A Fire From The Sky

By D.R. Usual

The Republic of Texas, 1862. Fourteen year old Gilly Ward -- mechanician, horsewoman, and darned good shot with a rifle -- wants nothing more than to ride the range and care for the steam lines which power the Republic. When global war threatens, however, Gilly's parents are summoned to England. Soldiers from New Spain soon arrive in west Texas, intent on kidnapping Gilly. Chased across the Republic, Gilly and her friends team up with a wandering knight and discover a devastating weapon the Spanish have built in the Indian Territory. Threatened by hostile soldiers, enemy warships, and altered beasts Gilly slowly uncovers secrets of her own. With each new challenge she reveals nearly superhuman capabilities which surprise her as much as her friends. Aided along the way by a traveling preacher, a reclusive scientist, an airship captain, and a beautiful spy, they race against the clock to find President Houston and thwart the invasion of Texas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inventive Press
• Release date: Nov 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311309310

D.R. Usual

D.R. Usual lives the Republic of Texas, mostly in the present day.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Airships rarely landed in Kent County, and one setting down in in Drylinburg itself would certainly be a first. When she heard the far away murmur of engines, Gillian Ward paused her work and scanned the sky. The sound grew steadily louder until an oblong silhouette appeared against the sparse clouds. The shape clarified as it grew, until it was clearly recognizable as a ship, then its approach changed to descent. Gilly tucked her tools carefully into her belt before clambering up the fence for a better look. Out of habit she glanced at the gate, making sure it was shut tight. The corral was home to a flock of racing emus, and if one spied an open gate, she knew she had no hope of catching it afoot. Satisfied that the latch was secure, she scrambled up to the top rail, took a perch, and pulled her spyglass from its leather sheath.

The nearest aerodrome was in Lubbock, a good thirty miles southwest, but the tiny figures scrambling about the deck were definitely preparing to land. Bundles of rope fell over the side of the main deck, uncoiling as they dropped toward the ground. Gilly counted six ropes and decided the airship was a small one, probably carrying just a few passengers. A few passengers who were either very important, very wealthy, or both. She watched, fascinated, as the ship inched slowly downward. The ground rose between the McAllister Ranch and town, so Gilly couldn’t see the people she assumed waited to catch the ropes. She could get a much closer look from in town, so she tucked the spyglass away and dropped to the ground.

She’d been sent out to the McAllister’s place on a bona fide mechanician job, and no matter how curious she was about the airship, she wasn’t going to leave sloppy work behind. Along the bottom of the middle rail ran a small, metal tube. A pressure gauge stuck out from the tube like a fat berry on a vine. Normally, steam flowing through the line would tell the watchman back at the ranch house whether the gate was open or shut. If a fitting was loose, though, steam would leak and cause a false alarm. Gilly had found exactly that – a fitting with a fine crack in one side, just enough to slowly leak steam from the line. After tightening the replacement Gilly had attached the gauge, which now showed plenty of pressure. She unscrewed it from the line and snapped it into the shoulder pouch on her bandolier.

One last task to attend: another pocket held a collection of small metal stamps. Using these and a light mallet she etched the month and year into a cross rail near the top of the fence. A long line of such dates showed how often that juncture of the line had been inspected, with her 5-60 the most recent. May, 1860. As she re-packed her stamps she wondered idly if she’d return to the McAllister Ranch in forty years to find that the latest dates had a 19 etched before them.

Her favorite horse, Enoch, cropped at the grass a few feet away. Her parents had traded for him -- the Comanche who’d brought him to Drylinburg had thought Enoch far too small to be of value to anyone and had gladly traded him for a box of outdated pistons. Gilly found him the perfect size for a twelve year old girl and had hardly ridden another horse in the year since. His reins were looped loosely around the fence; she knew he wouldn’t run away, though he did eye the closest emus suspiciously. He probably wanted to race them, and against the average bird she’d give him the edge. Racing emus were another story, though. They’d leave Enoch in the dust and his pride would surely be destroyed as he watched their tail feathers disappear. Hence, Gilly never let him have his head while the racers were around. She just scratched his ears and told him he was the toughest animal on the plains.

If you’re done eatin’ and watching me work, she said, let’s go have us a look at that ship.

Enoch gave a snort which pretty much summed up his opinions on all things which flew, but held perfectly still as she swung onto the saddle. He turned for town before she’d even flicked the reins. As her mom liked to say, Enoch was a horse who always knew where to find supper.

