Empire of Ruins (18 page)

The landscape was forested and flat, the mountains long behind them. If Mr. Socrates’ calculations were correct, they were traveling at over twenty-eight miles an hour. Not as fast as a train, but then, they never had to slow down for tricky terrain or a town. In yesterday’s sixteen-hour voyage, Modo calculated, they would have traveled nearly 448 miles.

By evening, the ground below looked like grassland and sandstone, with occasional shrubs tossed here and there. Modo spotted a hut with the spyglass, but there were no roads or other signs of inhabitants.

“Deserted,” Modo said. “We could be floating over the moon.”

“There are stock riders and duffers down there,” Lizzie said harshly.

Modo couldn’t tell if her tone was defensive or if she always spoke that way. “And jumbuckers, too,” she added.

“Yes, there are sheep down there and, one must presume, sheep herders,” Mr. Socrates noted. “Lizzie’s correct, but she sometimes forgets that we don’t all know the secret language of the bush.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Socrates,” she barked. “I shall use fancy talk from this point forward.”

“Ah, Lizzie, that would be kind of you,” Mr. Socrates said. “I should perhaps have told you all that Lizzie is the first of her tribe to be educated. A grand accomplishment.”

“But keep in mind, there are many different kinds of education,” she said, sounding a little hoity-toity. “And I’m half a breed, as polite society puts it. So perhaps it was my British side that took to the kind of education of which Mr. Socrates speaks.”

“Fancy talk, indeed,” laughed Mr. Socrates, “but never mind your education. You certainly are one of the most accomplished navigators and balloonists I have known. I remember how you’d carry gold from my mine to Sydney via balloon. Not one failed flight or missed deadline.”

“You were a miner?” Octavia asked Mr. Socrates.

“I was a mine owner, and that’s a long story. But it was where I first became aware of Lizzie’s talent for floating through the air.”

“It’s where I belong,” she said softly.

That night they anchored themselves to a spindly tree in a nearly barren forest beside a giant salt lake. The land around was grassy, sandy, and arid. Absolutely no sign of human life. The only visible living beings were birds in the water: some sort of stork. Tharpa and Mr. Socrates shot two
of the black-necked birds and the group dined on freshly cooked fowl. Modo was thankful that the night was much warmer than the previous. He dispensed with the buffalo blankets and used only a thin wool one.

The next morning Mr. Socrates awakened everyone early. “We’re going to push right through to our destination.”

Before the sun had crested the horizon, they were sailing through the sky again. After a couple of hours, mountains rose out of the earth and blue rivers flowed between them. Modo felt as though what was passing under him weren’t real. How could a mountain look so small?

As each hour ticked by, Mr. Socrates became more excited. He kept checking his instruments and staring through the spyglass. “We’re nearing the Pacific!” he shouted finally, and at that moment the humid scent of the ocean wafted through the air. Modo was warm and tempted to take off his cloak, but that would have left his hump visible.

By late afternoon the land below them was a beautiful shade of dark green, lush and thick. So thick that Modo couldn’t imagine how they’d land. Other than the occasional river, there didn’t seem to be even the slightest break in the foliage. He’d read about the creatures that lived in the rain forest. It must surely teem with life!

The firebox was set for the next half hour, so Modo went to the bow of the ship and tried to glimpse the Pacific, but it wasn’t visible yet. He also kept his eyes on a gray wall of forbidding clouds that had gathered in the west. They looked powerful enough to blow the airship out over the ocean.

Mr. Socrates unfolded the map to the Egyptian temple
and Modo shivered in anticipation. After all this time and travel, they were finally this close!

“Follow that river,” Mr. Socrates directed Lizzie.

She turned the ship and they were soon floating over a river that ran through a gorge.

“Everyone watch for lightning,” Mr. Socrates said. “We don’t want to be pinned on the end of Zeus’s bolts. We’d be blown to smithereens!” He said this with a chuckle, and Tharpa began to laugh.

