Flights of Fancy: The Great Atlantic Run

By Cameron Jon Bernhard

Join Captain Fancy and the crew of the Persephone as they take to the clouds in this riveting steampunk adventure.

The Great Atlantic Run is more than a passport to high-flying thrills and excitement; it's a perilous two-day marathon over the ocean, where only the fast and strong survive. In a journey fraught with air pirates, rough weather and international spies, the risks are sky-high. The rewards, fame and fortune.

Take off on the voyage of a lifetime as you explore a grand world of flying ships, steam-powered machines, and incredible characters. Flights of Fancy is a fast-paced, unforgettable yarn as limitless and unpredictable as imagination itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cameron Jon Bernhard
• Release date: Nov 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463371947

Cameron Jon Bernhard

Published since 2013, J.B. Cameron was forced to rebrand under the name "Cameron Jon Bernhard" to avoid conflicting with an identically named self-published writer. Though born in New Brunswick, Canada, his work shows more influence from an upbringing of American TV than his maritime roots. A writer who generally plays loose with the constraints of genre, Bernhard's dark style and black humor typically places fun, exciting characters in situations of suspense or urban horror, making an exciting roller coaster ride to both chill and amuse readers. Author of numerous novels, novellas and screenplays, his first published novel, "Reading The Dead - The Sarah Milton Chronicles," introduces a supernatural detective series unlike anything you'll find elsewhere.

Book preview

FLIGHTS OF FANCY

THE GREAT ATLANTIC RUN

Cameron Jon Bernhard

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, events, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, locales, etc. are entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 by Cameron Jon Bernhard. All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition ISBN: 9780463371947

TABLE OF CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

Afterword

To Theresa.

For helping me to write less like a Kanadian

and more like an Amerikan.

Shouting barkers and calliope music underpinned the ebb and swell of hundreds of excited voices. Multitudes from all classes of society brushed elbows as they wandered around the exhibition grounds, ogling a spectacle that was nothing short of fantastic. The event's carnival atmosphere was a sideshow distraction, meant to downplay the legitimate danger involved in this perilous undertaking.

In preparation for today, organizers had slapped posters on every pole and board for miles around. The Great Atlantic Run. A title designed to grab the attention of anyone passing by. Displaying an image of brave aviators superimposed over maps of the Maritime coast on one side and the Britannia coast on the other, the description that appeared above the date and location was as follows:

Come see off the brave flyers for the tenth annual oceanic aerobarque race from Kanada to Britannia.

From the shores of Newfoundland to the cliffs of Dover, competitors from all over the world will race to earn the prize money and prestige that comes from accomplishing the world's fastest transatlantic airship crossing.

Their marketing efforts paid off with dividends. People from all walks of life showed up to take in the sights and sounds. The rich, the poor, families, pickpockets, locals and foreigners all walked the same roundabout circuit to the docks, where rows of massive ships tethered to mooring posts floated off the ground like giant toy balloons.

The ten international aerobarques participating in this year's race came in all shapes and sizes, from trim, six-crew aerosloops to massive galleons as large as mansions. Each one hovered over the waters of the Newfoundland shoreline under trapped helium clouds.

With the others boasting proud figureheads and richly painted hulls, perhaps it was no surprise that spectators shuffled by one of the vessels with barely a fleeting glance. To the untrained eye there seemed nothing remarkable about the Persephone.

As with all aerobarques, she had the bones of an eighteenth century seafaring vessel. Pipes and ropes extended up her masts to feed and secure the topfloat, the massive, partially inflated helium balloon keeping her aloft. Landing struts extended along the bottom of her hull, though most aerobarque captains rarely landed on terra firma, preferring instead to hover several inches above the ground. Maintaining some helium in the topfloat, especially when fast takeoffs were a priority, only made common sense. Three wings, including one at the rear of the ship, provided stability in choppy weather. A lightweight fin on the topfloat also helped in this regard.

These accoutrements aside, the thing that really set aerobarques apart from their ancient seafaring ancestors was the addition of large metal pipes feeding into a single exhaust port at the stern of the ship. Running under this from an aft opening was a long metal shaft connected to a propeller with six, twelve-foot long blades. Though their sailing predecessors were limited to wind power, the application of steam-powered turbines meant that such limitations no longer applied to their airborne grandchildren.

Absent the colorful designs wealthy owners used to decorate their ships, every Imperial credit thrown into the Persephone was an investment in performance. Her unadorned lines provided maximum thrust and maneuverability, angled to bleed headwinds into her network of sails and allow her to flow across the sky as if on angel's wings. She wasn't much to look at, but that didn't matter to her crew. Once she found the wind, her competitors weren't apt to see her for long anyway.

The poor impression she made to the uninitiated masses below was the farthest thing on the mind of first mate Baldrick Merryweather. He leaned his muscular frame over the gunwale, searching the shifting river of faces flowing past his ship for one in particular.

Where the great galloping galloops is she? he muttered. The race is going to start any minute.

