Into the Lair of Le-Roosh: Stonewind Sky, #4

By Ged Maybury

Just as life seems to settle for our straight-laced & thoroughly-British hero, he is dragged into a perilous rescue mission to the secretive skyland of Jazzenburg - lair of infamous sky-pirate Joozen Le-Roosh. But the Fates had made worse plans.  Thrown down by a storm, they encounter prehistoric horrors and a ship-ton of pirates lead by Romarny's evil cousin Ricardo. To Rodney's dismay, the pirates join their mission! 

After more monsters and death-upon-the-skies, they finally reach Jazzenburg, but all is not what it seems. A Far Greater Evil awaits!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ged Maybury
• Release date: Jun 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393895695

Ged Maybury

Ged Maybury is an Australasian author of children's and YA novelist, with 14 books conventionally published (not counting this series) and a lot more in the pipeline. Finalist - NZ Children's Book Awards 1994: “The Triggerstone” Finalist - NZ Children's Book Awards 2001: “Crab Apples” He began 1994 in his favourite genre: Science Fiction, later adding comedy and slice-of-life, and finally returned to his sci-fi roots with Steampunk. This series is aimed at young adults and anyone else who likes an engaging adventure, but as far as any full-on “adult” content goes: well that's just not his thing. (Okay – there's a bit of it.) He was born in Christchurch, New Zealand, and grew up in Dunedin; dux of his school; blah-blah-blah … Went into architecture, ended up in the performing arts and has been writing plays, poetry and books ever since. He also has earned some notoriety as a Cosplayer and Costumer, Steampunk Sculptor, Performance Poet and Story-teller. Occasionally he writes plays and films. Even more occasionally they get produced. WORLD-FIRST: Maybury lays claim to the world's first custom-written theme-song to a book. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HRQ29QkfKNE He currently lives in Brisbane, Australia. He has a blog and a Wikipedia entry, and is on Facebook.

Book preview

COVER:

Overall Graphic Design: Paul Potiki

Final Composition & Colourising: Ged Maybury

HISTORIC IMAGE*: ADA LOVELACE

Ada Lovelace is celebrated as being the world's first computer programmer (of Charles Babbage's 'Analytical Engine'; which was never built). After her work with Babbage, Lovelace continued to work on other projects. In 1844 she expressed a desire to create a mathematical model for how the brain gives rise to thoughts and nerves to feelings (a calculus of the nervous system).  

*[Portrait attributed to Alfred Edward Chalon. Slightly altered.]

CHAPTER ONE

Call to Action

THE COLOURFUL BUNTING fluttered in the chilly breeze, the brass band played a final bit of oomp-pah and the crowd waited to shout their final 'huzzah!' then hurry home from the cold. And Rodney Hoverrim felt very pleased with life. After what seemed like a year of living as a hunted man, slinking about in disguise, getting tortured and suffering some terrible dinners, he was free at last to get on with his adventures.

Alright, so it wasn’t exactly perfect. His heart was broken and he was stuck with the beautiful (and occasionally deadly) 'Miss Benedict', but in a few more minutes he’d be away and free.

Free, finally, to speak his mind to his father and persuade him to return to his grieving wife. The miraculous return of her dead husband would certainly turn her fortunes. Why; the entire population of Britain would feast upon every written word!

Rod glanced around at the very man: 'Captain Zak' here-known; once again feeling astonished that they should so neatly meet here in Varste. Isaac Hoverrim: the man who had vanished all those years ago and still presumed dead in Britain. He'd been here all the time!

Bastard!

Oh well, Rod would soon find out why. They had a long and leisurely airship voyage planned to the south-west, to a modest Kingdom called Salvadoria (ironically the closest point to Britain) where 'Captain Zak' had established quite the engineering empire. There was still the small matter of getting them both back through the Great Stormwall of Arkovarste, but somehow he'd ... Uh-oh! 'Miss Benedict' had suddenly stiffened.

Rod, tuned to her instincts, quickly searched the crowd for trouble. A tall man was weaving his way steadily towards them. This looked like trouble! (He was Hermes Stride, of course, Mailman Extraordinaire, but Rod did not know this.)

