The Clockwork Caterpilar

By K.J. McFadyen

Athemisa is a continent divided. To the east lies the industrialists of the Thyrian Empire. To the west lies the Jader colonists of the Celestial Throne. Scarred wilderness separates them with a slew of railways vying for the services of the new world’s inhabitants. In Athemisa, the rails mean everything. They are the lifeblood of the remote settlements reliant on shipments of food and supplies. They are the land claims staked by foreign thrones measured by troop movements and weapon deliveries. For Felicity Metticia, they are a way of life.

Felicity is a rail mercenary, making a living on the wild frontiers by running contracts between the two empires. Life is difficult, but she has a crew of her own as capable as it is diverse. Schroeder, her right hand, is a wealthy rail magnate’s son disowned for his unprincipled lifestyle. Pacal is her fearsome crackshot, hailing from the recently unshackled south. A haunted war surgeon, rescued Jader girl, righteous navigator and reclusive engineer keep her train on the rails. They have managed many difficult jobs. But when the bounty posted by the magnate Bernhard Nikolai becomes more trouble than it’s worth, Felicity must follow-up a dangerous proposition from old connections in order to keep her crew paid and her engine running.

Unfortunately, many dangers await her on the tracks. Pirates strike from armoured engines. Revolutionaries wield their idealism like a weapon without concern for friend or foe. And always the Thyrian magnates seek to control who can and cannot ride their rails. Torn between a big pay-off, past obligations and her principles, Felicity must navigate the troubles to find a mechanical wonder whose humble exterior belies its ability to reshape the face of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.J. McFadyen
• Release date: Apr 5, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775313113

K.J. McFadyen

Kevin McFadyen is a world traveller, a poor eater, a happy napper and occasional writer. When not typing frivolously on a keyboard, he is forcing Kait to jump endlessly on her bum knees or attempting to sabotage Derek in the latest boardgame. He prefers Earl Gray to English Breakfast but has been considering whether or not he should adopt a crippling addiction to coffee instead.His love for stories started way back in his distant childhood when he enjoyed the classics: J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Robert Aspirin and Lynn Abbey, Ursula Le Guin, Stephen King, Piers Anthony, Clive Cussler, H.P. Lovecraft and a slew more that aren’t currently on the nearby bookshelf. While video and boardgames may have supplanted some of his reading time, Kevin has committed his life and sanity to the crafting of his own narratives.Having accumulated a number of short stories, this persistent scribbler has published his first book – a steampunk fantasy titled Thyre: City of Smoke and Shadow. His second full length novel – The Clockwork Caterpillar – is coming soon. Kevin continues to share his ideas on writing, media and life in the jointly own blog: Somewhere Post Culture (www.somewherepostculture.com).

Book preview

The Clockwork Caterpillar

A Red Sabre Novel

By

K.J. McFadyen

Between the Covers

Publishing

The Clockwork Caterpillar

A Red Sabre Novel

Copyright 2018 by K.J. McFadyen

Cover designed by K.T. McFadyen

Published by Between the Covers at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any number whatsoever without permission of the author, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or historic events is entirely coincidental.

http://kmcfadyen.com

ISBN: 978-1-7753131-1-3

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Bonus: Randall Oscar Zwinge

About the Author

Other Works by K.J. McFadyen

Acknowledgements

Books are never written in a void. I want to thank all my beta readers for the invaluable feedback. Especially Catherine who so kindly edited the whole mess and kept a sharp eye on tone.

For Kait

Your passion, patience, persistence and productivity proved positively paramount for perfection.

Chapter 1

There ain’t but two kinds of folk in this world: those who have and those who have not.

The smell of gunpowder stung Hopkins’ nose as he rode into the wilds. The blood on his coat was barely noticeable beneath the dust and dirt layered over it like a thin sheath. The pounding of hooves behind him echoed as righteous thunder on the wind and he cast weary eyes over the motley crew. Despite the steely looks, strapped pistols and stained knives, they had flinched at the executions. They had betrayed their hardened composure and revealed themselves for the spring calves they were.