“They are reliving their youths,” Octavia whispered to Modo, elbowing him in the ribs as though they were sharing a joke.

“So, see anything interesting?” she asked a moment later.

He saw
her
, that much he knew; her slightly upturned nose, her look of guile, the eye-catching freckles on her cheeks—he saw all these things. Despite lack of sleep and no proper washing facilities, her beauty had not diminished in the slightest. And the trousers just made her more … he searched for a good word … jaunty? Daring?

“All I see is the green earth and the blue—make that gray—sky,” he said.

“Are you feeling more comfortable at this height now?”

“I was never uncomfortable!” He kept his voice steady.

“Ah, I know you better than that, Modo. Remember, I crossed the Atlantic with you, all wobbly-legged from seasickness. Your legs look steadier today.”

“You judge me by my legs?” he said.

“Well, the mask hides your face, so I cannot judge you by your smile. Besides, they’re a fine example of legs.”

He blushed behind the mask. She was always playing
games with him: one moment angry, the next joking, then his closest friend and a confidante. Their conversations felt like chess games, and he was constantly three moves behind.

“Nice of you to notice,” he finally said. “Do you see anything out there?”

“Well …” She turned her gaze away from him and it was as if someone had turned off a spotlight. “There’s a bank of dark clouds on our left.”

“On the port side, you mean,” he corrected.

“Yes, yes, port. My apologies, Captain Modo. Ensign Milkweed can be such a dunce at times! There’s no lightning that I can see.” She squinted. “How high did Mr. Socrates say we were?”

“Right now? Three thousand feet above sea level.”

“Do you know how high hawks can fly?”

“No,” Modo said.

She pointed at the clouds. “What’s that?”

He followed her finger and for several seconds he thought she was seeing things. Then he spotted a black speck moving within the gray mass of clouds.

“Mr. Socrates!” Modo said, his voice quavering a little. It couldn’t be a hawk. The shape was all wrong. “There’s an object in the sky. Directly to port and forty-five degrees up.”

Mr. Socrates grabbed his spyglass. His face grew grim; his jaw tensed. “Tharpa, unlash the carbines!” he commanded. “We’re about to have visitors.”

I
n the few moments it took Tharpa to load his rifle and join them on the port side, the object had disappeared into a fold of clouds.

“What is it?” Modo asked.

“Adjust our course, Lizzie!” Mr. Socrates shouted as he folded the map and placed it in his rucksack. “Thirty-five degrees to starboard.” He loosened the flap on his pistol holster. “An airship, Modo. Hard to tell what type from this distance.”

“Were they flying a flag?” Octavia asked.

“No. Enough questions! Octavia, grab a carbine. See if your target practice has paid off. Modo, run up the Union Jack. It may be another vessel in Her Majesty’s service. Snap to!”

Modo snapped to. The flag dangled on a pulley rope that would draw it to the bottom of the
Prince Albert
’s car. He quickly pulled the rope and the Union Jack flapped in
the wind, clearly visible about ten feet below the car. It seemed like flimsy protection.

“Bring us up to four thousand feet!” Mr. Socrates commanded. Lizzie opened the valve that sent hydrogen into the outer balloon and they started to climb. “Eyes peeled, all of you.”

“More coal!” Lizzie bellowed.

Modo dumped coal directly into the firebox. He looked aft, scanning the clouds. No sign of the other vessel. He assumed the
Prince Albert
was climbing so that they’d have a better view of the sky, but if the balloon was pierced or otherwise damaged they’d have even farther to fall. Then again, three thousand feet or seven thousand—what would it matter? Either way they were dead.

“Higher, Lizzie!” Mr. Socrates shouted. “Push the beast to her limits!”

She adjusted a lever and the engine went from a rumbling roar to an ear-splitting thunder, steam and smoke spewing out of the stack, the propeller spinning madly. Modo had studied steam engines enough to know that the boiler could explode from too much pressure. How close were they to that? He’d be the first to be blown to pieces. Or at least thrown over the edge of the wicker car.