The brass band finished, some local dignitary shouted a final few words and the crowd erupted with joy (genuine or contrived, it did not matter). Flags were waving and Rod was subjected to a final flurry of handshakes as they left the stage and began towards the big airship. Thus he was anxious when that same mysterious stranger wriggled from the press and intercepted Miss Benedict. She did not seem too troubled by his bold advance but Rod became very tense, hand to sword and ruing his complete lack of loaded revolvers.

They spoke, the stranger leaned in to catch her words. A nod. She took his letter, then the fellow departed with preternatural swiftness.

Rod tried to catch her eye. His hands rolled and flicked, WHAT IS IT? She waved off his inquiry and kept going. They were now entering a kind of 'guard of honour' – the crew of the Silver Dawn, neatly drawn to attention beneath the magnificent airship that hung in the air above.

And there was Captain Zak at the foot of the stairs. Well, boy, do you want to go up and get changed? I'd like to be away in twenty minutes if possible. But don't tail us directly astern ...

Yes, I know. Turbulence.

They went up one at a time as the crew swiftly passed down the temporary ballast. Inside it was a little warmer. Rod was shown to a modest stateroom where his luggage had already been stowed. His British flightsman’s leathers were laid out and ready. Splendid! Gratefully he began peeling off the garish thing he'd suffered the morning in.

The moment he was down to his underwear, and with her usual impeccable timing, Romarny knocked and came straight in. Rod, she said urgently, waving that letter, we’ve got a problem!

Yes, and you have a problem with manners! he replied, quickly seizing his leathers to cover himself.

Never mind that, just get dressed. We haven’t got time to be civil!

Oh, and what is so drastically amiss?

Remember the Polly Tonics?

Yes of course.

They’ve been kidnapped!

I thought they had only just been freed?

"Rod, hello, this is the news that matters." She hit him in the chest with the letter.  He tried to take it but she snatched it back and read:

" ‘My dearest Firetail,

‘It is my pleasure to inform you that I have taken as guests your beloved friends the Polly Tonics (and how very kind of King Attar to send them by so conveniently close to my lair). You will not receive this missive until after the appointed hour of my strike, so even if all goes astray and they go down in flames, one way or another you friends are in dire straits. Har-har!’ ... "

He actually says ‘Har-har’?

Yes! Stop interrupting!

‘..I expect no less of you, Dearest Firetail, than to come here and rescue them. On the third day of this new month I shall begin shooting them one by one, although I might keep the mutant girl for my own pleasures. Anyway, by the time you read this message my attack would have succeeded and their ship destroyed, and thus the world will be left to believe in some sad and typical end for them all. Har-har!’..."

She glared at him but this time he remained silent, still busy buttoning himself into his leathers. He was getting a sinking feeling about this.

"...‘I shall await your company at my latest abode, the Jutspur of Blackooze, or as it is more commonly known: Jazzenberg.

– Yours truly, Joozen Le-Roosh."

Who the hell is he?

Just the world’s most feared pirate. He commands quite a fleet.

It could be fraudulent, snapped Rod, annoyed that his first day of freedom had been so swiftly ruined, "it could be from anyone."

She glared at him as she folded the letter. I have no good reason to disbelieve it, Rod, and if I do, those five lovely ladies could well die! If we wait for confirmation that they have been intercepted we could lose two entire days, and he is only giving us three! Anyway, he has signed it off with a mark that only my family knows. She turned the page to him. At the bottom, drawn in what looked suspiciously like blood, was a messy symbol. Then she folded it away and without another word crossed the room and opened one of his trunks.

Excuse me, he said, but if you don’t mind...

She ignored him and continued removing items, mostly the frivolous things that had be bestowed upon him by various well-wishers during his halcyon days on Havencliffs. Near the bottom she came upon a plump plain-wrapped bundle and hauled it out. She opened the wrapping sheet and he gasped in amazement. It was the very same flightsman’s suit she had been wearing the very first time he met her.

How in the Deep did that get in there?

Once again she ignored him, hastily divesting herself of her fine travelling clothes. This process took far less time than he had anticipated. Within seconds the cunningly contrived clasps were separated and the cleverly tailored costume; in single large pieces that defied the normal expectation of layer upon layer of lacy and mysterious things; was tossed aside.

She stood before him in her baggy red leather underwear. 

As a weapon in itself it was quite effective. Any man confronted by it would be immediately incapacitated. (He usually was, despite repeated exposures.)

