Aetherium (Omnibus Edition)

by Joseph Robert Lewis

  “Find them?” Taziri leaned back and her right hand moved to massage her left arm where the heavy medical brace protected her old burned flesh and supported her weak hand. The brace covered her arm from elbow to wrist, and it itched. “Find the killer? Find Kenan?”

  “Yes. I’m going to find them. And I’m going to kill them,” Qhora said quietly. “I need you to fly me to Carthage in your aeroplane.”

  Taziri felt a tiny wave of giddiness try to curl her lip into a smile, but she repressed it. Too many memories and feelings were racing through her head all at once. Shock. Confusion. Anger. Horror. And the thought of another evening when another person had asked for her help chasing down a killer. “I’m sorry, Qhora, but I’m not with the Air Corps anymore. I left over a year ago. I mean, I still work in aeronautics, and I have a shop, but…”

  The smaller woman’s eyes widened and her face paled. “You can’t?”

  Taziri suddenly felt a horrible wave of guilt at her early retirement and she babbled, “Well, I can’t take a Corps airship or anything. I mean, I do have my prototype, but that’s hardly what you need right now, you need another train to Carthage, so maybe we can talk to some of my friends tomorrow…”

  “Tomorrow is too late. We have to leave now. Tonight. What is a prototype? What is that?”

  Taziri’s left hand, the one with the weak wrist, began to tremble on her knee. At each thought of her new machine, it was getting harder to stay sad about Lorenzo or angry about Kenan or serious about Qhora’s request. The excitement threatened to bubble over and she covered her mouth with her hand to try to look serious, but after ten months of hard work and no one to show off to, the strangeness of this moment was too much to bear. And besides, it was a welcome distraction from the miserable faces of her guests and from the horrible idea that Lorenzo Quesada was no longer alive. “Well, if you really want to see it, I can show you.”

  Qhora nodded.

  Taziri led the threesome out the back door and across the back yard, past the little greenhouse where Yuba sat reading to Menna, through the back gate, and across a gravel lane. The property behind the Ohana house was a wide grassy lot with a large shed that had once been painted red. And as they circled around to the entrance, the old railroad line appeared in the tall grass leading up to the double-doors of the shed. Taziri opened the lock and said, “This used to be a service line for the original Tingis railway, before they built the new station about twenty years ago.”

  She opened the door and flipped the light switch. Six large flood lamps sizzled to life overhead to illuminate the machine. Everyone stepped inside.

  “That’s a locomotive,” Qhora said. “I need to get to Carthage. Their train has a two-hour head start already. I need something faster than a train, captain. I need something that can fly.”

  Taziri walked over and put her hand on the side of the machine. “This does fly.”

  “Really? Can it take us to Carthage tonight?”

  Taziri winced. “It could, but this engine burns a special fuel called petrol. It’s made from Songhai oil, it’s very expensive, and I’m afraid I’ve used up what little I had last month. It will take me several more months to save up enough money to buy enough petrol to fly all the way to Carthage. I’m sorry, but unless you can help me buy the petrol, there’s nothing I can do.”

  Qhora swallowed and looked down. “No, I don’t have much money.”

  “Then perhaps I can be of assistance,” said a man with a northern accent.

  Everyone turned. Alonso drew his espada, but Mirari’s long knife was faster and she launched herself at the tall man in the open doorway behind them. The man drew his rapier and struck the knife from the masked girl’s hand as easily as swatting a fly, and then whisked the point of the blade up against the hollow of her throat. “Now, now, now, no need for that. We’re all friends here.” He sheathed his rapier and approached the shed doorway a second time, now with his empty hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “Salvator Fabris, at your service, once again.”

  “You!” Taziri shoved her sleeve up to reveal the brace on her left arm and her finger hovered over the release switch that would spring the hidden revolver up out of its compartment. The gun wasn’t loaded, of course, but Fabris had no way of knowing that. “You Italian trash, you killed two of my passengers in España! Two unarmed civilians! I should kill you right now. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Spying on you, obviously.” The Italian lowered his hands and smiled. “I came to Marrakesh as soon as I heard about the plans to salvage the aetherium at the bottom of the Strait. In fact, I was staying in the hotel just across the street from you.” He nodded at Qhora. “You can imagine my surprise and alarm this evening when I heard the commotion just across the way and learned that my dear old friend Lorenzo was no more.”

