Terra Mechanica: A Steampunk Anthology (28 page)

Regardless of her impressive credentials, flying was more often than not a rather boring, benign task, though Marina would never admit to that. She and her father had together pioneered the invention of an automated coordinate system—Marina had lived and breathed it for years—so lounging in the diminutive cockpit regulating changes in wind speed was often less than trivial. However, it was not something she ever took for granted.

She was the best, if only because of her “accessories.” After her accident those many years ago, her father had built for her a manually movable, lightweight prosthetic for her tiny figure. It was clunky, but it was light enough and maintained whatever position she put it into, so she was able to hold a pencil and learn to write, among other activities. But it had inspired the inventing side of her father, and over the years he had built her an array of removable arm extensions, each of them more innovative than the last.

When she was twelve, she began building her own. And when they had together invented a design for a better flying machine, Marina adapted her arm to that, too, a new dream of piloting her own Zeppelin burning in her adolescent mind. Together, they had spent much of the Great War building small planes and other aircraft for the war effort, using their meager funds to breathe life into their splendid designs.

Their plans had been elaborate, often too grand for reality, but with their combined ingenuity, they ended up with something truly fantastic: an engine of enormous proportions, powered by a tank filled with filtered water drawn directly from the ocean. Ranks of oil burners would line the bottom. The channeled steam would power the outside propellers.

Overall, they created a ship of fantastic size and ability, capable of hauling weapons, cargo, or even passengers; one that wasn’t hindered by typical weight limitations or other constraints.

It had been near completion when Marina was orphaned during the Russian Revolution, her father a victim of senseless rioting. Instead of becoming disillusioned, she had clung to their dream with more vigor, completing the project on her own and naming it the
Nikita
, after her father.

Only Marina could pilot the airship. She flew with her amputated arm attached to the console, freeing her, in a way. Earthbound, in her homeland, she was an oddity, preferring the marvel of machines to the advances of men. She slowly lost her friends and remaining family and their preoccupation with the more frivolous things in life, while she simply became more and more consumed in her work.

But in the air, she obtained the control she had so desperately desired. It was an odd sort of vanity that had pushed her to design the
Nikita
with only herself capable of driving it. Instead of a steering wheel, an insert allowed her to intrinsically “feel” the controls through her phantom limb. In becoming one with the ship, she set herself free.

Though relations between the Soviet Union and much of the world were tenuous, at best, it did little to curb international trade. Money was money. It didn’t matter who was buying or selling, as long as there was profit to be made.

Alone, she lounged lazily in her pilot’s chair, tossing with her free hand a small, metal gear into the air, over and over for idle entertainment, while her other arm remained attached to the central steering mechanism. Marina barely reacted when a knock flitted at the closed door. “Come in.”

A man entered—Artur, she recalled absently, one of two attendants she had hired to maintain the engine room. They and a cook made up the small band serving as Marina’s latest crew. After nearly ten years of working as a freelancer, she had developed a respectable clientele, most of whom resided within her own country, but at times, such as now, beyond those borders.

Most of her profit was given to the government, the newly coined “Soviet Union,” and though she was left with mere change at times, it was the price she found herself paying under the new regime.

“Captain Silvestrov,” Artur began, “I was told to inform you that all supplies are secure and that everything is proceeding smoothly.”

Marina raised an eyebrow. “So you climbed all the way up here to tell me that there’s no news?”

“I . . .” Artur stuttered. “Yes.”

“Brilliant,” Marina said, her tone deadpan.  “Now kindly go make yourself useless somewhere else.”

Artur nodded curtly before exiting. Marina returned to throwing the gear up in the air, but accidentally missed catching it and grimaced as it fell to the ground just out of reach.

Marina stared at it blankly for a moment. “Artur?” she yelled. “Artur, come back and be useful.”

There was no response, which meant he either ran once he left her, or he purposefully ignored her. Despite one of the options being blatant insubordination, Marina couldn’t quite blame him for his actions. She sighed and, after peering out the window to see if they were still on the correct path, detached herself from the control deck and dropped down to grab her piece of benign entertainment.

Their first stop, just a few weeks into the long journey, was Singapore. With only marginal interest, Marina had overseen the acquisition of food and other necessities for her small crew. Her attention was far more focused on the oversized leather gloves she always donned during stops. Concerned stares focused on her mechanical extension became a bore after a while.

Their main destination was Sydney, Australia; a delivery of Russian caviar and the finest French wine to a rich European ambassador, Sir James Elliot. Once they were paid, they would continue their triangle route until they reached Seattle, Washington, where a shipment of vacuum tubes awaited them. Those would be sold again in Russia, and thus the cycle went.

In the end, there was far too much time to think. Most of her lonely thoughts fell to family.