Rod, she said, paying him no heed and instead working to free the bustle that was the only thing left of the original costume, I know you loved the Pollys, so I am begging you for help. We need to take the Lizzie. At top speed we can get there within twenty-four hours. I’ve asked Captain Zak to load us with all the extra fuel we’ll need. I believe she is otherwise well provisioned ...

Now hold on! The Lizzie is hardly a battleship.

Exactly. She tossed down the bustle, and just as he suspected, it contained the Charm of Sissifreya: that accused thing that had already caused him so much trouble.

You’re not serious.

I’m deadly serious.

But the Lizzie...

"...is perfect. Please, Rod. You’re my best hope. Their best hope."

Rodney stood gummed to the spot, his mind in a turmoil. Damn it! Just as he was poised to enjoy a quiet day in the sky and with an easy run alongside his father’s ship, more madness had to damn-well crop up.

Oh; but for the Polly Tonics! He remembered their bright and cheeky manner, their easy wit and charm, their fabulously funny song about chemistry. How could he refuse?

I refuse! 

Damn it you’re such a stubborn fool, Rodney Hoverrim!

Now see here..!

Alright, alright. I have clearly misjudged you. I thought you were a person above you own petty pursuits, a man of honour, one who cared for good. But alright, don’t mind me. I’ll pursue this alone.

No, no, it’s just that...

No! I’ve heard enough! I accept you at your word. Why should you care about a few strangers after all? You: a stranger in this world anyway, and with your own agendas. Once again he prepared to say his piece, and once again she rushed on with hers, However, as the Firetail, I’m duty bound to now subdue you, tie you up and take the Charm with me. Its protection is paramount.

Rod enjoyed a brief joy at the thought of being thus subdued. But...

She moved a hand to her belt where he knew she kept all manner of diabolical devices, So, will I have to use force or will you submit to me peacefully?

Miss Benedict! (He had narrowly avoided shouting out her true name) Please! I-I-I do care for the Pollys. I want to help, but please, not in the Lizzie. I’ve only just got her back!"

Rod, her voice dropped, "in any other ship I would fail, or at the very least I would get there too late to surprise him. If I walked out of here right now and immediately began organising another ship, I could be delayed by weeks. The Pollys might all be dead by then. Think of it, Rod. Those poor defenceless women flung in a prison.  Abused, tortured, made to go without a bath. How could you do that to them?"

I’m not their torturer!

Her voice dropped even lower. You see: you have something that no-one else has, Rodney: you can fly all night.

And that will save them – how?

Trust me, Rod, it will!

He let loose a long frustrated sigh. Very well then. We’ll take the Lizzie.

At last she smiled. It was almost worth the world to him.

IT WAS FRIGHTFULLY cold aloft. Rod stood at the wheel in the icy slipstream while Romarny huddled below the line of the gunwales. She had removed all traces of her previous disguise and with hood up she was methodically going through the stores. She wore her goggles up upon the brow of her hood, but otherwise she was well-covered head to toe in her British Flightsman’s leathers.

Two quilted blankets; she was saying aloud, "good! Ah, a repair kit! Trust Jollie for that. Champagne? Oh well, extra ballast if we need it. Oh good: more food!" And so on.

Rod looked on ruefully. The two items on board that bothered him most were the sunray-gun and the ‘Charm’. Whatever that damned thing was, it continued to dog his life. Finally Romarny finished her inventory. She stood up and gazed about at the deserted landscape. There was nothing below but trees as far as the eye could see, all in neat and perfect rows.

No-one in sight.

He glanced back. The looming bulk of the Silver Dawn had vanished from sight ten minutes earlier. Take us up, Roddy, said Romarny, This cloud can’t go up forever and we need the sun. Due west!

He needed little prompting. A bit of sunshine would be a welcome change. Reaching down to the shiny new levers on his wheel-post he seized one and eased it up. Instantly the Lizzie responded, her bow lifting. Rod smiled with pleasure. How easy! Now to release a little ballast. Another flick on a spring-loaded lever took care of that.

Master Jollie’s gift was quite splendid. It transpired that, unbeknown to Rod, during that distant night upon the Upblandishard Steppes, Jollie had rescued the motor, propeller and rudder, the empty gasbag and many of the compact and important mechanical parts, abandoning all the rest. Then at his leisure he had rebuild the entire airship to his own liking. Almost everything had been improved and Rod was still discovering the details. He fiddled the two levers, releasing a little more water. The clouds folded around them at once, bitter cold, and they pushed on for five more minutes. All he could do was watch the compass and altimeter, keeping her true. Somewhere above, the light steadily improved.

