Ghosts of Engines Past Read online

  GHOSTS OF ENGINES PAST

  by

  SEAN MCMULLEN

  Published by ReAnimus Press

  Other books by Sean McMullen:

  Colours of the Soul

  © 2013 by Sean McMullen. All rights reserved.

  http://ReAnimus.com/authors/seanmcmullen

  Cover Art by Jim Burns, design by Julian Nagy

  Licence Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Table of Contents

  1. EIGHT MILES

  2. THE CONSTANT PAST

  3. THE SPIRAL BRIAR

  4. THE ART OF THE DRAGON

  5. VOICE OF STEEL

  6. THE PHARAOH'S AIRSHIP

  7. TOWER OF WINGS

  8. SVYATAGOR

  9. DRAGON BLACK

  10. NINETY THOUSAND HORSES

  11. ELECTRICA

  12. STEAMGOTHIC

  CREDITS AND AWARDS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1. EIGHT MILES

  It is 1840. Balloons were the only way to fly, and air safety standards were the stuff of science fiction.

  This is about a frontier that is only eight miles away—straight up. Nineteenth Century balloons were quite advanced machines, and could go way higher than was safe. The trick was defining what was safe. I was inspired to write this story by a very dramatic 1862 engraving of the balloon pioneers James Glaisher and Henry Coxwell, hovering at about 36,000 feet and only moments from death. They lived, but others died before people worked out that five miles was risky, six miles was a very bad idea, and seven miles was suicide. Our narrator, Mister Harold Parkes, has eight miles on the job statement. His balloon can do it, he cannot, but he's British so that's not going to stop him. This story defines classic steampunk for me. It is full of Victorian optimism and ill-informed bravery, and the balloon and steam technology works. Do not try this at home, however; the air safety standards were written for a lot of good reasons.

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  Consider a journey of eight miles. One could walk it in less than an afternoon, in a carriage it would take an hour, or one could conquer the distance in one of Stevenson's steam trains in fifteen minutes or less. Set two towers eight miles apart, and a signal may be transmitted by flashing mirrors in less time than modern science is able to measure. Eight miles is not all that it used to be, yet seek to travel eight miles straight up and you come to a frontier more remote than the peaks of Tibet's mountains or the depths of Africa's jungles. It is a frontier than can kill.

  My journey of eight miles began in London, in the spring of 1840. At that time I was the owner and operator of a hot air balloon. It was reliable, robust and easy to fly, and I provided flights to amuse the jaded and idle rich. It was a fickle income, but when I had clients, they paid well for novelty.

  Lord Cedric Gainsley was certainly rich, and when his card arrived I assumed that he wished to hire my balloon to impress some friends with a flight above London. I kept it packed aboard a waggon to launch from wherever the clients wished. Its open wicker car could carry six adults, indeed the idea of six people of mixed sexes packed in close proximity seemed to add to the allure of a balloon flight.

  My first moments in Gainsley's London rooms told me that he was no ordinary client. The walls of the parlour were decorated by maps alternating with sketches of mountain peaks and ruins. The butler showed me into a drawing room completely lined with books. This was nothing unusual, for many gentlemen bought identical collections of worthy books to display to visitors. At that time it was also fashionable to collect, so Gainsley collected. In and on display cases were preserved insects, fossil shells, mineral crystals, old astronomical instruments, clocks dating back to the Fourteenth Century, lamps from the Roman Empire, and coins from ancient Greece. Seven species of fox were represented by stuffed specimens.

  As I began to look through Gainsley's library, however, I realised that many books had been heavily used, to the point of being grubby. They were mainly concerned with the natural sciences.

  “Does geology interest you?”

  I turned to see a tall man of perhaps forty handing a top hat to the butler. He wore a black tail coat with a fashionably narrow waist, but was just slightly unkempt. A rich man who did not want to draw attention to himself might look that way.

  “Geology—you mean the books?”

  “Yes, they made me rich. I learned to tell when minerals were present, in places where other men saw only wilderness.”

  The butler cleared his throat.

  “Lord Cedric Gainsley, may I introduce Mister Harold Parkes,” he improvised, not entirely sure of the protocol when the baron had opened the conversation first.

  “Thank you Stuart. Now have Miss Angelica ready and waiting for my summons.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Once we were alone, Gainsley waved at a crystal brandy decanter and told me to make myself at home. He paced before the fireplace as I poured myself a glass, and showed no interest in a drink for himself. I took a sip. It was very good, far better than I was used to.

  “How high may your balloon ascend, Mister Parkes?” he asked.

  “I take pleasure seekers a mile above London,” I began. “My rates—”

  “Your rates are not a problem for me. Could you ascend, say, two miles?”

  I blinked.

  “At two miles the air is thin and cold, sir. Besides, the view of London is not as good as from a lower altitude.”

  “Two miles, and hold that height for six hours.”

  I blinked again. Pleasure flights seldom lasted more than one hour. People got bored. More to the point, the balloon needed to carry fuel for its burner to maintain the supply of hot air. That was a constraint.