  “You son of a bitch! You cut poor Enrique and Hector! They’re scarred for life now! If you had anything to do with this!” Qhora’s whole body shook and Taziri could see the little woman torn between her need to protect the sleeping baby in her arm and her need to attack the tall Italian.

  “Signora, I may have despised your husband’s politics, but make no mistake, I did respect him as a gentleman of the sword and a patriot, to a degree, and I had no wish to see him so horribly murdered tonight. I had rather hoped for an opportunity to kill him myself one day, fairly, without interruption.” Fabris gazed at the Incan woman sternly. “When you left the hotel with your child in hand, I followed you. I know your temper and I did not wish to see Don Lorenzo’s only child harmed in some mad flight of widow’s grief. I had no idea you would come to a place like this.” He gestured at the dusty shed around them. “But now that we’re here and you’ve made plain your intentions, allow me to do so as well. Your husband spared my life once.” He held up his left hand to display the long white scar running the length of his palm. “It took me some time to overcome that slight, but I have, and now the least I can do to repay that kindness is to help you bring his killer to justice.”

  “I don’t care about justice,” Qhora said. “I care about blood!”

  “Yes,” Fabris said quietly. “I’m sure you do.”

  “What else?” Taziri said. “What else do you want? You hunted Lorenzo and me through the mountains to get that lump of aetherium once. I’m not about to believe that you’re willing to give it up now to help avenge him.”

  “Of course not, my dear captain,” the Italian purred. “I have every intention of returning here eventually to steal the Espani aetherium after it is salvaged. But that can wait. This enterprise interests me more, in no small part because Lorenzo’s killer appears to be working with an old associate of mine. Shifrah Dumah. You may have heard of her.”

  “No,” Taziri said.

  “Really? A one-eyed woman from Eran? In fact, she told me she lost the eye in Marrakesh, down in Arafez, just a few years ago.”

  Taziri blinked as her memories of Arafez rushed up at her. A one-eyed woman in Arafez? The woman in white at the airfield demanding to be flown east! “I think I met her. I fought her.”

  “Fought her?” Fabris raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you were a duelist, captain. Few people are as skilled with a knife as Shifrah.”

  “I didn’t fight her,” Taziri said. “I blew her up.”

  Fabris smiled. “That sounds more likely. But let us return to the business at hand. You need fuel for this contraption, yes?” He removed his wallet from inside his blood-red jacket and handed a fistful of notes to Alonso. “Here you are. Ten thousand reales. I assume Espani money is good here? I’ve been trying to get rid it for ages.”

  Qhora cleared her throat and stood as tall as she could. “You want to come with us?”

  “Yes indeed, dear lady.”

  “Then…do you swear by your three-faced God to help me find Enzo’s killer, and to let me have my own satisfaction when the moment comes?”

  The Italian folded over in a low, sweeping bow. “You have my word.”

>   Taziri slowly lowered her sleeve to cover her brace. “Wait. Wait just a minute. I never said I would go to Carthage tonight. I have a family, I have a business, and I have classes. I can’t just leave.”

  Fabris turned to her. “Of course you can. But since this is no personal matter of yours, let us make it one of business, as you say.” The wallet appeared in his hand again, and this time he held out a wad of notes to her. “Another ten thousand reales for your trouble, captain.”

  Taziri stared at the money. Ten thousand? The fuel would only cost seven, but another ten? She thought of Yuba and Menna waiting for her back at the house. And she began listing all the things they could do with ten thousand reales. The new greenhouse, a new carriage, a personal tutor for Menna, and even some investments in her friends’ new ventures. And all for a single flight to Carthage? “I need to tell my husband. I mean, discuss it with my husband.” She took the money.