More ballast, said Romarny softly. They eased up another few hundred feet. The light increased again, and suddenly they broke through. It was breath-taking. The sun burst down upon them (although not directly because of the gasbag overhead) and the air seemed warmer at once. Just below them was a vast pillow of brilliant white fluffiness. As they flew further west, Rod kept glancing back. They had exited from a long hump of cloud, apparently stationary, that blanketed the huge massif of Troppokava. Not a skerrick of the landform was visible, and yet its presence was clearly discernible.

He felt his spirits lift. This was flying!

Romarny was scanning all about with her binoculars.

Anything? he asked after a moment.

About forty ships, Rod, and every one of them after us.

The Lizzie veered wildly to the left, What!

Relax, I’m joking. We’re twenty miles away from the nearest shipping lane and quite alone. Now cut back on the power.

Why?

We need to conserve the fuel for tonight. I’m switching us to stonewind. She was getting out the howler tube from its nondescript canvas bag.

Rod had already had a feeling it was going to go like this. He eased the throttle down, then down some more. The Blatt & Whitely pistonator (extensively modified by his own father to run perfectly on Varste’s miracle fuel petroline), settled back to a low trot compared to the steady gallop it had been putting out for the last hour, just enough to hold course.

Then Romarny changed her mind. She squatted and pulled out the ray-gun travelling case. No, this first, I think. Time it got recharged.

Here? Rodney was appalled at the idea.

You’ve got to develop the habit of keeping it charged, Rod.

No, I mean: we’re on an airship for sake of all the Gods!

Well then don’t aim that way. She pointed a finger directly upward.

He ceased to argue and just said tiredly, Take the wheel, please.

He squatted and worked the cunning catches that Ignatius had devised. They appeared to be quite ordinary, and to the uninitiated they were therefore locked. But by subjecting them to a twisting force at the same time as sliding them, they would click open very easily. The ray gun was nestled in its velvet padding. He lifted it out. It felt perfect in his hand. As in the previous version, Ignatius had created a safety catch to confound the novice, but Rod knew the trick. He pressed the secret stud and slid the catch sideways.

One squeeze of the trigger now and it would kill, melt or burn. A whole new era of airship warfare would be launched if the Peoples of Varste could ever replicate this secret. Rod shuddered at the thought. He didn’t like the fact that he was now compelled to carry it, yet at the same time was somewhat seduced by its beauty and power.

Well?

She was looking down at him.

He exposed the light-capturing lens on the back by sliding back the decorative brass cover, stood to the gunwale amidships, held the thing well clear of everything, aimed out at the horizon, and pulled the trigger. The boom was not so bad up here in the open air, nor was the flash so terrible, but it still packed quite a kick. 

But what they were both amazed by was the long narrow cloud that appeared almost instantly thereafter.  It hung in the sky where he had fired, slowly sliding astern so they could easily see its full extent.

How the Deep did that happen?

Amazing!

That is remarkable! What a trick!

Do it again!

He slid the cover closed and fired one more time, mindful that every blast took a toll on the ceramic barrel. The electrical components performed perfectly. Once again the gun uttered its strange bark, and once again that curious trail appeared in the sky. One thing this told him was just how improved this gun was on the last. Ignatius had tightened the spread of the blast considerably, and thus it seemed he had also extended the range. The miniature cloud was about two hundred yards long, at least, but only a yard wide at most.

Is it like our breath? The air is very cold here.

I suppose.

Reluctantly he put it away, at least knowing it was now well-charged until tomorrow. He then took the wheel while Romarny went aft with the mysterious tube of power he had brought into Varste. As she passed him to the left, he instinctively stepped right to balance the gondola. They worked like a well-oiled machine here in the sky, and he enjoyed this aspect of sharing his ship with her.

She was squatting.

What are you doing?

"I’m wedging the rudder lines. Hold her steady. He felt a few slight tugs, then she was done. They let the Lizzie run a minute to test that their bearing was steady. 

That’ll be fine, she said, I can steer her for here if we have to. Ready?