Mr. Socrates alternated between reading his dials and staring through his spyglass, while Tharpa and Octavia held the carbines, scanning the sky. The green rain forest below looked deceptively soft.

After several minutes of full speed, the wind pulling at Modo’s hood and the ground growing farther and farther away, Mr. Socrates lowered his spyglass. “Octavia,” he shouted, “make some tea, please.”

“Tea?” she replied, dumbfounded. “Now?”

“Yes, Octavia. We seem to have lost our guests, or they have fled at the sight of us. So, tea it is. Now, dear girl. Now.”

She leaned her Winchester against the railing and dropped the teapot over the steam vent. “High-society madness!” she grumbled.

“It’ll calm our nerves,” Modo whispered.

The hissing of the kettle eventually became a whistle. Modo shivered. It was getting colder the higher they ascended, so tea would be nice.

He heard a reverberating rumble and wondered if the
Prince Albert
’s engine was slowing down. He shoveled in more coal. The engine was running as quickly and loudly as it ever had. What was that noise?

“Do you hear that?” he asked Octavia.

“Hear what?” She lifted the pot from the steam vent and it stopped whistling.

A low bass grumble could be heard, louder than their own engine.

“Shut down the engine,” Mr. Socrates ordered. “It’s hot enough that we can start it up with a moment’s notice.”

Lizzie pushed a lever; the engine clunked and clanked to a stop, along with the propeller. The thundering was directly above them, and it made Modo’s very bones rattle. Only one thing could be making that noise. He leaned over the railing to crane his neck and see what was out there.

A shadow loomed over the
Prince Albert;
he could make out the edges of a massive conical balloon at least twice as large as theirs. Their pursuers had maneuvered themselves perfectly so that they were directly above the
Prince Albert
.

“Tharpa! Octavia! Ready your guns!” Mr. Socrates pulled his pistol from its holster.

Octavia set the pot on the floor, swept up her rifle, and leaned out of the car.

A hawklike screech echoed from below, and before Tharpa or Octavia could fire, the carbines were torn from their hands by two clockwork falcons. Modo’s last hope that somehow this was not the Clockwork Guild was gone.

“Start the engine, Lizzie!” Mr. Socrates charged over to twist dials on the hydrogen machine. “Hang on, everyone, we’re going to dive!”

Even as he spoke, a grappling hook swung down and hooked the wicker side of the car. It was followed by two more hooks, then four, and then there were at least six that Modo could count. The
Prince Albert
dropped a few feet and began to lurch back and forth. Then they were rising! The ship above actually had enough power to prevent them from diving!

Tharpa cut the rope of one hook; Modo grabbed a machete and cut another, then looked up to discover that the grappling hooks had jabbed into the exterior of the balloon itself, catching the netting. Hydrogen hissed out of several gashes.

Modo climbed up the side of the balloon, clinging to the netting as he hacked at the grappling-hook ropes. Above him, the enemy car was studded with metal, a sharp spur sticking straight out the front. If they had rammed the
Prince Albert
it would have easily punctured both the exterior and interior balloons. That could only mean they wanted Mr. Socrates and his group captured alive.

Goggled faces peered over the edge of the car above as
they threw down more grappling hooks. Modo heard a bang, and a bullet that had just missed him punctured the balloon instead. He nearly dropped the machete. Maybe the enemy
didn’t
want them alive! He chopped through the last rope and the
Prince Albert
dropped and jerked so hard he was flung into the open air, releasing the machete and letting out a shout. He was surprised when his fall stopped suddenly and he was hanging upside down, swinging beside the wicker car. He twisted his neck to see his legs tangled up in the netting. Octavia grabbed him by the cloak and she and Tharpa yanked him into the car.

“Good to have you aboard again,” Tharpa said.

“Modo, man the firebox!” Mr. Socrates shouted.

Modo took his position, not daring to even think about how he had nearly fallen to his death. As he shoveled, he glanced over the side; they were getting closer to the earth—two thousand feet, perhaps.