By the time they reached Main Street the airship was firmly tethered. A dozen iron rods had been hammered into the ground behind Trask’s stable. Each rod was topped by an eyelet and looked for all the world like a three-foot needle, but the threads in this case were thick ropes which kept the airship’s undercarriage firmly grounded. The framework loomed above, easily five times the size of the cabin itself. It resembled a watermelon, but pinched to points at the ends. Gilly had thought of it as a balloon, but as she neared she could see outline of curved girders beneath the skin, like giant ribs reaching for the sky. The skin itself looked like thick cloth, but was stretched tightly over the frame and was smooth as polished steel. At the back, the two great propellers hung idle. Each fan blade stretched nearly thirty feet from edge to edge, and Gilly imagined they twisted up an incredible wind when the captain wanted to fly at full speed.

The crew appeared to be preparing already for the return trip. One man had clearly been to Mr. Rafferty’s general store. He wheeled a stack of boxes on a dolly toward the gangplank, struggling occasionally with the rocky ground. Another carried items out of the ship. He carefully set a brass-cornered trunk on the ground next to a pile of crates, then dashed back inside. Yet another pair, slim young men who couldn’t be much older than Gilly, climbed along the netting which completely wrapped the airship’s upper frame. They inched along at times, noses nearly pressed to the airship’s skin, then suddenly scrambled up or sideways in a quick burst of speed before stopping for a moment at another point in the net. One even produced a magnifying glass and peered through it for a few seconds before moving on again. They were checking the skin for weak spots, or maybe even holes, Gilly realized. She wondered what would be up in the sky to damage an airship. Near-sighted birds, perhaps?

Around the field, it appeared that a circus had arrived with the ship. The corral alongside the stable was packed full of people instead of horses. Three faces peered down from the hayloft port; Gilly recognized Burke and Lug Dalton crowded in with Morgan Fannon. Even more gawkers lined the sides of the yard, many holding parasols or waving fans for some relief from the afternoon heat. Mr. Rafferty recognized opportunity when he saw it -- his two little boys darted through the throng, selling hats for two pennies. Mr. Rafferty himself pushed an icebox on a wheeled stand, alternately calling out offers for iced tea and snapping at his children to take their eyes off the airship and pay attention to the sales.

Jory, have a care with those boxes! You’ll be paying out o’ your wages for anything broken in there!

The speaker was an enormous man in a blue uniform -- he was so tall that at first, Gilly thought he sat astride a horse. Nearly seven feet at the top of his head, he was barrel chested and so broad through the shoulders that he could probably lift a horse as easily as ride one. His jacket boasted gold piping and buttons. A single badge, a red field with a golden sail and silver compass, was the only ornamentation. His hair, though clipped short, was white as a summer cloud. That and the slight belly straining at his jacket were the only indications of his age -- he sweated profusely in the Texas sun, but then again, even the locals dripped incessantly through August. His belt reminded Gilly of her own, though it was at least twice the length. From it hung numerous instruments -- a spyglass, a sextant, calipers -- and one long, curved scimitar.

As Gilly urged Enoch around one end of the spectators, the motion caught the man’s eye. Aye! he shouted. Are you the mechanician I sent for? Jory, take the man’s nag!

Gilly dismounted and handed Enoch’s reins to Jory, who’d scurried over immediately at the big fellow’s summons. I’m not a man, she said, and Enoch is not a nag. He’s a fine Comanche steed.

Well, I suspect you’re right on both counts, said the man. He towered over her and the corners of his mouth tugged upward slightly. Veteran mechs hard to come by in this forsaken land?

I’m as veteran as they come, said Gilly. While this claim was certainly far from the truth, she could see no reason for the man seeking a mechanician other than to repair something on the airship. There was no way she’d pass up a chance to see the innards of such a vehicle. Besides, she probably could fix whatever ailed the engines. As her mother was fond of saying, steam was steam.

The big man gave a booming laugh, clearly startling both Jory and Enoch. You’ve got the tools, he said. Let’s see if they’re yours by right or if you’re just carryin’ ‘em for your da’. Come along, Captain Branyard’s beauty awaits.

He set off for the gangway with long strides, Gilly scrambling to keep up. Glancing behind, she saw astonished looks on the faces of the Dalton twins as they watched.

It’s a funny name for a ship, she said.

Ah, you’ve named many airships? asked the man, tossing another amused look over his great shoulder. Nonetheless, you’ve found me out. I’m Captain Branyard, and when I say this ship’s my ‘beauty,’ it’s an informal title. But no less true, mind you!