They would do until the bridge and when the job was done. And then Hopkins would teach the promising ones that fewer hands make for fatter wallets. There was a way business was conducted out here. Things were simpler and with fewer rules. There was nought but one tenet to hold true; no matter what befell his path, Hopkins would never end with less than he started.

The road tore towards a canyon so ripped into red rock that it formed a great gash across the flesh of the earth. Scarlet was the soil which spilt forth. It was the blood of the land and it seeped down its sheer banks, drowning the scrub and sickle trees hanging over precipitous nothing. The savages said the place was cleaved during the formation of the world and forever would it bleed so long as man raised hand against his own.

Hopkins smiled at the thought.

His steed gave a warning cry. Her nostrils flared with some foreign scent. He reined her to a gentle canter as eyes darted amongst the craggy stones. His hand purchased the pistol at his side while the other signalled the crew. This was not his first ambush.

But no rifles cracked as he rounded the crest. The bridge rose steadily into sight and Hopkins fixated on the prize.

There she stood.

She was as still as the great canyon's sides: unflinching and eternal. Her long coat caught about her, snapping with the hunger of a starved dog. The great brim of her hat fluttered as though it meant to catch freedom in the crystal blue sky. Her fingers held true to the cold steel and polished wood of the longrifle's simple stock. The hammer lay cocked. The flashpan was primed. A single long braid pulled behind her with the dying veracity of an old battle standard prepared for its final stand.

Was this all that impeded the end of his escape? Hopkins had been told the job would be easy. True to form, the cache offered little resistance. The few guards were easily overcome. And now, nary but a girl pretending at vigilante justice was all that remained between him, precious freedom and a handsome reward on the opposite side.

Hopkins raised his pistol, giving a shout as he kicked his horse into a full charge. The others followed.

Still she stood with nothing but the wilds gathered around her. She sought no shelter amongst the worn ropes and weathered wood giving over to burnished steel. Temporary towers stood unmanned, their simple cranes and suspenders groaning in the wicked breath of the canyon. The Glorious Belt Bridge was undergoing a remarkable transformation as its forgotten timbers were recast in fresh iron beneath its cocoon of scaffolding. Lines of new posts and beams ran its sides like great, sleeping pupae. Someone had expensive interest in expanding a crossing that none had used in decades.

Someone else, however, had more expensive interests in seeing that its construction was never completed.

The waggon rattled behind in its attempt to keep pace. Beneath its roped cover banged barrels filled to the brim with reserved gunpowder. There was enough black dust to keep a frontier state supplied for four months. Or enough to send the entirety of the Glorious Belt Bridge to the waiting arms of the Lord above.

She did not falter with their arrival.

Hopkins' cry rose above the hooves. Horses shook their heads as riders pulled upon their reins. The group came to a stumbling halt as Hopkins grinned at the unshakeable darling who squared off against the half-dozen armed outlaws falling upon her.

You've got guts. I give you that, Hopkins called.

The terrific mare of bright chestnut fur and proud dark eyes stepped forward and shook her head menacingly.

She fingered the trigger of her rifle. Dirty Hopkins.

The broad-shouldered ruffian twitched scraggly whiskers. He poked the tip of his muddied Boss of the Plains perched upon an untamed and brown streaked straw mane. A single thread of faded yellow wound about it, but whatever noble prospects it once bespoke were tarnished by the blood speckling the fabric. His arms—draped in buckskin—crossed and the tens of dangling trimmed fringe fibres waved their little cloth fingers in the breeze.

Don't think we've met.

Ain't had the pleasure till now.

He surveyed the bridge for foul intentions. But there was only the woman and a construction site in dire repair. He led his horse to the side, looking over the edge.

Far beneath cut a trickling blue stream like a child's discarded ribbon. The great stone walls rose up on either flank. In both directions drew the exposed red and pink wound. Only the most distant peaks were tinged white as they crawled towards the sky. And nothing else crossed its expanse save for this great metal and wood monstrosity. If there were others, they would be faint motes amongst the rocky shadows. Had they clung unseen to the underside of the bridge, there was no expeditious way for them to scramble up its side.

Hopkins raised a hand to his hat, pressing the brim further up his face. He had seen misplaced courage before—even from the fairer sex when they felt pressed against the walls of their frontier farms—but nothing like this.

