But this…this was amazing.
The Buzzard dipped its wings to the left. Winch seized the side of the cockpit.
“The plane crashed 10 miles south, so it won’t take us long!” Cope hollered. The engine noise was louder than a motorwagon’s, even with the dual cockpit glass shut, but not loud enough that he should have to yell. Winch figured it was excitement. “Can you feel the power in her? Great clouds above! That’s a 375 brant-power Philbrick flash steam engine! There’s nothing else like it in the air!”
“Great!” Winch gritted his teeth. But part of him, albeit a small part, was exhilarated by the flight. “Reminds me of when Father would take us flying.”
“Skies, but that was fun!”
“You still have that old talisman of yours?” Winch was glad he didn’t have to yell.
Cope dangled the chain from a finger. “The last bit of my first aeroplane. You recall that o
ld Maledore biplane? It wouldn’t be much more use than as kindling now compared to what Hunt-Hawes churns out. How’s your work these days?”
Small talk was good. It would take Winch’s mind off the altitude. “Busy as usual. I was down at the Double Tusk earlier.”
“Oh, really? J.D. have another barroom brawl for the Advocate’s enjoyment?”
“Possibly.”
“How are Lysanne and the children?”
Winch smiled at the mention of his wife. “The children are doing well in school. She has her hands full with the greenhouses, especially the lettuce patch. Slugs.”
“Oh! That won’t do.”
The conversation lapsed into awkward silence. Winch didn’t like that—they should, theoretically, have more to talk about. “I haven’t seen you around town for a while.”
“Well, I was out to the Mintannic Plains for a spell. Two weeks, round trip. It was a long haul. And then there were raiders.”
“Raiders?”
“Yes, one of the gangs the Mintannicese keep at bay. They’ve made a merry mess of flying cargo up there, let me tell you.” Cope laughed. “Me, I have speed on my side—no one can catch this Buzzard. Some pilots don’t know to run when you see a black dirigible on the horizon. But they find out when a half-dozen aerocraft dive out of the belly of the beast!” Cope twisted the biplane into a sharp right turn.
Winch slapped his hands against the cockpit, again. Those sudden turns…“Thank Thel you weren’t hurt.”
He heard rather than saw the grimace. “I take it you and Lysanne are still in with those Tirodani, then.” Cope’s tone was less than jovial.
“They aren’t Tirodani, Cope. There’s a difference.” Winch sighed. “The Tirodani who follow Thel use the name Telru, and they compiled their Caudex over the centuries. We read that, but most Telru do not believe that Thel’s son was born in a man’s body and executed as our penance.”
“Ah. That Ifan fellow, wasn’t it?”
“The Exaltson.”