  Fabris smiled. “Of course you do. Just tell the boy here where to get the fuel and I will make certain it is here within the hour.”

  Taziri looked down at the money in her hand. Over six months’ worth of income for one job? Just a quick flight to Carthage and back. Just a day or two. And besides, it’s for Qhora. It’s for Lorenzo, and for his baby boy. “All right. Alonso, let me give you directions to the fuel depot…”

  The next hour was chaotic. Taziri hurried through the house trying to do everything at once. Taking Yuba aside, showing him the money, explaining the job, convincing him not to worry, saying goodbye to Menna while packing food and clothes, and then overseeing the petrol delivery and the fueling of the machine.

  Yuba gave her the look. The stern eyes and iron lip. “Assassins?”

  “I know. I’ll be careful.”

  “It’s not worth it. We don’t need the money.”

  She paused. “I know. I’m not doing it for the money. I told you what happened in España. Lorenzo saved my life once. He saved yours too, and Menna’s, and everyone in this city. I owe him this, at the very least. His wife just lost her husband. His son just lost his father. This is the least I can do for him. For all of them.”

  Yuba swallowed and nodded. “How long?”

  “Two days. Or so.”

  “Is it safe? That machine of yours?” His eyes flicked up to the back window and the shed beyond it.

  “Yes, it is. Absolutely. You know me. I don’t take chances.”

  “But chances have a bad habit of finding you, all the same.”

  “I know. I’m lucky that way.” She held him and he held her and they whispered their I love yous into each others’ ears.

  “Be safe,” he said.

  “I will. I promise.” Taziri ran upstairs to change into her heavy canvas trousers, a light cotton shirt, and her old leather jacket. A dozen pouches latched onto her belt, and a hundred tools went into her pockets until she couldn’t move without jingling and rattling. She clipped her gloves under the strap on her right shoulder and her goggles and headgear under the strap on her left shoulder. The outfit weighed half as much as she did, but she remembered the last time she left the country unprepared and found herself on foot, without food, without weapons, and without a clue how to get home. Never again, she had sworn.

  From the top shelf of the closet she pulled out a white-handled revolver. Still brand new. Never been fired. She bought it the week after she got home from España, after she found herself stranded in a hostile land, after she lost two passengers. Never again. She belted on the holster and tied it down to her thigh.

  Somewhere in all the chaos, everyone else managed to eat a little supper from the Ohana leftovers and then fetch their luggage from the hotel. Taziri was sitting in the pilot’s seat of her machine running down her checklist when she glanced in the mirror and saw the people and baggage all assembled beside the locomotive, waiting.

  Taziri climbed out and looked them over. She shook her head. “This is too much. Too much weight, I mean. I can’t make it to Carthage with all this.”

  For the next five minutes, they painstakingly weighed and measured each person and bag on the old floor scale in the corner of the shed and rearranged bags and contents, discarding whole bags one after another.

  “I’m sorry, it just won’t work,” Taziri said. “Even without the baggage, someone needs to stay behind.”

  The four passengers exchanged accusatory looks.

  “I’ll stay,” Alonso said, raising his hand sheepishly. “I’ll stay here. And I’ll take care of Javier.” He held out his hands to Qhora.

  She turned aside to hold the baby a little farther away from the youth. “I can’t leave him behind! He needs me!”

  “He needs to be safe, Dona,” Alonso said. “I understand that this is something you need to do. I wouldn’t dream of trying to convince you not to go. But don’t take Javier. You can’t take an infant in this flying machine on a mission to kill an assassin. It’s too dangerous for him. It’s too dangerous for you, if you’ll pardon my saying so, but please, let me take care of him while you’re gone. Please?”

  Taziri held her breath. The young man had just said everything that had been swirling through her mind but she hadn’t dared to say. Her brief time in España with Dona Qhora Yupanqui Quesada had given her only a glimpse into this strange woman’s life and mind, but Taziri had come away with a healthy respect for the small lady’s will and resolve.