And what brings a fine specimen such as yourself so far into the wastes? Ain't a proper place for a little thing like you. Ruffians about, I hear.

Surely, I hope. The rifle faced the rider.

Hopkins smiled, turning back to his gang. A few had followed in drawing their weapons. He barked at the rest. Immediately, four outlaws dismounted, pulled the canvas across the vehicle's back and fetched the large barrels from its end.

You got gumption. Ain’t necessarily a blessing.

He leaned back in his saddle, wholly unperturbed by the weapon. When she didn't respond, he gave her a questioning nod of his head.

You got a name to that face?

Ain't one that matters. But if it's required, you may address me as Felicity.

And that appellation made him lean forward in his seat.

I've heard of you. Lips curled back to reveal a row of rotted teeth. One of them hunters and runners scratching a living on them ships between empires.

He looked up and down the bridge.

But I ain't see no ship.

There's two ways we play this. You come willing or you come roughly. Either way's ending the same.

And where we be heading, my dear?

You gone and made some folk irate. Falls on me to bring you back to them.

Aiming for a bounty? Hopkins smiled. Well ain't that a thing. And you going to do it all on your lonesome?

He regarded the cowled men as they dragged their payload towards the bridge's supports. Felicity finally acknowledged them, her eyes hardly bothering with the pistols by their sides.

Only got business with you. They're free so long they ain't done nothing unlawful.

Hopkins laughed. He swung one leg over his saddle, dropping from his horse and taking a few testing steps forward. His snakeskin boots thumped against the wood as he drew closer and closer without a single discharge from the rifle's barrel. He heard members readying firearms and setting along the side angles. Hopkins rested a callused hand on the rifle's top, pressing the weapon's muzzle earthward.

I ain't tell if you're bold or just full of aethers. I reckon you can turn your cute little hat around and walk away from this and I ain't have to bloody your pretty little face.

He could smell her now. This was no perfumed lady or pioneering immigrant. She smelled of sweat and grease. There were smudges of gunpowder staining her cheeks. Though her olive skin was radiant, it was scratched and marked with edges of scars creeping from her collar. And her eyes were hard as she raised them to meet his. There was not a trace of youthful brashness within their dark pits. They were cold and they were empty.

Hopkins hadn't removed his hand from her rifle and he gave a quick tug, trying to yank it from her. But her grip held and she pulled back, the barrel slipping through his fingers. Before she could raise it, however, Hopkins struck. The back of his hand connected with her cheek fiercely. She fell from her stance for the first time.

She raised the rifle, but warning fire kept her from pulling the trigger. The outlaw grinned.

It's a wonder folk like you still manage a living. There can only be so much coin running unregistered shipments off the schedules. You want my advice? You got to look elsewhere for a scratch.

He jabbed the tip of his pistol into her chest, causing her to wince as he grasped her shoulder.

Now, I ain't going to ask again. You better drop that little smokemaker of yours.

There was the briefest of hesitations: enough pause to make her rebelliousness known. But the weapon dropped nonetheless.

In one quick motion, Hopkins’ boot sent the weapon tumbling over the edge of the bridge into the great beyond.

Felicity cried out, making a useless grab. As she shifted her weight, Hopkins struck her back, sprawling her across the bridge as her hat tumbled loose. She coughed and groaned as he hunched over her.

You see, life out on the frontier ain't a simple thing. Some men got to do what they got to do. You take some jobs other folk ain't. You get a name that some ain't like. But as I tell you, you live and better than the rest. That's all that matters.

He grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet with a yelp.

And sometimes you get some blood on your hands. But this land ain't for the weak. Take a look on them hills. They've been bathed in the stuff. Always been since them savages learned two stones smashed against each other creates an edge that could paint in crimson. You either fight and live or you get put into the ground to pay the earth her due.

He pulled her to the bridge’s side, forcing her upon its razor edge. Her arms flailed, fingertips clutching for ribbed steel. He held her tight by her knot; her head pulled uncomfortably back. Her eyes could only see the top of the canyon. Its dark line wound as far as the eye could grasp.