Of course, said Gilly. As they crossed the threshold of the undercarriage she thought fleetingly that she should send word to her parents, then she was inside the airship and far too busy taking in her surroundings to consider anything else.

Just the shade from the ship’s body made the interior far cooler than the field outside. Doors and portholes were open everywhere, so a nice breeze found its way through the corridors. Everything was metal -- floors, walls, ceilings, doors -- and the captain’s footsteps echoed as they strode along. The ceiling was low enough that Captain Branyard stooped slightly as he walked. They passed one room that was obviously the ship’s stores; it was here that one of the crewmen had begun stocking fresh crates from Mr. Rafferty. Bunks lined one wall of the next room, and a half-dozen steamer trunks were pushed under the lower tier. Something clanked rhythmically behind the first closed door they passed and Gilly assumed it was the engine room, but the Captain continued on around a corner.

That’s just the small boilers, he said. Powers all the incidentals on board, not the main engines. I imagine you knew that, though, being an experienced mech and all.

Airships don’t stop often in Kent County, said Gilly. They usually go on to Lubbock.

Ah, certainly. They’ve got a proper aerofield in Lubbock, not some dirt field with fifty gawking simpletons about. You’ve got a name, my diminutive engineer?

Gilly, sir. Wouldn’t it have made sense to build the ship tall enough for the captain to walk without bending over?

The Captain’s booming laugh echoed down the corridor. "I’m the first to agree with you, Miss Gilly, but when Wahrheit was built, I was a mere cadet. Besides, this is the engineering level. Things get a bit more accommodating once we’re in the functional areas or above deck."

He led the way up a spiral staircase. It was narrow enough that Gilly feared the giant Captain might get stuck halfway up, but he negotiated the steps with ease.

Don’t know why they call ‘em the ‘functional areas, he said. Seems like an awful lot of the functioning part happens down here with the crews.

Maybe it refers to the same type of ‘functional’ as a sitting room or library?

Hah! That must be it! Fancy that, my westerly mechanician turns out to be a midget, a girl, and educated besides. They reached the top of the stair and set out down yet another corridor, this one lined on both sides with closed doors. Each one bore an etched plate with descriptions such as Quartermaster, Isolation, or Laboratory.

Still, said the Captain, I prefer the kind of function that keeps a body steady on the wind and nicely aloft. Here we are.

They pushed through a large double door and Gilly found herself in the biggest machine room she’d ever seen. Two giant boilers dominated the chamber; if the main chambers could open, Captain Branyard could easily step inside. As if these weren’t enough, Gilly spotted two more boilers along the far wall. They were significantly smaller than the behemoths in front of her, but still over six feet tall and at least four in diameter. Backups, she realized, in case the primaries developed faults or needed to be taken offline. Without sufficient steam to turn the propellers, the airship would be at the mercy of the wind. Despite the dizzying maze of pipe crisscrossing the ceiling, Gilly saw instinctively how the four boilers tied together, including the valves and gates which allowed the backups to take over when needed. The wall to her right was one continuous bank of gauges and levers -- even a small printer with a stack of paper in a metal hopper.

The problem, said Captain Branyard, is the number two boiler. About the time we passed Charleston the output started fluctuating. My engineer said it wasn’t too serious, but at the same time, he couldn’t find the cause. We cut to backups and limped the rest o’ the way here. I didn’t want a little problem to turn into a great big one and sink me in some American swamp.

Gilly turned to eye the copper tubes rising from the boiler. Sounds like debris in a line, she said.

The Captain brightened visibly. Aye, that’s what the engineer said. Looks like I didn’t give this little tour of my beauty for nothing. Think you can fix her up?

Gilly caught her breath. This morning she’d been bored to death with routine maintenance on ranch gates, and now she was being asked to repair an airship? The thought made her nervous of a sudden. A mistake on a fence was one thing; a flock of racing emus might get loose and lead the vaqueros on an annoying chase. Mess up here, though, and she could endanger or even kill the crew and passengers. Doubt arose, and for a moment she considered telling Captain Branyard to wait for a true, certified mechanician. One at least old enough to enter the saloon, perhaps.

Then she remembered her mother’s motto, Steam is steam. The Wahrheit’s engines worked the same as any other steam-driven device, just bigger. In principle, there was little difference between the pumps, boilers, and pistons of the airship and those which powered Errol’s mill. Confidence restored, she adjusted her bandolier and said, No problem.

Then she looked again at the top of the number two boiler and added, You might have to give me a boost.