  “I must ask some questions, sir. How many passengers, what weight will they total, and what weight of food and drink will they carry? You see, to stay aloft for so long, the balloon must carry some fuel to keep the air heated. With the weight of fuel for six hours, I may not even be able to get off the ground.”

  “Yourself, myself, a young woman of one hundred and forty pounds, and food and drink not exceeding ten pounds. Nothing more.”

  “Then it is possible, but not certain.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nothing in ballooning is certain. Above us is a dangerous and unforgiving frontier.”

  Gainsley thought about this for a time.

  “You are a man of science, Mr Parkes, like me. You invented the mercury ascent barometer, and you calibrated it to five miles.”

  “With the help of Green and Rush, yes. They took it on their record breaking flight some months ago.”

  “Yet you are in difficult circumstances.”

  “There is not a big market for ascent barometers. Many of my other inventions turned out to be impractical, but proving them impractical nearly bankrupted me. Pleasure flights are not my preferred career, but they are lifting me out of debt.”

  I had once had visions of becoming the George Stephenson of the skies by inventing the airborne train, and I spent all my money installing a purpose-built Cornish steam engine with small windmill blades beneath a hot air balloon. Alas, although it did drive the balloon in any direction on a calm day, in wind it was useless. As I found out, a balloon is effectively a huge sail, and the wind was more than a match for any steam engine small enough to be carried aloft.

  “M
r Parkes, my flights are to be no pleasure jaunt, and I need an innovative balloonist, one who can solve technical problems as they arise,” Gainsley now explained. “I intend to study the effects of extreme altitude on a very special person. I will pay you fifty pounds for each ascent, and I shall also pay for the fuel to inflate your balloon with hot air. My condition is that you work for nobody else while in my hire, and that you exercise absolute discretion regarding the flights and the nature of my research.”

  His rates were certainly better than I was currently making from pleasure flights, in fact as a business proposition it was too good to be true. Once I had agreed, he pulled at a red velvet tassel that hung beside the fireplace. The butler appeared within moments.

  “My lord?”

  “Stuart, fetch Miss Angelica now.”

  Angelica was a young woman a little below average height, with a delicate, angular face. She was wearing a dark blue woolen cloak and close fitting bonnet, but I could see nothing more of her attire. There was something odd about her eyes. They were listless, almost lacking in life.

  “Miss Angelica has been in my service for some months,” said Gainsley. “I named her Angelica because she comes from very high altitudes.”

  “A fallen angel?”

  “Quite so, it is my little joke. Now then, put your glass down, make sure you are seated comfortably, and prepare yourself for a shock.”

  Gainsley unpinned her cloak and let it fall to the floor. Such were my expectations that it took some moments to realise that she was neither clothed nor naked. Angelica was covered in fine, dark brown fur, except for her face. She had three pairs of breasts, each no larger than that of a girl in early pubescence. Her chest was surprisingly broad and deep, however, and I would estimate that her lung capacity was greater than mine. Her ears were pointed, in the manner of a fox. I sat staring for some time.

  “Well?” asked Gainsley.

  The young woman showed no sign of shame, which was a very strong clue. She was probably used to being on display.

  “I have seen the like before,” I replied uneasily.

  “Indeed? Where?”

  “At fairgrounds, in the novelty tents. Women with beards, boys with six and seven fingers, I have even seen a child with two heads. By some accident of birth the human template was not applied to them correctly by nature. For this young lady, it is the same.”

  “You are wrong,” said Gainsley. “She is a werefox, for the lack of a better word. She speaks no language, sleeps on the floor, and is not familiar with clothing.”

  I managed not to make a reply, which is just as well because it would surely have been sarcastic.

  “You clearly do not share my opinion?” he prompted.

  “Indeed not sir.”

  “Then how would you account for her condition?”

  “A feral child, abandoned by her parents. She was born covered in fur, so they cast her out. Perhaps wild beasts raised her.”

  “I thought that too, at first. I did indeed find her in a fairground. Her manager said she had been bought from a dealer, who also sold dancing bears. When she was captured in India's northern mountains she had been more active and entertaining, she could even do little tricks. At low altitudes she became very lethargic, however, and was only of value as a passive curiosity. It was not until some days later that I realized the truth. I returned to the fair and bought her.”

  “And what is that truth?”

  “The girl is adapted to very great altitudes. At sea level the richness of the air overwhelms her, much as a diet of that brandy would overwhelm either of us. I believe there is a whole race of humans who live on the highest of mountains, adapted to the thin air.”

  The idea was fantastic. I looked back to the girl. Her lungs were certainly large in proportion to her body, and the fur would have protected her from the cold.

  “I am not sure what role you have planned for me,” I said at last. “I know nothing of mountaineering.”

  “Ah, but your balloon will be a substitute for the mountains. A trip to India would take years, but my business interests do not allow me to leave England for more than days. Your balloon can take us two miles high in... how long?”

  “Twenty minutes, perhaps thirty. It depends on the load.”