"You can hear the groans of all them stiffs. First was them savages with their constant fighting and hollering. Then them kuli's in those junks they sailed across the waters with long nails and shaved tails like rats fleeing a sunk ship. Got them cities digging right into the coast all the way up to the mountains. Been nothing but sieged for generations.

This land is a harsh one.

He pulled her back, throwing her to the bridge's planks. He stood over her like a rancher evaluating a lame mule. He half-smiled, watching her fingers tighten around the boards. But she did not move as he crouched.

She coughed and he turned his head, losing her words in the distant cry of an eagle.

Hunter's on the wing, he grinned, reaching down and grasping her chin. He turned her face to look in her eyes, noting with amusement the fierce glare. So what were them pretty last words you wanted?

Should have come willingly.

He raised a hand to strike her, but thunder cracked against the canyon walls. Hopkins turned to the sky, searching for the phantom storm, but a clatter off his shoulder pulled his attention. One of the barrels landed upon its side, rolled along the wood and bounced against the discarded tools. Hopkins spun to his feet, taking a step towards the wayward vessel while berating its clumsy handler.

Just as unexpectedly as the barrel's descent, the ruffian fell to the ground. Unlike his parcel, he didn't move as a dark pool stained his shirt.

Hopkins’ strangled criticism drowned in a second sharp clap.

Sharpshooter!

The warning worked its way down the line as bodies dropped behind what cover they could. Eyes scanned the skyline, searching the craggy sides around them for the source. Hopkins dropped to the planks of the bridge, but as he fumbled his revolver, Felicity scampered to her hands and knees. She snatched her hat, fitting it squarely on her head.

Kill her, fools!

But the gunmen were slow in loosening their shots. She leaped over a pile of iron girders, pressing tightly against their backsides. The metal sang with the ricochet of bullets. One wayward shot struck the barrel Hopkins had saved and he felt his heart still.

Stop! Idiots! You'll hit the kegs!

It took a few seconds for his order to carry. That floppy hat poked from its cover and regarded both Hopkins and his escort with equal disdain. Hopkins slipped away from its side least another stray shot catch it. He noticed the barrel’s lid had slipped loose. A thin line of black powder traced back to the body of its fallen owner.

A sullen silence filled the bridge.

So what's the plan, Hopkins? Felicity called, her voice ringing clear in the respite. Things be a little dire unless you're going for a final stand.

Her head poked again and the outlaw's pistol fired. But the shot was off the mark. Hopkins lay on his stomach, hand still shaking with the thought of that barrel exploding. He turned like an engorged snake, inching towards his steed standing obediently at the edge of the bridge. If he could get mounted, surely he could seek escape along the old mule trail into the canyon and away from the sharpshooter's angle.

But before he could get far, the sound of iron shoes striking wood drew his gaze. All eyes on the bridge turned to its far side. A rider bounded towards them without a single shot to greet him. None dared their cover least they invoke the sky's wrath by providing a clear line.

The stallion drew upon them with flanks glistening from sweat and exhaustion. Upon the back was a hunched young man as ridiculous as he was stylish. His hair was slicked and immaculately placed. A crisp suit with full breast pockets, polished shoes and a high banded collar clasped about his slender frame and was tailored professionally to his cut. Aside from the light dusting, the clothes were peculiarly clean compared to the rest of the bridge's visitors. His was a guise more fitting the busy streets of old Rhea Silvia than the rough plains of the frontier. It was as if the Lord had plucked him from across the ocean and dropped him at the very edge of the wastes.

Hopkins leveraged his pistol and released a preemptive shot, dispelling the paralysis holding fast his compatriots.

At such a distance, the shot was too wide, but it served as the vanguard of an entire swarm. The horse cried, kicking at one shot that found mark in its flank. It bucked and knocked its rider free. Frightened and directionless, the beast made the only sensible decision and fled. Its owner scrambled for cover behind the scattered rubbish.

What are you doing?! Felicity called.

Crawling on all fours, the gentleman dodged and wove amongst the barrels and wood piles.

Reinforcing! It appears your lovely self is in quite a bind.

There was no telling how many of her men remained. Hopkins abandoned all subtlety, emptying chambers to cover his escape.