Chapter 2

Two hours later, drenched with a combination of sweat and machine oil, Gilly clung with her legs to a perch high above the boilers and put the final twist on a brass nut. She tapped the fastening lightly with her wrench, head cocked as she listened to the resultant ping. Satisfied, she called out, Open up number eighty-three!

She heard a slight hiss as a valve opened and she pinched the line between her fingers. The half-inch tube was rigid and cool to the touch, but she thought she could feel the second when the steam rushed past her fingertips. The gauge to her right climbed steadily, then stuck without a quiver in the optimum pressure range. All good on eighty-three! she hollered. She waited for a response from the chief engineer, but heard muffled voices instead. Frowning, she checked quickly that all her tools were stowed, then scrambled down the maze of pipes. She dangled for a second from the lowest, then dropped to the boiler room floor with a loud clang. A tiny woman next to the primary boiler jumped backward with a shriek.

Captain Branyard’s booming laugh echoed through the equipment. No wonder our mechanician’s so tiny, he said. She’s part monkey, it seems.

Mr. Locke, the chief engineer, turned from the instrument panels. He wasn’t particularly tall himself, far shorter than the Captain and wiry, with steel grey hair. The tool belt around his waist was well-worn, cracked leather. Long laces ran up his sleeves and from the knees to cuffs of his trousers. Gilly presumed these were to ensure his clothes didn’t get snagged on the works as he wiggled between the lines as she just had. He had a habit of hacking deep in his throat before speaking, as if the constant exposure to steam had his own pipes permanently congested.

We can’t let this one go, said Mr. Locke. She found our little boiler problem, flushed it out in half a jiff, and since then she’s taken care of half the maintenance log. Would’ve taken Standish a full day to do what she’s accomplished, assuming I could even find the lout.

You come home now, the tiny woman said. Her voice was heavily accented, revealing her Spanish heritage, though Gilly knew that Mrs. Esparza was a bona fide Texian. The Señora, she very worry. Very angry.

My mother never worries, and she only pretends to be angry, said Gilly. Beside her, Captain Branyard produced a pocket watch. Gilly saw a curious emblem etched into the casing. Two cogs overlapped slightly to form what looked like an eight lying on its side -- the mathematical symbol for infinity. The cogs rested upon what appeared to be a broken sword.

Please, said the Captain, assure the lass’s ma that we’ll pay her the same rate we would a real, er, that is, adult mech.

Mrs. Esparza drew up to her full height (nearly half the Captain’s) and set her hands on her hips. Señora Ward no worry over money.

Mr. Locke’s eyebrows rose and Captain Branyard actually took a step back from tiny Mrs. Esparza. He turned to Gilly.

Your name is Ward? As in, Wallace and Lysette?

Gilly nodded. Those are my folks.

Next thing she knew, the Captain was hustling her back through the ship. Mrs. Esparza followed, making disapproving noises and scolding them both in muttered Spanish and broken English. Outside, the crowd had thinned considerably. In short order the Captain had practically lifted her onto Enoch and was handing her the reins. He hesitated a moment.

If you would, m’lady, give your father my apology for keeping you so long. I’ll answer to him personally before nightfall, just need to see to a few last things aboard.

I’m not a lady, I’m just Gilly. She smiled, but the Captain remained serious.

Nonetheless, straight home with you, if you don’t mind.

All right. Mrs. Esparza, would you like to ride with me?

Mrs. Esparza gave Enoch a mistrusting look and spat to the side. The horse responded with an equally contemptuous snort, and Gilly grinned as she flicked the reins.

The town flew past as if Enoch realized that his dinner was finally within sight. They blazed past the brand new Falstaff Hotel and the half-finished Bass Theater. The high, arching gate of the Ostrofsky’s Diamond T Ranch came and went in a heartbeat; she barely glimpsed the iron brand atop the arch before Enoch was racing along the Diamond T’s north field. They veered off suddenly, diverting up the Mill Road briefly before making another turn and starting up the long lane to her own home, the Lazy I Ranch. She brought Enoch to a more manageable trot and as she always did, glanced up at the Texian bid to heraldry adorning the ranch’s main gate. A sideways I was supported by the numbers 817. Her mother had explained the numbers vaguely once, something about train schedules and the philosophy of civilization. Gilly hadn’t listened closely, being more interested at the time in disassembling the lift mechanism in their hay barn.

She guided Enoch to the stable and found Mr. Esparza, a portly old man with the same wrinkled, almond-colored skin of his wife. He had just finished feeding two horses that she recognized from Trask’s. A buckboard wagon stood outside, also one of Trask’s rentals.