  “Splendid. We can do the flight above my estate, north of London, and be down in time for dinner. At two miles I can observe how Angelica reacts to thin air and cold. If it restores her senses, I might even be able to speak with her, to question her about her people.”

  Gainsley helped Angelica back into her cloak, then rang for the butler to escort her away. Once we were alone again he walked over to the window and gestured to the crowded street outside.

  “Look upon my prosperous neighbors, Mister Parkes,” he said. “Merchants, bankers, financiers, landed gentry. What do they do, other than grow rich and live well?”

  “Visit the theatre, attend the races, go to balls?” I guessed. “Some take balloon rides above the races, that is all the fashion just now.”

  “Theatre, balls, races,” Gainsley muttered, shaking his head. “Within a year of their deaths such people are all but forgotten. I want to be like Isaac Newton, James Cook or Joseph Banks, I want to be remembered for discovering something stupendous. Miss Angelica will make my name.”

  “You have lost me, sir.”

  “I have a theory, Mr Parkes. In my theory of adaptive morphology I assert that humans take other physical forms under extremes. For example in polar regions they may become seals if they dwell there too long.”

  “The silkie legend of the Scots: people turning into seals.”

  “Yes, and I think that extreme altitudes might render us into a form like that of Angelica.”

  Gainsley's estate was not far to the north of London, and he sent his draught horses to draw my transport wagon there. Kelly and Feldman were my tending crew, and they spent most of the night setting the frame, and unpacking and checking the balloon itself. I was up two hours before dawn, adjusting my altitude barometer and installing it in the wicker car.

  Inflating a balloon on the ground is not a problem. One has unlimited fuel to supply the hot air, and to keep that hot air maintained. Once aloft, it is a different matter. The little furnace in the wicker car is fuelled by lamp oil that the balloon must carry, so this oil must be used sparingly. It was the work of a half hour to inflate the bag sufficiently that it stood up by itself, then I sent word to the manor house that we were ready to ascend. Gainsley emerged with Angelica, leading her by a chain attached around her waist. She was dressed in the manner of a boy.

  We rose very rapidly, drifting right over the roof of the manor house. The wind was southerly and very light, and the sky was clear. At first Gainsley made a big show of looking over the side and exclaiming at the sight of his estate, far below. He almost seemed to forget why we were there, and chattered about ascending with an artist next time, to have his lands painted from above. I had the barometer calibrated to display altitude in quarters of miles. At a mile and a half Gainsley suddenly remembered why he had paid for the ascent.

  “A mile and one half, almost eight thousand feet,” he said, peering at my barometer.

  “We are ascending slowly, at about five miles per hour,” I reported.

  “Six minutes from the prescribed height,” he replied. “Angelica was apparently found at eleven thousand feet. Can you hold that altitude?”

  “That I can, sir. Bleeding a little hot air from the balloon will reduce our buoyancy and stabilize our height.”

  I released some hot air, and we continued to ascend but at a much slower rate. According to my barometer, we settled at twelve thousand feet. By my estimate we were drifting north north east at three miles per hour. The direction of the wind was different up here.

  It was at this altitude that the visions began. Actually the term visions does not do them justice, they were more like memories that were not mine being implanted in my mind. I seemed to have walked beside ca
nals built across deserts of red sand beneath an unnaturally dark blue sky with a pale and tiny sun. In the distance I could see a city, but it was more of a metropolis of immense crystals of saltpeter, feldspar and quartzite than like London.

  I had paid Angelica no attention until now, being occupied with tending the furnace, checking the barometer, and monitoring the direction and progress of our drift relative to the ground. It was Gainsley who took me by the arm and pointed to her. Angelica had begun the ascent sitting on the floor of the wicker car, paying no heed to what was going on around her. Now she was on her feet, looking over the edge of the car. As I watched, she turned away and scrutinized my altitude barometer. For a full minute at least she stared at the mercury, then she raised a hand slowly before making a horizontal chopping motion.

  “Sign language,” said Gainsley. “She is telling us that she understands what is happening. We have been rising, but now we have stopped.”

  “More than that,” I said with a very odd prickle in my skin. “She understands my altitude barometer on first viewing.”

  In London, at sea level, Angelica had showed not the slightest interest in the machines and furniture that surrounded her. Even the mechanics of doors were beyond her. Now she was able to read a barometer, and that ability was beyond ninety-nine in every hundred of my fellow Britons.

  I noticed her eyes. For the first time they were alert, calculating, even intelligent.

  “Angelica, can you hear me?” asked Gainsley.

  At the sound of her assigned name she turned her head.

  “Angelica, speak to me,” urged Gainsley. “Speak. Speak English, French, Hindi, anything.”

  He put a hand to his ear, to signify that he expected an answer. Angelica did not reply.

  At the pace of a slow walk we drifted over the countryside. Far below I could see farmhouses and other manors. Gainsley continued to coax and question Angelica. She proved disappointing. He showed her pictures of mountains, foxes and even a sketch of herself. She displayed vague interest, but did not speak.