Cookie, the ship's Scottish steam engineer, happened to be walking past at the time with an armful of supplies intended for the boiler room. He overheard the mate's offhanded remark and sniffed. Cap'n wull be 'ere. She's probably laying oot some last minute bets oan us afore we git underway, ah reckon.

Baldrick sighed. Forget inspection. At this rate, she'll be lucky to show up for the starting pistol.

Ignorant of his foul mood, a young aristocrat had the misfortune of walking past the Persephone with a lady on his arm. He waved up at the surly figure hanging off the deck above them.

Ahoy, Captain! There's some fine competitors in the running this year, he shouted. Is that old tug of yours up to the challenge?

With clenched teeth, Baldrick summarily waved him away. What would you know, you foppish lackwit? You wouldn't recognize a fast ship if one landed on you.

A dainty, yet firm hand squeezed his shoulder from behind. Clara Porter was more than a prominent lady of renown. She was also the ship's second mate.

Down, tiger, she said. Let's not declare war on the nobility. Some of us can't help it that we come from money.

Baldrick grunted with displeasure, but didn't reply.

She joined him at the bulwark, emulating his posture as he stared out over the mob filing into the exhibition grounds. Still no sign of Fancy?

"You mean Captain Fancy, don't you, mate? he grumbled. As long as you're aboard this ship..."

Clara deepened her voice, mimicking the gruff tones of her senior officer. I'm to behave in a professional manner befitting my rank at all times. She snorted with amusement. Remind me again why Fancy picked an old fussbucket like you to be her first mate, over her oldest and dearest friend?

Baldrick glanced around. At least three nearby crewmen had heard their exchange and were stifling smirks. He harrumphed into his fist, deciding the best way to salvage decorum meant changing tack.

How goes the preparations? he inquired. I want to be ready to get underway as soon as she arrives.

Everything's squared away. The steam drive is prepped and operational. Our tanks are full. The prop's greased and spinning. Even the larder's stocked.

Did you double check the air pockets on the sails for leaks? he asked.

We triple checked them. Clara smiled. Relax, Baldrick, we aren't going to embarrass you by dropping out of the sky as soon as we launch.

Baldrick exhaled sharply and returned to his business of worrying over the faceless mob. I'd rather we did. Compared to crashing in the Atlantic, it'd be a blessing.

Have you ever competed in a transatlantic crossing before? I heard it can be quite treacherous.

Baldrick's gaze turned distant. Once, under the crew of the HMS Church. You've heard correctly.

He looked over at her. Noticing her interest for more information, he expounded, We have to travel southeast across the open water of the North Atlantic to the Azores for the first leg of our journey. If we can't find a suitable tailwind, we're going to have to push through on steam power alone. If our tanks run dry before we reach landfall, the jet stream could blow us all the way to Northland. Also, we're on the cusp of hurricane season, so we could find ourselves running into some nasty surprises once we get out there.

Sounds pretty bad.

It's nothing compared to what's waiting for us on the second leg of our voyage, he admitted. From Azores, we travel northeast, up the English Channel, to the cliffs of Dover...

Well, that sounds alright.

...through skies patrolled by competing factions of air pirates from the desert states of Sumar, Marikstan, and Egyppa, he continued. Assuming we make it that far, we still need to pass the Channel Islands. I hear that the Franco-Prussian Alliance operate aerosloops from there. They'll shoot down any foreign ship that crosses their airspace.

Are you kidding me? What about sportsmanship? she cried.

In this race? Not likely. This is war. Baldrick frowned at every person below who wasn't his captain. And we're still down one general.

The general in question was at that moment arriving outside the gates of the exhibition grounds, not in a flourish of trumpets, but in a cacophony of squealing tires and braying horns. Steam-powered autocarriages, ranging in variation from horseless buggies to self-propelled coaches, swarmed the parking area. Their orderly flow between strands of pedestrians venturing into the fairground was disrupted by a single vehicle, apparently driven by a madwoman.

A coach easing out onto the road jammed on its brakes and honked angrily at the speeding carriage racing around the corner on two wheels and a prayer. The vehicle's driver, a redheaded woman in goggles and a velvet eggplant tailcoat, merely laughed and coaxed more speed from the hapless auto.

Lady Alexa Wickholm, better known in racing circles as Captain Fancy, gripped the steering rod tighter. She swerved the carriage around vehicles and people in tight, controlled adjustments. Unfamiliar with such precision handling, the motor carriage screamed in protest. Its squeals all but drowned out the horrified shrieks of those unfortunate souls she nearly ran over in her wild race for the fairground entrance.

Upon reaching their destination, she yanked on the throttle. The carriage screeched to a stop, spewing steam and rock chips everywhere. The elderly gentleman seated next to her, who spent the terrifying ride desperately clinging to both his top hat and his composure, tightened his white-knuckled clutch on the riding bars to keep from being thrown over the dash.

Fancy fell back into her padded seat,