Yes. He went forward and got down, braced. He knew what it was like when this thing kicked in. She tugged down her goggles then gripped the tube in that special secret way, twisted, and the front caps sprang open. He saw the mysterious ‘stone’ inside, gleaming as if with excitement, and saw that the entire tube as already twisting in her hand with barely suppressed power.

She pressed the partly opened device to the back of the motor. 

Brace!

She made the final twist. The gondola kicked forward. The air was filled at once with a kind of banshee howl, for all the world like either a wounded dog or a set of Scottish pipes in the possession of a madman. For something so small, it certainly punched well above its weight.

AND SO THEY TRAVELLED for a long time in silence (conversation was near-impossible), until Rod wondered how she could endure her fixed position and the effort it took to keep things steady. He set about wishing he could rig some sort of bracket for the thing so as to spare her the hours of duty that still lay before her, but without a workshop, the right metals and tools, and someone to do it for him, it was impossible.

And besides, as soon as he moved from his position in the bow, they would pitch up and become dangerously unstable.

He gave her an encouraging smile. She smiled in reply. It seemed that she was genuinely happy. Perhaps she loved flying as much as he. It was a thought that made him happy, and he looked around, finally glad to have his ship back. It may have been a tiny thing compared to the mighty ships in this strange world, odd-looking and powered by a popping overweight contraption, but it was still essentially a splendid British-made airship!

Champagne? he called back to his companion.

She just shook her head, then made a gesture with her eyes that he easily understood. Taking up his own binoculars, he scanned the skies. They were alone.

We have the sky to ourselves! he shouted cheerfully, then eased down again for some the champagne. Oops! At this altitude it always sprayed a great deal, even this special low-fizz product. Got that safely over the side, then settled a third time.

This is the life, eh? She couldn't hear him. He shrugged, sat back and sipped his champagne, quite forgetting he was heading into mortal danger. 

Again.

CHAPTER TWO

The Mouth of the Deep

RODNEY WAS IMPRESSED by her endurance, but after two hours she shut the tube and the howling ceased. The icy wind of their passage instantly eased and in its absence the air felt positively balmy. The motor, still running on a gentle throttle, was no more than the purring of a cat.

Changeover, she said, stretching stiffly.

Of course. He kept his tone cheerful but he had been dreading this moment. Getting up he changed places with her and listened attentively to her instructions.

You open it by pressing in, then twisting.

I know.

Open the front first, then...

Yes, yes, I know.

"Place it securely before opening the outlet."

Of course.

It kicks on immediately. It’ll try to jump away to the side. Please hold it tight!

I’ll be ready for it.

Keep the sun over your bow. We need to hold west.

Yes, yes, I’ll manage. He tugged down his goggles and turned to the task for about the fourth time.

Rod!

He stopped. She looked very worried.

What?

If it gets away on you, if you drop it, then it’s all over. Understand?

Yes, but...

We’ll never get it back. Our mission will fail.

Understood.  But I can do this! Trust me.

Suddenly she started making her way back. It’s alright, she said, I’ll do it. I’ve had a bit of rest...

No! he replied forcefully, I can do this. You have to trust me!

She stopped, sighed, and her worried gaze dropped momentarily to the deck. He caught a glimpse of the emotions that were playing out inside her; frustration or uncertainty or something equally troubling, and there was also that look he had seen before – as of a stubborn girl acting out of duty, as if she were carrying a fat grizzling infant another fifty yards when she'd rather not. Or was it that she could not pass over the responsibility, feeling that she had to bear it alone? Her next utterance was a clue.

I cannot fail them, Rod!

"We won’t fail them," he replied firmly. He had learned a few things in the army, and one of them was to confidently inspire the men to go forth and do their duty. Thinking this was the end of the matter, he braced himself near the back of the motor, grasped the tube, and made ready.

Stop!

What is it now.

Take off you gloves. You’ll have a far better grip.

But the cold...

And then he realised that she had gone two hours without gloves. Dropping his face to disguise any hint of shame he tucked the thing under one arm and tugged off his gloves. As soon as he grasped it again he realised it was quite warm. Was it her warmth, or from the nearby motor? Either way, it had momentarily been like touching her directly.

Glancing at her once more, he focused on the task. First he gripped the fat tube and did the complicated press-and-twist motion that caused the front end to spring open like a mechanical claw. Warm air hit his face and it surged momentarily in his grip. So great was the conflict inside between air drawn in and air pushed out that it distinctly thrummed.

