Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War (37 page)

Buckle, his boots crunching in the snow, his eyes glazing momentarily as they adjusted to the night and the sputtering flames of the Tehachapi stronghold’s street lanterns, spun around to face her. “They are fools!” Buckle shouted. “Damned fools!”

Elizabeth smiled empathetically with her perfect teeth; she laughed at Buckle and his passionate outbursts often, but always managed to mollify rather than anger him with her amusement. Elizabeth had a stately face, one harboring beauty, strength, and
kindness. Her eyes, light brown and quick, were framed by the auburn hair resting lightly on her shoulders, the red tints afire with the oranges emanating from a lamp overhead. She was ever-so-slightly plump, and it made her buxom, but also imparted to her face a softness that might make one forget how relentless a negotiator she was—but only for a moment.

“I do not think that Balthazar shares your thirst for exploration, dear brother.” Elizabeth sighed.

“And so we purchase another penny-pinching, fat-hulled tramp steamer?” Buckle asked, exasperated, though he felt his anger ebbing away. He released his hand from a death grip on his scabbard, stretching his knotted fingers. “We need to push the frontiers, to range out, Elizabeth. If we do not crack new trading routes into the borderlands, into the Eastern Pale and beyond the Offing, somebody else will crack them first. And you cannot explore new territory with tramps. We need fast traders and clippers.”

“You are calming down, yes?” Elizabeth said, stepping out into the street and letting the door groan shut behind her. The door was decorated with a big pair of elk antlers—everything in Tehachapi was decorated with antlers. Elizabeth had a far cooler head on her shoulders than Buckle, which was why Balthazar had enlisted her into his diplomatic corps along with Ryder. “How about we stroll back into Pinyon Hall and you can apologize to the grand old men for your outburst, shall we? They are not too insulted anyway, so used are they to your strenuous protestations from time to time, son of Balthazar.”

“Not yet,” Buckle said. “I am not so proper nor astute as you. I am going to take a walk. You get inside—you are not dressed to be out here.”

Elizabeth took hold of Buckle’s arm and, leaning up on her tiptoes, for she was not as tall as he, planted a warm kiss on his cheek.
Then she released him and stepped back, crossing her arms. “Despite your serious shortcomings, I do so love you, dear brother of mine.”

“And I love you, too, sister.”

“Leave it to me to smooth things over in your absence, as usual,” Elizabeth said with an exaggerated sigh. “I shall collect some of Mother’s cakes from the pantry. Cherry pastries and coffee tend to soften the old fellows up a bit.”

“And tell them we need a clipper!” Buckle howled over his shoulder, already striding away, street slush squishing under his boots.

“Oh, my dear, poor Romulus,” Elizabeth shouted after him. “Always, always a little too brash.”

“Good night, Sister,” Buckle said. He glanced back and saw her watching after him, her face gentle and beautiful as it always was, warmed by her bemused smile. She lifted her hand and waved. He waved back. She was everything to Buckle, his confidant, loyal friend, and sympathetic ear, and he could never, no matter how delicate she might appear from time to time, ever shake the feeling that she was destined for something big.

Buckle walked away. Of course he did not know it, but that would be the last time he would see Elizabeth alive.

“Heading due west, Captain,” Sabrina said. “Three thousand feet.”

Buckle blinked. West. He stepped to the chadburn and grabbed the handle, slamming it back and forward, ringing the bell as he planted the needle on all ahead full.

“All ahead full,” Buckle shouted.

Elizabeth was somewhere to the west.

NEW BERLIN

B
UCKLE SCANNED A METEOROLOGICAL MAP
on the small chart table on the bridge, the lines and numbers stained yellow by stinkum and blotted with what looked like spilled coffee stains, half-studying the now near-useless old wind patterns of the mountainous region where New Berlin, the main Imperial stronghold, was located on the western cliffs of a valley known as the Ojai. Buckle had flown over this terrain once before, but it had been on a moonless night, the night the Crankshafts raided New Berlin, and the night he took the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
as a prize.

The piloting gondola was relatively quiet despite the number of crew stationed within it; the wind streamed past against the hull and overhead envelope with a constant rustle, the propellers and engines humming loudly from behind, the pigeons cooing gently in the signals room. Buckle peered out the round porthole over the chart table. The gray sky was particularly bright on this first day of February, and the rough ridges of the tree-furred mountains stood out in a stark relief of harsh greens, whites, and browns. With the engines at maximum and no headwind, the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
was making seventy knots. New Berlin would be coming into view at any moment.

The apprentice navigator, Darius Banerji, walked past, on his way to the nose to assist Wellington.

“Mister Banerji, a word, if you please, sir,” Buckle said.

Banerji spun on his heel and turned to face Buckle. He stood ramrod straight, frightened. He was of average height, quite thin, with dark-brown skin and a narrow face, and he was extremely intelligent. The young midshipman was a zeppelineer to the bone, bookish but also athletic, and he proudly wore the red kerchief around his neck, the privileged mark of a gun crew member. Somewhere in the back of Buckle’s mind he had already tagged Banerji for accelerated advancement into the officer ranks. “Yes, Captain,” he said.

“You have had a little time,” Buckle said. “Do you remember any more details regarding our saboteur?”

“No, sir, I am afraid not,” Banerji replied apologetically. “Other than that he was quite nimble, a true runner.”

“Very well,” Buckle said. He had not expected anything more—the poor apprentice navigator had already told his story several times to Sabrina, Valkyrie, and a host of junior investigating officers. “Take your post.”