Toss me your pistol! Felicity cried.

Where's yours?

It got misplaced.

Misplaced? After all of your lecturing?

Schroeder!

Her tone was weapon enough and Hopkins pressed up against a thick girder fearing a discharge. He waved for his hands to move and flank them. But the craven snakes shook their heads, hunkering further within their cover despite their clear advantage in numbers.

Hopkins shouted at the closest spring calf and when his head shook a second time in defiance, Hopkins deposited a lead ball in his brainpan as payment.

Kill her! Hopkins scream. Or I’ll kill you!

There was reservation as the outlaws debated between the untamed they knew and the ones they didn’t amongst the rocks.

A pistol tumbled through the air and bounced, twirling along the planks until it came to an abrupt stop well short of Felicity's position.

You throw like a girl.

But I love like a man!

Hopkins raised his jittering firearm towards the lonely weapon. This was an opening. If she stepped out to retrieve it, he could strike her down. He followed the slow inch of her wide hat as it worked along the beams. Then, a large hand reached out and he squinted in concentration. He squeezed, trying to keep the shaking of his arm from reaching his fingers.

The shot missed, but the arm retreated.

I hope you are satisfied.

I'd rather Pacal.

My captain, you wound me!

At least he can throw!

It happened before Hopkins expected. From the newcomer's cover flew a hammer, catching the stranded pistol and sending both skittering to Felicity’s waiting arms.

There was no hesitation.

Felicity dashed to the fallen barrel, popping out the chamber and removing the bullet. Hopkins raised his pistol for a second shot, but the woman kicked the barrel away. It tumbled across his sight.

She fell to the ground but not from a strike. She held the cocked hammer close to the stretching black line of powder and pulled the trigger.

The spark was so brief as to be almost invisible. The flame from the discharge ate the powder greedily, rushing up its twisting path like a frenzied lizard. It popped and hissed as its rolling parent fed it a direct course to the huddled gunmen.

Hopkins’ heart stopped as he saw her game. He flew from his cover—the sharpshooter be damned. Little else pressed upon his mind as he scrambled for the horse. Others shouted and ran. Most were too late.

They fell like pegs hammered into the rail by a grand, unseen hammer. Those that weren't struck down were caught in the blast.

The explosion was spectacular. A great geyser of splintered and burning wood mixed with charred metals into a hailstorm of deadly debris. The force of the blast knocked those closest to the ground and sent Hopkins tumbling roughly into wood and dirt. He coughed, gasping for the air pounded from his lungs. He looked towards the bridge.

The planks burned fiercely and the steel shook and groaned. Burning wreckage fell like the Lord’s divine wrath. Some of those fiery pieces caught other barrels.

The fireball was spectacular. Metal girders bent before its majesty. The bridge twisted like a loosened rope. Its death rattle shook the canyon itself. The fate of the Glorious Belt Bridge was sealed. Like lips of a parting mouth, the structure peeled back to reveal the gaping maw of the canyon’s throat. Greedily it drank the wreckage, swallowing whole tools, towers, supports and bodies indiscriminately.

Hopkins scrambled to shaking feet as the floor beneath him buckled. He lurched forward, tossing any useless fool who fell across his path backwards into the abyss. He heard the pitying cries of his horse and he made for it with single-mindedness.

The woman’s shout followed his heels.

Schroeder!

He dared a glance. Dislodged steel beams tumbled across the collapsing surface, striking those clinging against boards tilting at unnatural angles. The supports gave out in rapid succession and the well-dressed man stumbled in his attempts to keep pace with the woman. He fell and she stopped to grab him as both bodies threatened to spill over the edge.

It would be the perfect shot. Hopkins paused, looking between the horse and the hunter. He could plant a bullet right between her shoulders and be done with them both. The survivors of his gang ignored the vulnerable pair, tripping over themselves as they sought firm footing. Hopkins raised his gun, tasting blood on his lip.

But he felt the earth shudder beneath his feet and his eyes carried across the widening gap between him and his promise of pay. He shoved his pistol into its holster and ran for the sure deal.