Briefly he again glimpsed the mysterious object of power within, gleaming as if composed of a thousand tiny rainbows. But he knew a puff of warm air and a humming sound were nothing compared to what was about to happen. He located the spot she had held it to; the top end of the air intake pre-heater pipe (now dented by its force), set it there so that the pipe passed between the brass ‘petals’, and did the second twist. 

Kick! 

He staggered a moment even though he had expected it, causing the air blast to immediately go off centre. The gondola swayed sharply before he got it settled.

They were up to full speed within seconds.

Close to, the noise was hideous. He was glad that his hood was tight, but even so, the sound almost hurt. The pistonator had been running all that time, turning the propeller at a steady tick, but had been so quiet relative to the power tube that he had almost forgot its constant presence. Looking back he now saw that the ferocious air jet from the howler had to pass through the arc of the propeller. There was no other way. If the motor had been completely off, the propeller would have now been a hindrance to their forward motion.  Clearly Romarny had thought of that.

Huh: he had nearly offered to shut it off, several times. As it was, the motor speed had actually picked up since the jet took effect.

It occurred to him that with a strong enough howler, a propeller like this could actually be used to generate electricity and that could be used to power arc lights to stimulate the howlers at night. No; better; connect a pistonator directly to the generator ... Hmm ...

AND SO HE MANAGED TO pass a productive hour, filling his mind with detailed plans for an experimental airship containing his motor and the very best and most efficient generator possible. He pictured where the fuel tanks would be set and how a cooling airflow could be created to prevent the pistonator from overheating. He even imagined a system of ducts to channel the surplus heat to the passengers in their cabins. A nice touch! Then he imagined a partnership with his father, building the units and selling them to the Varstians, and amassing a huge profit. All of this made him very happy until he remembered that he was actually planning to force his father to return to Britain and rejoin his marriage.

Damn.  Such a good dream too.

The sun steadily set ahead of them and as it got lower Romarny called for a minor course change. He soon realised why. Now that the lowering sun had become visible just below the leading overhang of the gas-bag, she wanted maximum light into the tube, but the motor was in the way. He eased the tube a little, sending them to the right, and immediately the speed increased by about five miles per hour. He felt the Lizzie quivering. Looking up he even saw ripples pulsing along the envelope. This was probably all she could take; more speed than had ever been envisaged. 

Rocket Hampster’s racing ship had briefly reached 88 miles per hour, but this? He had no way of really knowing how fast they were going. 40 miles per hour? 45? It was conceivable.

Standing as he was (and getting steadily more uncomfortable), he had been subject to quite a freezing blast. It was all he could do to endure another five minutes, and then another five. He concentrated on watching their course, ensuring that a beam of light fell constantly into the mouth of the tube. The brass parts were actually getting quite hot.

I fear it is too much! he shouted forward, finally.

What?!  She had not heard, even though she was but four yards away. 

He shouted louder. It’s getting too hot! I fear it will soon break!

We cannot give up now!

If this tears apart, all will be lost!

It won’t. It’s well built!

This has never done this before.

We need to go another fifty miles! Maybe sixty. Keep at it!

Maybe we simply can’t.

We must! We have to surprise him!

He gazed ahead, but saw no skyland of any description, just a stack of boiling cloud.

What was that bit about travelling at night? he shouted to her.

That comes in about two hours.

Still he gazed ahead, trying to guess where they would be in two hours. There was nothing; just that cloud. Worrying, that. Looked frightfully like a thunder stack.

There were a few features to the landscape, however. Away to the southwest by a good stretch was distinct hump in the Deeping-lands. Very much like Troppokava, but either lower and flatter, or longer, and dark on top as if forested in the same way.

Almost due north of them were a pair of skylands, low and at the very limit of his sight. As is often the case, they were distinguished more by their mark upon the clouds than by their actual visible presence.

Uh-oh, there was an airship in that direction too.

His control wavered. The gondola swayed and the Lizzie groaned in protest. Once again he feared immanent failure.

Airship! he bellowed to Romarny.

I see it! She was already crouched in the bow, her elbows on the gunwale, spyglass steady. Hold her steady! she shouted.

I am!

Still the Lizzie shuddered.