Had she accompanied her father to the market, perhaps it would have been different. . .

Her first thoughts are never of self-preservation
—
when Marina hears the gunfire and the screaming, she runs outside into the sooty, humid air, watching in horror as the sea of people scatter in fear. A baby’s cry interrupts her panic. Marina steps back inside, locking the door before rushing to her infant sister’s cradle and lifting her into her arms.

“Hush, little one,” Marina coos tenderly. Her beating heart becomes frantic as she hears the noises from outside grow louder, closer . . . Placing the screaming baby back into bed, she begins to barricade the door, ignoring the pained cries from the crowd, the occasional banging on her door, even the increasing gunfire in the street. She quickly runs back to Larissa and holds the infant close to her chest, praying her own erratic heartbeat won’t be sensed by the tiny child in her arms.

Larissa’s cries soon quiet to a gentle whimper, and the two stay in the far corner of their small, thankfully windowless home, protected by any potential stray gunfire by the bedframe between them and the door.

In truth, she knows. The absence that fills her soul is undeniable. From the first shot of gunfire, she knows instinctively that they will not be returning. Her step-mother and . . . her heart clenches at the thought. Her father is dead.

And so when they simply never return, she accepts it with a quiet dignity, though many silent tears are shed. Marina later learns the reason, how the assassination of the Czar had brought about rioting and further death, how they were to accept a new leader now, a new name, a new country . . .

Marina cares for none of that, cares not what banner she flies under, what leader she salutes. She yearns only for the family she’s lost.

Marina and her crew stayed in Sydney for several days, both to restock supplies and to cure their brewing cabin fever. While in the city, she kept an eye out for possible gift ideas for Larissa, but there was nothing within her meager budget that she wouldn’t be able to purchase just as easily in Leningrad.

And so, fully stocked, but with an empty cargo hold, they set back onto the ocean and toward Seattle.

At nearly midnight, Marina debated whether to trust the wind and get some rest, when a stiff knock on the door interrupted her train of thought. “Come in.”

Artur entered; Marina could count on one hand the amount of times she’d seen him since that first day. “Captain, we have a problem,” he said hurriedly. “There’s a stowaway on board.”

Marina’s eyes widened in shock. “We’re three days out from shore. How could anyone have hidden themselves for that long?”

The man shrugged. “We caught him sneaking out from the kitchens—Viktor has him tied up in the cellar.” Viktor was the cook; Marina had to consciously remind herself that. “I was sent to ask for your orders.”

Marina detached herself from the control deck and, after quickly perusing her options, grabbed a frightening-looking hook from the wall. “Lead the way,” she said, attaching the extension to the stump of her arm.

She followed the airman down the stairs, past the crew quarters, and to the kitchen. There, she saw Viktor and Grigory, her hired muscle. “Captain,” Grigory said in curt greeting. Viktor was too focused on the door.

“I’ll speak with our stowaway; let me in.”

They quickly stepped aside. Marina forced what she hoped was an intimidating expression. She flung open the door.

Confusion flooded her features as her eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. She leaned over to Grigory. “He’s just a kid,” she whispered.

“I’m not a kid!” came the indignant reply.

His accent was foreign, but his Russian seemed fluent. Feeling considerably more confident, Marina stepped inside. “What are you doing on my ship?” The boy, with his unruly blonde hair and soft eyes, simply watched her, tight-lipped and wary. He was tied to a chair in the middle of the expansive cellar.

“I know you can understand me.” Marina took another step forward, then grabbed a barrel and set it in front of him. She took a seat while making a show of inspecting her glinting hook, taking malicious joy in the flash of fear that crossed the stowaway’s features. She decided to play the part even further. “Tell me why I shouldn’t simply throw you overboard and save myself the paperwork.”

The boy’s eyes grew wide. “Please, ma’am, I just . . . I needed a ride.”

“Cute. But not good enough.”

“If you could just let me speak to the captain, m-maybe we could come to some kind of agreement.”

Marina raised an eyebrow. “I hope you weren’t expecting someone taller.”

“You’re the captain? But you’re a—” The look Marina gave him was deadly. “. . . you’re young.”

“Good save.” Marina leaned back in her chair. “What is your name, kid?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Roy. And I’m not a kid; I’m seventeen!”

“You’re seventeen? But you’re . . .”—she gave him a mocking pout—“. . . kind of short.”

“I’m sitting—”

“You’re simply full of terrible excuses, it seems. I’m still anxiously awaiting your reasons for sneaking aboard my ship.”

Roy huffed loudly. “I don’t appreciate you mocking me.”

“Are you
really
in a position to question my methods of interrogation right now?” Marina absently flashed her hook in the faint light.