His horse was stamping madly but, mercifully, had not taken flight. He grabbed her reins, shouting obscenities as he pulled harsh on her head to reestablish dominance. He was just checking the latches on the saddle to ensure they had not shaken loose in her frenzy when he heard the crunching of gravel.

He caught a flash of brown coat and floppy hat before the woman was upon him.

His fingers instinctively wrapped about the handle of his pistol. But the collision with the ground jolted the weapon from his grasp as the two bodies entwined in the dirt. He struck with boots and she lashed with knees and elbows. He managed to plant a solid kick to her side. She was knocked from him. He crawled through the dust, snatching up his pistol.

She struck like lightning as he turned. The trigger squeezed and the muzzle spat. Felicity grunted as the bullet caught her leg. But her assault continued unimpeded. Fists lashed. She struck again and again. Each knuckle was like a jagged rock pulverizing Hopkins flesh. Her hand gripped his in a struggle for the firearm. In the contest, the weapon spat and Hopkins shrieked as the stray shot tore his shoulder. With his strength sapped, Felicity tore the gun from him. Her punches didn’t abate, however. One strike caught his jaw and his head snapped back, meeting the earth in a shattering impact. He cried. His arms raised uselessly to stem the onslaught.

Clemency, I beg of you!

Miraculously, it was granted. Felicity stood, grabbing his fallen pistol. Hopkins’ face was a burning storm of pain and heat. He felt thick liquid upon his skin and reached fingers to a nose that bleed profusely. Numerous cuts oozed hot sanguine over his swelling bruises.

Stand.

He simpered. The toe of her boot pressed against his chest as air fled him.

Not so pleasant, ain’t it? she asked while he wheezed. To think all them folk you saw fit to string or worse. It will be more than a pleasure to watch you dance before the noose, you pathetic pond-sucking parasite. Now stand!

Hopkins sobbed as he lifted to one knee. Felicity’s command grew more stern, but he only shook his head.

Stand!

I can’t!

Great unseen fingers wrapped about his torso as Hopkins was lifted effortlessly upright. He stumbled. Turning, he found a massive specimen of a man wrapped in thick muscles beneath a wide, golden frame barely contained within worn clothes. But though his dress lacked remarkability itself, he was bedecked in odd adornments. Around his wrists and ankles were thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink running along his knuckles and well beneath his sleeves. A clatter of polished green rocks etched in the shape of round, stylistic faces jangled from his neck. Each head was deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes. A strange mantle rested about his shoulders fashioned from brightly dyed cloths woven into intoxicating patterns and fringed with tattered coloured feathers.

And over one shoulder was slung a marksman’s rifle.

Baax ka waalik, captain. Fine day for catch.

Felicity smiled at the southerner.

Fine shooting, Pacal. Couldn't help notice you shaving things awful close.

Forgiveness, captain. Had to pay Kukulcan respects. But you Zaccimi touch.

She looked at her leg and the wound which spat blood. She shook her head.

I’ll be fine. Best see to Schroeder, though.

I shall yet live! Only now did Hopkins see the suited man seated upon the brink of the new precipice, nursing his ankle while looking thoroughly less respectable than when he arrived. But your sun will not visit anywhere it has not travelled already. How about we get these two back to the surgeon and see if we cannot postpone their visit to the Lord’s gate for another day.

Ain’t hardly nothing, Felicity protested. T’was you who nearly died in that explosion!

You have your story, captain, and I have mine.

Should have let you drop.

And lose a visage like this? Schroeder smiled. I believe there is scarcely a replacement in all of Athemisa or beyond.

Surely, the Graces would weep, Felicity sighed. She turned to Hopkins, pulling loose a knotted handkerchief. Now if you don’t mind rightly, I’m going to need to ensure you don’t try biting off your tongue and choking to death before we get you back all nice and sorted.

Chapter 2

The sun dipped over the dimpled distant hills. Its rosy fingers were the last to crawl into the coming night. In time, the stars would invade, harking the arrival of blissful twilight. It was the passing of one day and the final stages before deserved rest.