We have guests? she asked, dropping from the saddle. She noticed that Happenstance, a sturdy paint horse belonging to John Tarver. She was definitely late if the hand was already back in from daily ranging.

"Sí, your parents have guests, said Mr. Esparza. You probably have the trouble with Señor Wallace. He wonders where you are, and you miss dinner."

He won’t care once I tell him where I was. I fixed an airship.

Mr. Esparza sighed. "Sure, sí, you let me take Enoch now."

She left the horse with Mr. Esparza and hurried into the main house. Sure enough, dinner was not only over, the dishes had already been washed and stacked in the drip pan to dry. Hello? she called, guessing her parents would be in the library.

Wallace Ward sat behind his writing desk while his wife, Lysette, stood before a huge sketch affixed to the wall, pursing her lips. The sketch showed a mini-controller, enlarged many times to show the detail of tiny capacitors and valve chambers. Scribbled notes covered the margins on both sides of the sketch: half-legible scrawls from her father’s hand, her mother’s more elegant script in blue ink. The rest of the library was immaculate. It was easily the largest room in the house, and the endless dust of west Texas was not allowed to intrude. Shelves covered every wall, books from floor to ceiling, some reached by ladders which rolled via tracks in the floor. Two writing desks -- one for each of her parents -- faced each other across the center of the room. Comfortable reading chairs and one curving sofa were arranged in arcs, forming a circle with the writing desks at opposing points of an axis.

Dad! cried Gilly, bursting into the room. You won’t believe it! I rode in to see the airship, and the captain -- his name is Branyard -- asked me to look at the main boiler. I fixed--

She halted mid-sentence as her father looked up and her mother turned. Wallace and Lysette Ward possessed such a strong resemblance that people occasionally mistook them for brother and sister. Both were tall, with narrow faces and sandy hair. Mr. Gustafson, the Lazy I fabricator, often joked that they remained lean as they did because they became too engrossed in their work to eat. They also shared a gaze which reminded Gilly of the Harris hawk. Especially when they fixed it upon Gilly, as they did now.

Perhaps the messenger you sent couldn’t find the Lazy I ranch? asked her father.

I didn’t--

Or Enoch threw a shoe and you had to carry him back on your shoulders? added her mother.

Gilly knew that unlike other raptors, Harris hawks often hunted in packs.

But it was so exciting, she said. A real airship, and I fixed it myself! Captain Branyard even said I was better than his apprentice mech, a Mr. Standard, or something like that.

Standish, said an unfamiliar voice. Gilly stepped back, surprised, as a woman rose from the high-backed chair directly before her. Mr. Standish turned out to be a bit of a mistake, one which Captain Branyard hopes to repair somewhere in Texas, or in the United States.

The woman appeared close to Lysette’s age and wore a blue silk traveling gown. Though simply cut, it seemed immensely elegant compared to the cotton and linen typical of Drylinburg. A small hat perched at a jaunty angle atop her hair, which was drawn up off her shoulders and held in place with thin pieces of ivory. A string of amethysts about her neck matched a long feather pinned to her hatband, while the hat itself was made from the same silk as her dress. The woman bestowed a small smile upon Gilly and added, Though I imagine the Captain is busy fretting right now over having abetted a wayward Ward.

Gillian, said Mrs. Ward, meet Mrs. Jane Hartford, my oldest friend, a founding member of the British Women’s Labour Society, and distinguished professor of natural sciences.

In other words, a very busy woman, said Gilly’s father.

She also happens to be your godmother.

An office she might have abdicated years ago, if she lived closer and knew you better.

Wallace!

Gilly’s father smiled and winked.

So, you’ve fixed my airship, have you? This from Mrs. Hartford, who regarded Gilly with a scrutinizing gaze. She found it easy to picture younger versions of her mother and this strange woman, hunched over a magnifying glass to examine a multi-chambered valve or the veins in an exotic leaf.

Yes, ma’am, said Gilly. At least, I blew out the clog that forced you down to a single boiler. Mr. Locke and I ran through the first items on your maintenance log as well. Some of your lines needed upkeep.

Mrs. Hartford laughed. If it isn’t young Wallace, reborn! Thom, you should learn all you can from Miss Gillian while we’re here.

