“Not to be expected, in hindsight,” Arnaud said. “He is no doubt doing as ordered, and staying hidden in the clouds, waiting for our flare.”
“Our flare,” Nathanial said. “You mean the ones Thymon was carrying?”
Arnaud closed his eyes. “Merde. I do believe those would be the flares in question.” He clapped his hands together. “A nice dilemma, we have here.”
“We could head north,” Annabelle said. “I am in favour of anywhere but here.”
“Agreed,” said Nathanial. He squinted at the sun. Call that the west, he decided. North was where the British colony on Victoria Plateau was, wasn’t it? “That way, if you please, my dear,” he said, pointing with as much confidence as he could muster.
“You haven’t a clue, have you?” Annabelle said.
Nathanial’s shoulders sagged. “Not a one.”
“Fair enough,” Annabelle said cheerfully. She cracked the reins and the opeme surged forward.
“Wait!” she cried. “Look over there, I saw a light.”
“Oh lovely, let’s chase lights in the sky,” said Nathanial. “That worked out so well last time.”
“Hush,” Annabelle said. “I’ve a good feeling about this one.”
“Tenth time is the charm, to quote the man at the roulette wheel,” Arnaud said.
The opeme banked to lose altitude and headed towards Annabelle’s light. It was in the top layer of a cloud and getting brighter.
They were almost over the light when its source was revealed as a balloon with a string of lanterns around its gondola. It rose out of the cloud, dragging a cable behind it. As they dropped down to its level, they could see a man standing in the basket, a sextant in his hand.
Annabelle wheeled the opeme around the basket, close enough to see the proverbial whites of the fellow’s eyes.
Forbes-Hamilton screamed.
“Here now, sir, it is simply us,” Nathanial called.
A bit of back and forthing and multiple assurances later, Forbes-Hamilton agreed to let them attempt an aerial transfer.
Nathanial felt he was getting altogether too adept at those.
Once secure in the basket, Annabelle waved a melancholy farewell to her opeme.
“I’ll get you a parrot for your wedding, promise,” said Nathanial.
“I can’t really explain it,” said Annabelle. “We had a bit of a bond. I mean, not to go all patting myself on the back, but that transfer was a bit of tricky flying.”
“It was at that,” Nathanial said. Did the girl have some sort of control over that beast, like Collins had over the Therians? If so, that raised a host of questions, most of which would sadly remain unanswered. Or perhaps it was just the chocolate biscuits.
“My apologies,” Forbes-Hamilton said. “Welcome to my auxiliary navigation platform.” He coughed gently. “I found myself in the need of a sextant shot. But we can descend back to the Aeronaut now.”
“Ah, a bit of trouble with the inertial navigation system?” Arnaud asked.
“More like with the confounded difference engine the Navy issued me. Free and worth every penny. If it hadn’t stopped working, I’d still be safely hidden in the cloud deck, not up here…” Forbes-Hamilton looked around at his fellow passengers. “I mean to say, it was a fortuitous event, was it not?”
“Indeed it was,” Nathanial said. “Now then, shall we descend back to your exquisite airship?”
Forbes-Hamilton beamed. “Why, of course! Just in time for dinner. My mum’s stew recipe. Well, with rather more dinosaur meat than Mum used, but frankly one can’t tell the difference.”
“Perhaps some other time,” Nathanial said.
END
Next:
“The Forever Journey”
I Knew a Real Victorian Adventurer
A Dedication
Once upon a time, I knew a real Victorian Girl Adventurer. Janet Parish-Whittaker was an incredibly bright, creative, funny, adventuresome, gutsy and possibly most importantly, caring and giving woman. She was also my best friend, collaborator and wife.
I lost her on May 10th, 2011 to her fourth round of cancer in her all too brief life.
But she would be the first to eschew the role of the wan girl who passes daintily away so the Heroic Lead can look all mopey afterwards. Despite having had four cancers, chronic rheumatoid arthritis, uncontrolled seizures for a year, complete heartblock requiring a pacemaker, and various other maladies like hypothyroidism, she had a successful music and teaching career. Her work with Harry Castle (who also passed far too early) was one of the honorees at the ’97 International Council on Computer Music, which found her traveling to Thessaloniki during the middle of a crippling arthritis attack.
Sure, she wasn’t well. But she didn’t just sit at home, either. Among other things, we journeyed across the USA in a fabric and wood plane, hacked our way up an ice slope on Mt. Whitney, explored Denali park, flew the Yukon, and stalked the night time streets of Paris, where she found an old homeless Greek guitarist to sing with. She took every second of life, perhaps because she knew she probably wouldn’t have a full life span.
But she would never, ever allow herself to be labeled as “that poor sick girl.” “Don’t call me a survivor!” she’d say. “I’m just muddling along!”
Annabelle Somerset would recognize a kindred spirit, I like to think.
Janet was also a complete and utter geek. Cute and cuddly geek, mind you. Her father tells me that when a little girl, she would hack his Apple IIe in order to get all the high scores on Star Trek. Her geekdom was an eclectic one that stretched from Dr. Who to Victorian romances. Like all geek newlyweds, we combined our libraries and traded our favorite books. I introduced her to Ellison and Niven, and she in kind introduced me to the Brontes and Austen.
So, when the day came that we discovered Space: 1889, we both fell in love. Years before steampunk became a “thing,” we’d sit around the gaming table spinning tales of journeys into space with the appropriate amount of Victorian panache. She played many characters, but our mutual favorite was Miss Prudence Postlethwaite, a governess given the duty of keeping her wayward charge from throwing herself at every eligible set of muttonchops in the solar system. Janet would pin her hair up in a bun and wear her very best cameo broach for her “performances.” She couldn’t escape her cuteness, though, no matter how sternly she tried to look over her glasses.
She would have loved the notion of actually working on the series. Certainly, she was often the one who drove me to write, not in some ethereal sense of her being a “muse,” but in the very real sense of coming up with story ideas, finding markets, and poking me with a knitting needle as necessary. To be honest, some years ago, I’d just about given up on the notion of ever writing professionally. Some wives would have said supportive things, sure. Janet, on the other hand, simply went onto my computer, picked a story she thought was decent enough and submitted it for me to an international contest. She didn’t tell me about what she’d done until she handed me the phone with the contest director on the other end offering congratulations.
That contest was where I had the fortune to meet Steve Savile, whose friendship and mentoring I’ve cherished over the last few years. And that led to the chance to work with the man himself in one of my favorite fictional universes. It doesn’t get better than that. I just wish Janet could be part of it, too.
But then again, in a very real sense, she is.
Good night Miss Postlethwaite, wherever you are.
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Leviathans in the Clouds Page 14