Randall Oscar Zwinge wrapped his lips over the tip of his pipe. Soft clouds puffed into the deepening night. He drank in the settling tranquillity carried upon the ungainly wings of the burrowing birds hopping amongst the grasses. Every so often their haunting cry carried on the genteel wind, chasing after the final rays dragging long arching shadows over their land. This was a serenity so often ignored by the young. Too wrapped were they in the world of their own thoughts to appreciate the one around them.

This was evident by his companion's raucous pounding. She straddled a great pipe, hammer rising and falling against the obstinate steel beneath her. Greasy and smeared were the bib-and-brace trousers so common to those of her profession. She worked the dent like a gandy dancer on the line. Had she but a cloth hat, she would have been indistinguishable from those faceless men constantly fighting the natural breakdown of the unending railways.

At last she gave a moment's pause on the hull's old scar and wiped the sweat from her brow before looking over the overgrown trail that wandered the hills.

They are late.

Easy, mother hen. Let the chicks come to roost.

She pulled stray strands with greasy fingers behind her ear.

Keep running warm, I was told, she grumbled, bringing the hammer upon the unyielding steel. It is not proper to leave her so—wear out shortly at this pace.

Each hammer stroke grew fiercer in her fingers near as dark as the growing dusk. She wore her worry on her sleeve, but he doubted it was just for the engine's care.

He said nothing else, raising the pipe to his lips once again. Before she had turned to this offending lump in the iron beast's hide, she had busied herself with tightening the bolts on its reinforced plates, scraped the mud and dirt from the front axles and even gone so far as to oil and polish the cannon upon which he currently sat.

You reckon we have enough fuel to see us to Bannock?

His question came as she rested her hammer, pulled her legs beneath her and stretched an aching back. His speciality lay not in cold steel and her skill in its care confounded him.

Yes. She will see us if we do not eat everything waiting.

She spoke with a curious accent. Her voice ran the inflections and lilting intonation of the northern colonies. Given her name, he suspected a Prisian background. But her appearance made clear she originated not from the continent. Her dark peoples served in the colonies, but whether she was a paid hand to the north or just the descendent of one who escaped there was impossible to know. He couldn't help but wonder if that's what drew the captain to her in the first place. Not that their business often carried them to those frigid colonies but the captain was a shrewd woman.

You think they found trouble?

Randall tapped his pipe. His eyes scanned the horizon, possibly giving the appearance that he was trying to see them over the hills in the lengthening dark.

But that would only be the appearance for untrained eyes. In truth, he was extending his senses to a greater flow. He reached out with his will to touch upon a wind few knew existed. It was an ancient practice, one in which he wasn't particularly proficient despite his training. He feared those aetheric currents as much as he revered them. They could blow blistering hot or frigidly cold and more was at risk than numbed and cracked skin.

He breathed through old teeth, his tongue tasting at that unseemly energy. His mind conjured some fragments of ancient verses while his lips twisted in familiar patterns. Through the quiet recitation, he could feel a slow change roll over his body. His fingers grew cold and senseless as if he were slowly peeling himself from his skin like a miner shedding sweat-soaked clothes at the end of a toiling eve.

Bringing the end of his pipe to his mouth, he stuck out the barest tip of his tongue and ran it along the wooden bowl. The taste of ash burned his skin, but he sucked on that acrid flavour, mixing it into a thin paste which he pulled through his teeth. His other hand fetched a few freshly picked flowers from his pocket. Providence had guided him to their spot and it seemed fated that he would call upon them now. He sensed out their stamen, crushing them beneath his fingertips then raised the pollen flecked remains to his ashen mouth.

Smacking the ad hoc concoction between his lips, he took one quick breath then exhaled in a slow whistle.

With ghostly fingers he reached out to that incandescent stream materializing before his distant vision. Among its currents he could feel the gentle tug of eddies and flows. Beneath the surface lay something fiery and reactive. Then the cold trickle of fear built faster and faster until it surged forward in a great flood that washed over him in crushing force.

He felt his senses snap abruptly back to his body as his pipe clattered to his feet.

They come.