  Slowly, painfully slowly, Qhora nodded and stepped closer to Alonso. “How will you feed him?”

  “Yuba can teach him how to make something. When Menna was a baby, I had to go away from time to time, so Yuba made food for her,” Taziri offered. “In fact, Alonso, I want you to stay here. We have a guest room. It’s a nice quiet neighborhood, and Yuba can give you whatever help you need.”

  “Thank you,” Alonso said. And his eyes said thank you a hundred more times.

  Qhora leaned over her baby boy and kissed him and whispered to him and the moment seemed without end until Fabris cleared his throat noisily. Qhora straightened up and handed her child over to the young man, who cradled the half-awake infant with the ease of much practice. Then he took Mirari aside and they stood close, and whispered, and embraced. And finally, Alonso stepped out of the shed.

  Taziri clapped her hands. “All right. All aboard for Carthage.”

  Fabris, Mirari, and Qhora climbed into the small passenger compartment in the center of the locomotive and when Taziri had them all strapped in securely, she strapped herself into the cockpit.

  “I don’t mean to pry, but if we’re here,” Fabris gestured to the passenger compartment, “then where exactly is the engine?”

  Taziri smiled. “I gutted this locomotive. The new engine is much smaller and lighter, and up in the front.”

  “And you’re sure this thing can fly?” he asked.

  “I’ve flown it three times already.”

  “Ah. So, is there a balloon that comes out the top or—”

  “Just hold on.” Taziri started the engine, which rumbled to life with a low growling drone. She shoved the throttle forward and the locomotive rolled quickly out of the shed down the old abandoned rail line. Out in the distance, half hidden in shadows, she could see the warning sign that marked the end of the line a quarter mile away. Maybe less.

  “It’s going to be a little noisy,” she called over her shoulder. She eyed her instruments. The speedometer was still climbing. Forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred. Now. Taziri grabbed the big lever on the floor beside her chair and yanked it up.

  The entire machine clanged as a dozen clamps snapped open and tiny hissing sounds escaped from every corner like a hundred angry snakes as the air pistons expanded. Starlight flooded the rear compartment as the outer panels of the locomotive folded down to uncover the inner windows. Fabris and Qhora stared out the glass with gaping mouths.

  Taziri smiled. One by one, the panels of the locomotive’s shell dropped down and snapped into place until they hung far out to each side of the machine.

>   “The wings fold out!” Fabris cried with a boyish grin on his face. “Marvelous!”

  The front of the locomotive folded down and locked in place to reveal the whirling propeller blades on the nose of the machine, and behind them they heard the tail clang into position.

  Taziri took a deep breath and whispered to herself, “Contact.” She shoved the throttle hard against the stops and felt the transformed locomotive surge forward. The entire machine shuddered and rattled, and the warning sign at the end of the rail line was racing toward them, and then the strange machine leapt into the sky. The air roared underneath them as Taziri angled higher and higher and the world below dropped sharply away. After a moment, she lowered the nose and eased back the throttle slightly. The vibrations and noise faded away, leaving only the muted droning of the propeller. Below them, the city of Tingis had been reduced to a motionless swarm of fireflies in the darkness, and ahead of them the dark line of the Atlas Mountains sawed at the blue-black horizon.

  Taziri grinned. I wish you could see this, Isoke. I know you’d love it. Then she thought back to her days in the Air Corps and said, “Ladies and gentleman, sit back and relax. We’ll be in Carthage by morning. I hope you enjoy the flight, and thank you for flying on the Halcyon III.”

  Chapter 4

  The seats in the private compartment were very comfortable. Too comfortable. Shifrah shifted her buttocks, but everywhere she settled was soft and forgiving and threatened to mold to her contours. She wanted to sit up, to be poised and ready, to know that she could simply move properly if she had to. But the Mazigh upholstery wasn’t made for any of that.

  Through the window to her right, the Atlas Mountains were already receding into the distance beneath the midnight stars and the Numidian countryside spread out beside the train, and in the distant north a pale glimmer betrayed the Middle Sea rolling in against the shore.