Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

Tobias nodded, hearing but not bothering to waste mental capacity on speech. He was rechecking his math and reimagining his diagrams, comparing them to the monstrosity a dozen feet away. Keating had asked for weaponized ground transport, and this was it—a steam-driven engine surrounded in armor plating. Or rather, it was a steel and brass dome on wheels, somewhat taller than it was wide, with enormous gunports on the roof. It had an extra knob on top, giving it the appearance of a huge covered dish. However, the knob was the greatest feature of the thing, because it allowed the contraption to fly. Then again, it could also explode the entire warehouse.

“Have you checked the aether distillers?” he asked McColl.

The man mopped his shining brow with a sleeve. “I had a look at ’em, guv, but I’m no expert.”

Tobias’s neck went rigid, and his temple throbbed—but he kept his tone civil. Decent workmen were in high demand all over London, and McColl was better than most. “If they’re not calibrated, they can drain power from the main engines. That could explain why nothing else will work.”

“All I know is that they were green and bubbly.”

Despite himself, Tobias’s tone went sharp. Bubbles meant the distiller was growing volatile. “How bubbly?”

“Like a good stout sir, with a bit of froth on top.”

Tobias’s heart lurched. There was no time even to curse. “Gloves!”

McColl stripped his own off, handing them over. Tobias lunged toward the machine, pulling them on as he went. “Turn off the engines!” he roared. “Power it down!”

He vaulted from the ground to the lip above the wheels, then clambered up the dome, using the overlapping plates as hand- and footholds. When he got to the smaller half-sphere on top of the dome, he balanced precariously, digging the edges of his fine leather boots against the housing, and attacked the wing nuts holding the faceplate. The gloves were clumsy, so he grabbed the fingers in his teeth, tasting the heavy oil-soaked leather as he pulled off the right one so he could work more quickly. But as he feared, the metal was scorching hot. The thing was overheating. Faster, faster!

The principle of the distillation device was simple: it took ordinary air, separated out the aether, and then concentrated it into a liquid form that could be stored. When needed, the aether could be converted back to gas to fill a balloon, providing greater—and much safer—lifting power than hydrogen. Tobias’s domed invention was equipped with storage canisters and a tightly folded balloon. In the event a rapid escape was needed, the balloon would inflate and an interior cage would separate from the rest of the machine, floating the operator and key equipment to safety. Because the distiller itself was on board, there was no danger of running out of fuel.

But ironically, that safety feature was about to combust them all. He burned his fingers for a few twists and then snatched up the glove again, using it like a pad between his skin and the nuts. When he finally freed the cover, he tossed it aside. The thing clanged and skidded across the floor. Tobias could hear McColl working below, hopefully shutting down the boiler.

Tobias caught his breath. Behind the brass cover of the distiller was a glass plate, and behind that a double helix of clear tubing. Inside was the bright lime-green fluid that was distilled aether, snaking in a continuous journey that spiraled up and back through the tube. But rather than the clear jewel-like serpent Tobias should have seen, it churned with agitation. Tobias had a moment of mild surprise—not that it was about to explode, which was obvious, but that it was such a stellar example of improper installation that he wished he could show it to the apprentice mechanics.

The housing began to make a loud ticking sound, the temperature inside obviously out of hand. Visions of flames and flying roof tiles crowded his brain. Maybe a crater where the street used to be. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad, but he was on top of the thing and didn’t fancy ending up as bits of gooey muck on the walls. Tobias jammed his fingers into the glove again and dug down inside the workings, feeling for the hose that was supposed to take in fresh air and release excess heat outside the glass housing. Even if McColl shut down the steam engine, it would take too long for everything to cool to a safe level.

Tobias felt his feet slipping and gripped the dome hard with his left hand. He could feel the hose he wanted, twisted uselessly under some pipes instead of venting like it was supposed to. All he had to do was hitch himself up and lean a little farther in. He did, dangling a moment, but he got hold of the tube. It was a special material, a combination of rubber hardened to withstand extreme temperatures and a finely knitted steel, so flexible it crumpled like cloth. It burned him right through his glove, and experience had taught him to beware the scalding steam trapped inside.

Then McColl slammed a gear, jolting everything. Tobias had a good grip with his hands, but his feet flew free. That jerked the hose, and all the pressure that should have been loosed for the last hour shot out—and so did he. Tobias sailed backward, shrieking as steam knifed out just inches from his skin.

He landed hard, but years of riding lessons had taught him to fall. He rolled to a stop, gagging with pain. For a moment, the world rotated, reminding him of an era when he’d spent most days drunk, and for an instant he wanted desperately to go back there.

The sound of feet skidding to a halt jerked him back to the present. McColl was leaning over him. “Guv? You all right, guv?”

An eerie silence hung over the place. Every other pair of hands had stopped moving, all attention on him. Tobias sucked air between his teeth with a hiss. It felt like his body wasn’t sure where to begin hurting, but he couldn’t exactly start moaning. He wasn’t just the spoiled son of an aristocrat, he was the Gold King’s head maker, and there was an example to be set.

He cleared his throat. “What’s the green light at the top doing?”

“It’s gone out, or just about.”

“Good.”

“What’s it mean?”

Tobias sat up, and that sent his gut rolling like a wind-tossed airship. “We don’t die today.”

McColl looked happy about that, then twisted around when the door to the offices slammed. Keating was marching toward them, the silence growing so profound as the workers quieted their tools that Tobias could hear the soles of his employer’s shoes scuff the floor.

“What happened to you?” Keating demanded.

Tobias looked down at his arm, which seemed to be hurting worse than the rest of him. There was a strip of flesh between the gauntlet of the glove and his shirtsleeve, and it was lobster red from the blast of steam. “Damnation.”

“Get up,” Keating ordered. “I take it the transport is not working yet?”

McColl had already faded into the sea of workbenches and mechanical monsters. Tobias found his feet, though quickly discovered moving his arm hurt like blazes. “The new unit needs adjustment.”

Keating grunted. “So do you. Better get some ice on that. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

They went through the door to Tobias’s work space, which was a separate room with an adjacent office attached. Long tables covered with disassembled parts lined the walls of the main room, evidence of his interrupted work.

They went into his office. It was utilitarian, with plain white walls, sturdy oak furnishings, and a small window that looked onto a featureless back alley. Tobias didn’t care about the lack of a view. Keating had workplaces all over the city, but Tobias preferred the simple, workmanlike utility of this one.