She turned—confused—as he picked his way over the top of the machine and to the rung ladder bolted at its side. The iron already grew cold. Once firmly on solid ground, he made his way to the engine's entrance. He opened the door, snatching the lantern hanging on a few nails protruding from the wood and pulled the matches from its bottom. After several strikes he had it lit and—holding the lantern overhead—turned towards the hills.

He could hear the engineer moving above him, coming forward to the soft orange glow like a mesmerized moth. He stood, ears prickling as he listened. A few moments passed, then he heard the horse hooves.

They came around the bend—three horses in total. The mountain and the slicker shared a saddle with the younger man wrapping his arms tightly about the larger chest for support. Behind them trailed the captain, moving slower as she held a long rope to the third rider bobbing in the saddle with hands and mouth bound.

But he saw more. He could see the bright fire of her leg like a flare over a dark ocean. He could see the thin, unattended strike against her arm. The third rider's shoulder glowed brightly too and even the slicker was scored with orange.

Best get S.J., he called. We're going to need the help.

She turned, disappearing from the light into the iron beast's throbbing belly.

He waited as the others approached. As they drew near, he raised dirty fingers to his eyes, rubbing against the lids until the soft thrum at the back of his head subsided. When last he looked at the group, there was nothing clinging to them but the dust of the road and the shadows of twilight.

Evening, Randall. I gather we catch you in good health?

I don't have time for bravado, he replied to the fop. What've you done to the captain?

Me?!

I'm fine. It's the bandit that needs tending.

Randall raised the light as he looked at the ruffian. The man was barely conscious, his eyes heavy and skin paling. Randall pulled the gag from his mouth and checked the colouration of his tongue and eyes. The cloth wound about his shoulder was shoddily tied.

Come, Randall snapped at the big man, help him down.

Pacal moved with slow purpose, grasping the man about the waist and lifting him from his seat. Randall moved to the other side of the horse, working away at the binds until the ropes fell loose.

Best get him to my carriage then fetch me some fresh water. We'll see if it isn’t festered.

Ain't need for much concern, Felicity said. We only need him breathing for his hour with the hangman.

I took oaths regardless of what fate may weave for them.

If only you showed as much care for me as these butchers, Schroeder bemoaned.

I will for you too once you're under my knife.

I shall... stick with the scorn.

And you're coming, captain. I'll be tending that leg after.

It's nothing.

Hog's wallop. It’s not right for our captain to be hobbling through our meetings. A young thing like you don't need to be lame for the rest of her life.

The giant threw the bandit over his shoulder with as much effort as lifting a sack of corn. Randall held out his hand to assist Felicity from her steed and she reluctantly complied. Meanwhile, Schroeder groaned as he flopped from his own saddle, turned to the horses and gathered their leads.

The procession made its way to the engine's door when the engineer arrived with a thin, spectacled man behind her.

Captain! You're hurt!

Ain't anything, Felicity breathed. Just see to the steeds. No doubt Laure's been fretting.

Not the whole while, the engineer mumbled.

Your horse, my lady, Schroeder said with a flourish, passing the creatures to Laure's care.

Are you not helping?

Would not want to circumvent a direct command from the captain, Schroeder smiled.

Then get here, Randall cut. You can make yourself useful and carry the lamp.

Schroeder opened his mouth to retort, but Felicity gave a shout as her boot caught in the stirrup and twisted fiercely. Randall bent, allowing her to rest against his back as he extracted her leg. Careful to maintain balance, he ran his hand slowly across her thigh. His fingers brushed the blood soaked bandage, feeling the heat radiating from the wound.

This isn’t something you can drink away, Randall said, lowering the leg to the ground.

I've had worse.

Nor is it a competition. You ought to stop getting yourself shot.

But then we would have no use for your fine skills, the fop said.

The captain's muscles tensed against his back as they hobbled forward. First see to Hopkins. He's worth more breathing than stiff.

Randall assisted her to the first car, holding her arm steady as she lifted up the steps into the train. They boarded the ancillary cabin beneath the soft hiss of gas fuelling the burning sconces on the walls. Inside was a mess of papers and sheets. The thrum of machinery filled the air.

Randall held the door open to the next car, waiting for Felicity to pass.

Tell me about the explosion.

She narrowed her eyes then shook her head.

"Course you'd know. There's a