Banerji hesitated, then said, “Captain, I am deeply sorry that I allowed the saboteur to escape, sir. I accept full responsibility. I failed, sir, but I would have sworn I potted him, Captain. I was sure I potted him.”

Buckle shook his head. “Do not consider your actions a failure. Do not give it another thought. A man fires a pistol in your face in the middle of the night, well, you have a right to be a bit punchy. You chased him off the ship. You acted well.”

“Thank you, sir,” Banerji replied, looking relieved, his eyes shining.

“Back to your post with you then, airman,” Buckle said.

“Aye, Captain,” Banerji said with a quick salute, and hurried forward.

Buckle had just enough time to return to his map when two pairs of boots came clomping down the circular staircase. Buckle looked past the marine now stationed at the landing to see Ivan and Valkyrie, both bringing the smell of machine oil and boiler heat with them, swinging down. Ivan’s face was pinched; Valkyrie looked as calm as ever.

“A word, Captain?” Ivan asked.

Buckle glanced at Ivan and groaned internally. Ivan had pulled his magnifying goggles on over both his good eye and the medical goggle covering his left eye, which produced a bug-eyed, off-kilter effect.

“Take the blasted goggles off first, Gorky,” Buckle said. “You look like a deformed dung fly.”

“The temporary chief engineer has only been aboard half a day, and already she is messing with the boilers, Captain,” Ivan muttered, lowering his goggles. “And I have taken exception. She is only temporary, sir.”

Buckle lowered his head. The skin stretching across the kraken wound was painful. “What do you mean,
messing with the boilers
?”

“Ah, she got ahold of Faraday and had him screw down the exhaust valves so they were tighter, then lowered the radiator scoops two degrees. She claimed it would improve our fuel burning efficiency.”

“Did you do this, Chief Engineer?” Buckle asked.

“Yes, I did,” Valkyrie replied. She saw Pushkin poke his furry head out of Ivan’s breast pocket, his eyes glistening. She gave Ivan a disapproving look.

“I suppose the boilers might explode when we ram the throttle, now,” Ivan whined. He had taken on the habit of clicking his metal fingers against each other when he was annoyed.

“Did her alteration improve efficiency?” Buckle asked.

Ivan’s eyes widened. “Perhaps, just a hair. Who knows? But it was not necessary.”

“Yes, it did improve burning efficiency,” Valkyrie offered. “I do know the best way to operate Imperial-built engine systems, Captain.”

“Our chief engineer Max would be hurt if you were known to be more wizardly with her engines than she is,” Buckle said, rolling up the chart and plunking it home in its leather case with a hollow
thunk
.

“She has done an excellent job with her systems, Captain, but there is always room for improvement,” Valkyrie said.

“Yes,” Buckle mused. “You are the chief engineer, of course, but perhaps it is best to leave things as they are, do you not agree?”

Valkyrie nodded, her blue eyes looking through him, not appearing in the least bit ruffled. Buckle wondered if she had any intention of obeying him at all.

“Captain Buckle!” Sabrina shouted. “New Berlin in sight, one point off the starboard bow, sir!”

Drawing his telescope from his hat, Buckle hurried up into the nose alongside Sabrina.

“New Berlin, dead ahead!” the lookout’s voice rattled down the chattertube from the crow’s nest.

Buckle felt a pang of annoyance as he looked forward, catching the distant patch of light gray against the greens, browns, and whites of the mountains before he lifted his glass to his eye. The barrelman—the forward lookout—should have
seen the city before Sabrina did. Through the telescope lens, the dot of New Berlin leapt closer, a light-colored, sprawling mass of buildings built into the side of a mountain and resting atop a cliff. It was a grand, well-designed city, a proud Founders-built colony long ago, before the Founders’ empire had fallen apart.

“Half full,” Buckle ordered.

“Half full. Aye, Captain,” Valkyrie repeated, cranking the chadburn and dinging the bell.

The propellers lowered their throaty roar, and Buckle felt the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
slow down as he glanced back at the helm. “We shall swing around the city to the north, Mister De Quincey. The airfield is on the north side.”

“Aye, aye,” De Quincey replied.

“Ambassador on the bridge!” the marine, a far-too-earnest corporal named Nyland, announced unnecessarily. Buckle glanced back to see the elderly Rutherford Washington exit the stairs onto the deck, wearing his fine white suit with its red ambassadorial sash and cummerbund.

“We are approaching New Berlin, Ambassador,” Buckle said warmly, covering up his lack of enthusiasm at having another idler on his deck.

Washington nodded with his usual gravity and sidestepped to the observer’s chair at the rear of the gondola. At least the old lion had sense enough to stay out of the way.

“Captain,” Sabrina said, and the odd tone of her voice made Buckle whip around. She had just lowered her telescope a hair beneath her green eyes, which were now beset with a quizzical, worried look as they mirrored the sunlight reflecting off the mountains of ice, and then jerked the glass back up again.

“What is it, Navigator?” Buckle asked.

“Captain,” Sabrina replied, her voice low and serious, “the Founders are here.”

“What?”

“An airship moored at the airfield. The closest one to the city. The silver phoenix, sir,” Sabrina whispered.

Buckle raised his telescope. There was no doubting Sabrina’s sharp eyes, but he had to see it for himself. He caught sight of the Founders phoenix on the flank of a pocket zeppelin moored among the Imperial airships on their terraced airfield.

“It surely is,” Buckle muttered. The Founders in New Berlin? Buckle had never heard of a Founders airship appearing outside their own city for the last fifty years—except, of course, to bomb Tehachapi and crash on a sabertooth-infested mountain. “Do you count more than one?”