The Great Healion Race

By Cameron Chapman

Four years after Airship Captain Stig Rayner left Isabelle Feeney Hemsworth on a London sidewalk with a sizable windfall tucked into her pocket, she’s built a life for herself hauling cargo out of Moscow. When a trans-continental race is announced—with a lucrative cargo contract as prize—it’s too good an opportunity for her to pass up. Unfortunately, it requires a teammate, and Isabelle has pissed off just about everyone who might be suitable. With one exception...

Life hasn’t been good for Stig since he deserted Isabelle in London. A string of bad decisions and worse luck have left him and his airship barely limping along. He heads for Moscow—home of the cheapest and shoddiest repair yards around. But the vodka flows like water and it’s easy enough to get whatever kind of fix he’s after. All he has to do is figure out how he’ll pay for his repairs when the time comes...

In Book Two of The Steam and Steel Chronicles, The Great Healion Race, we’ll follow the trials and adventures of a reunited Isabelle and Stig as they race halfway around the world against formidable opponents.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Chapman
• Release date: Mar 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9780982538227

Cameron Chapman

I'm a professional blogger, dealing primarily with technology, social media, and design. I also write fiction in various genres, including women's fiction, science fiction, and fantasy. I live in Vermont with my husband, two dogs, and a sometimes-ornery cat.

Book preview

The Great Healion Race

Book Two of The Steam and Steel Chronicles

by Cameron Chapman

Published by Untime Press.

Smashwords Edition.

Copyright (c) 2011 by Cameron Chapman. All rights reserved.

Be sure to read the first book in The Steam and Steel Chronicles,

Aboard the Unstoppable Aerostat Fenris.

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CHAPTER ONE

In Which Lost Friends are Found

Late afternoon sunlight glinted off the turrets of Saint Basil’s Cathedral as the airship flew in from the east. Captain Stig Rayner looked out over Moscow as he came in for a landing. It was time for repairs and Russia was the place to get them done. Or at least, the place to get them done on the cheap.

Things had been going downhill over the past eight months. First his airship was impounded for transporting stolen goods. He’d barely made it out of that one without spending some time in a Chinese prison. He had to borrow the money to get his ship out of impound and to pay for the cargo he lost. Then he ran into some problems when he didn’t have the money to pay back the loan. And now his ship was in dire need of repairs. It was a miracle he’d stayed in the air long enough to make it back from Beijing.

He still didn’t know where the money for them would come from, but something would turn up. It always did.

Once he was safely on the ground at the airfield and his airship had been registered with the repair office there, Stig went for a drink. Maybe, if he was drunk, the cost of repairs wouldn’t be such a blow. Besides, what else was he going to do for the rest of the afternoon while the crews at the shipyard came up with an estimate?

It had been a few years since he’d been in Moscow. He hated it there. It was dirty, crowded, and he didn’t speak the language. But it had a couple things going for it: there was a steady supply of opium from Persia, and the vodka flowed like water.

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Isabelle Feeny Hemsworth was just pulling into Moscow when she saw the airship coming into the city a few minutes ahead of her. She shielded her eyes against the sun and studied the outline. It had been four years since Stig had left her on a London street with twelve and a half thousand pounds in her pocket—half the reward for returning some stolen defense technology to the British government. But she’d recognize that ship anywhere, partly because it was such an outdated model, and partly because it was in such disreputable condition.

She brought the locomotive to a stop next to the platform in the freight yard and shut down the engines, opening the steam blow-off valves to relieve the pressure in the system. The airship had lowered out of sight by the time she looked back up.

The new rail route she’d taken on was working well for her. She’d gotten in early and now had the best reputation of any of the freighters on the route, even though the line was only a little over eighteen months old. She had so much business, she’d been considering hiring a second operator.

She watched as the dock workers unloaded the three cargo containers she’d hauled in. It didn’t take long. They were efficient on the Moscow end of the line. The same couldn’t be said for the workers in Samara.

Any outgoing freight ready? she asked the yard manager when everything was unloaded.

He looked over the papers on his clipboard thoughtfully. Not till tomorrow, at least.

Damn. Let me know if anything comes up.

I always do, he called after her as she walked toward the front gates to the freight yard.

Once out on the street, Isabelle headed toward her favorite bar. Maybe she could find cargo from one of the other shipping companies. The sooner she got out of the city, the better. It was feeling awfully crowded all of a sudden. But right now, she needed a drink.

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The pub was crowded when Stig walked in, but a few stools still stood open at the bar. He took a seat on the end, with a view of the door—he’d learned in Venice never to leave his back open—and hoped no one would strike up a conversation with him. There was only one thing on his mind: drowning himself in the cheapest, strongest vodka in stock.

The barkeep came over and said something in Russian. Stig shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand. What I get for you? the man asked in heavily-accented English.

Vodka, Stig said.

The barkeep reached for the top shelf.

Nyet, Stig said and then pointed toward the bottom shelf.

The man shrugged and then reached for an unmarked glass bottle filled with clear liquid. He filled a glass with two fingers worth of vodka and then went to take care of someone else at the other end of the bar.

Stig raised his glass and the fumes from it burned his nose. It was like drinking fire and it filled his belly with warmth. This was the ticket. He motioned for the barkeep to pour him another one. Keep ‘em coming, he said and the bartender nodded. If he wasn’t falling down by the time he left, he wasn’t ready to leave.

Half a dozen shot glasses sat in front of him when the front door of the pub opened. A woman walked in, wearing leather pants and a waistcoat, with brass goggles perched on her head above a long, blond braid. Something about her looked familiar, and he stared, his vision only slightly foggy from the vodka. Then it hit him.

It was Isabelle.

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CHAPTER TWO

In Which Deals are Made

Isabelle was a regular at the pub when she was in Moscow, and as soon as she walked in the barkeep grabbed the top-shelf vodka, poured her a double-shot, and then set it on the bar in front of an open stool. There was a man sitting on the barstool next to the one her drink was in front of. She knew it was Stig as soon as she saw him, but part of her didn’t want to believe it.

He looked like hell. He had a few days’ worth of beard and there were bags under his eyes. His hair was a little longer than the last time she’d seen him, and messy didn’t begin to describe it. Where the last four years had been good for her, it was obvious they’d been just the opposite for him.

She hesitated, wondering if she should speak to him. Would he recognize her? Seeing how bad he looked gave her a bit more confidence, but she still wasn’t sure. In her mind, he’d become this larger-than-life character over the past few years. And now, here he was, right in front of her.

Isabelle took a deep breath and made up her mind to go say hello. Besides, the only open barstool was the one next to his, with her drink already sitting in front of it.

Hello, Stig, she said as she took a seat.

Isabelle, he said, his voice thick and sluggish.

How’ve you been? she asked.

Fine. The way he looked betrayed him, as did the half-dozen empty shot glasses sitting in front of him. He was a wreck. You?

I’ve been good. What brings you to Moscow?

Needed some repairs on my ship.

The Moscow shipyards were known for their cheap labor, and notorious for their mostly shoddy work. If Stig was getting work done there, he was in even worse shape than he looked.

Isabelle drank her shot and motioned for the bartender to bring her one more. "Where’re