A young man stepped away from the wall to Gilly’s left, startling her again. He’d chosen one of the few slivers of shadow in the library and stood so remarkably still, she doubted she would have noticed him at all without Mrs. Hartford summoning him forward. He stood just a touch taller than Gilly and was dressed quite strangely. The legs of his pants reached only to his knees, where they were buttoned tightly around the tops of white stockings. His shoes were ridiculously formal for the dusty ground of west Texas. Beneath a blue jacket he wore a ruffled shirt. At least his hat made some sense. Broad brimmed and folded to three corners, it would protect him from sunburn. Hanging from his belt were a knife and a sword with a narrow blade.

Hello, said Gilly. Um, are you going to a wedding?

Thom flushed as Mrs. Hartford and Gilly’s parents laughed in unison. These are traveling clothes, he said. A proper fellow doesn’t call on a stranger’s house in a breechclout, you know. Like his mother, Thom spoke with an accent that made Gilly want to giggle. She’d never heard someone enunciate every letter in a word so precisely, and his emphasis on traveling and proper struck her as mightily funny.

The entire crew was scandalized when the natives rode up to examine our ship, Mrs. Hartford said to the Wards. They’re not accustomed to seeing such, ah, freedom of dress. Though given the heat here, I can see how it makes sense.

Gilly, said Mrs. Ward, The Hartfords have come all the way from England to visit. My father and Jane’s taught together at Oxford for years, and we’ve known each other since we were your age. You and Thom are virtually cousins.

Gilly knew, of course, that her parents were immigrants from the old world. Though they didn’t display them prominently, she’d seen the degrees from universities in England and France hanging in their bedroom. They often received typograph messages originating in those countries and others. Still, she’d always thought of the old world as a rather abstract place; given the vast size of the Republic of Texas, even a trip to the United States was a considerable adventure. Transoceanic travel seemed as unlikely as a visit to the moon. And yet, here before her stood her mother’s friend and a boy her own age who’d just arrived from England.

Will you stay with us for a while? she asked.

Mother plans on at least a month in the Republic, said Thom.

And though they’ll be here for some time, Mr. Ward said, I’m eager to resume the conversation your late arrival interrupted. Perhaps you can show Thom around the main house? I imagine you might be a bit hungry after your afternoon’s work. His eyes twinkled as he spoke, and Gilly corrected her earlier assessment: her father couldn’t even pretend to be angry very well.

Thom turned toward Gilly’s parents and gave a small bow. Mr. and Mrs. Ward, I’m very pleased to have made your acquaintance.

Thank you, Thom, said Gilly’s mother. You’re always welcome at the Lazy I.

Unsure what to do, Gilly tried to emulate Thom’s bow. Um, nice meeting you, Mrs. Hartford.

Girls are supposed to curtsey, said Thom. Men bow.

Mrs. Ward broke into another laugh. Oh, Jane, this is wonderful. You’re in town for less than a day and already my daughter is becoming civilized.

Blushing, Gilly turned and stormed from the library. She heard Mrs. Hartford say, Thomas, you’ll learn that one never tells a Ward woman what to do, then Thom’s ridiculous shoes were clacking against the wooden floor as he hurried to catch up.

I’m sorry, he said as they entered the kitchen. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.

This is the kitchen, she said, ignoring his apology. Mrs. Esparza cooks dinner, and in the morning she makes lunches for the men who’re ranging. She’ll put extra in the cold box, there, and you can help yourself. You pretty much make breakfast yourself if you want any. Everyone wakes up by six, and my folks start working pretty quick.

Where are the coils? Thom asked.

What coils?

For the refrigerator.

Refrigerator? Gilly laughed, and it was Thom’s turn to blush. Open the door, she said.

Thom pulled open the cold box door and was obviously surprised to see steps leading down beneath the kitchen.

Underground storage, said Gilly. It’s a lot more efficient than cooling the box with an engine.

He closed the door again. But what if you want to freeze something completely?

Why in the world would we do that? Mr. Esparza goes to the ice house in town every week and brings back a block. If you want to keep your supper cold while you’re out riding, you chip a piece off for your lunch box. If you freeze it, though, you’d break your teeth.

I see.

Gilly grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter before leading Thom back out to the main hallway. The parlor’s over there, she said. There’s a billiards table, and my parents usually entertain guests there, not in the library. This is the toilet. And yes, we have plumbing.

Thom seemed quite relieved at this bit of information. I’d heard that most homes in the Republic used, ah, outhouses, I think they’re called?

My parents helped build the typograph system across the Republic. You think we couldn’t do better than a hole in the ground?

What’s over here? asked Thom, hurrying away from the water closet.

"Mr. and Mrs. Esparza live in a little