He had had enough. Easing the jet ever so slightly to the left he let the shadow of the motor slide over the tube’s inlet. The speed diminished and the shuddering ceased.

What are you doing?!

Giving you some steady.

We need speed!

He ignored that. So what ship is it?

She steadied herself and looked once more. Military, I think, therefore one of Attar’s. Cannot tell if it’s out looking for the Polly Tonics, or just patrolling. Who knows.

Do we need to worry?

We’ll see. She continued to scan the skies while she had the chance, turning full circle without the glasses, then lifting them occasionally to study something of more interest on the second pass. He noted that she viewed that cloud a long time.

Is that safe? he asked of the cloud.

It’s going to have to be. Our destination is on the other side.

Can’t be a thunderstorm can it? I mean it’s the wrong time of year.

Could well be a thunderstorm, she answered, There’s a place below where the heat of the Inner Worlds rises almost to the surface. There is always a lot of steam, and sometimes sulphurous smoke. Strange plants grow down there, and strange beasts, and rock oil constantly flows up from the cracks on the far side.

Is this where they get it?

Good heavens no. The main source around here is Vicaria. People have been using rock oil for centuries, of course, but now science is taking an interest in it. Lots of applications. This, for instance: she patted her glove on the curved ‘glass’ screen at the front – another of the nice details Jollie had fitted while he was having his way with the Lizzie, This was a great leap forward. Her tone abruptly changed, "Now give me some speed, Rod!"

Reluctantly he steered to the right by a few degrees and the light once again streamed onto the mysterious gem inside the tube. The power surged and the Lizzie shivered once again. Conversation became all but impossible.

ROD ENDURED ANOTHER twenty minutes, then eased off again with a slight turn left, lining them precisely to the west.

Can we change? he asked, My back is killing me.

She nodded. He shut it off, which simply involved reversing the direction of the twist, then pulling it clear of the pipe to allow the front covers to fully click shut. It required quite an effort to pull it back against its own forward thrust. Not until the brass petals had snapped loudly closed at the front did the rear petals finally pull tight. It required a final twist and then he was done; quite exhausted.

She was coming aft. He had to move quickly forward to balance the ship.

We must keep on, she said, We have to get around that storm.

Which side?

The north, since we’ve been edging that way anyway.

Rod didn’t argue.  He slumped in the bow and reached for the hamper.

Do you need to eat? he asked her.

No time. Brace yourself.

The power kicked on again, but Rod was beginning to suspect it was getting a little weaker. The sun’s strength was becoming attenuated by its low angle and the lateness of the day. He took out his watch, a locally made one and thus showing time divided by their system, and checked. He hardly needed it. His stomach was telling him that it was five in the afternoon. Still, it would be quite improper to start feasting while she laboured, so he simple tugged on his gloves and hunched down out of the wind. His bladder was also sending its own message regarding the passage of time, but right then such relief was all but impossible. He hung on and wondered exactly what he had gotten himself into.

He was soon to find out.

Rod, increase the motor speed. We’re losing the sun.

He got up. Sure enough, the sun was fading rapidly into the wall of cloud that loomed off their port bow. Moving swiftly to the centre of the ship and the control column, he eased up the throttle lever. The pistonator immediately cheered up.

How much?

That’s just fine!

He went forward again before the bow pitched too high. The cloud already seemed closer. This wasn’t good.

This isn’t good! he shouted back to her.

She was working the jet, steering them further to the north. The sun was quite hidden, and the light was dimming fast. The dense cloud was throwing quite a shadow which Rod, looking back, could see extending into the east like a sinister sky ghost.

He eased to that side and looked over the gunwale. Far below he saw shafts of sunlight slanting under the main cloud mass, lighting up crisp white plumes near the ground. Steam? He had seem enough steam in his time, but it was usually mixed with filthy smoke. This steam was perfect, like living snow. The land below was strange. He caught brief glimpses of lakes, patches of striking colours, patches of forest, odd little hills. And it seemed close, as if the landform had been rising to meet them.

Then he had a frightening thought: they might have been losing gas all afternoon and has actually lost height! He hurried once again to the centre of his craft, a matter of three anxious strides. The bow came up. Once glance at the altimeter allayed his fears. It was simple high ground.

More power! she shouted from the rear just then.

He flicked up the lever carelessly, forgetting just how much more lively it was on the new fuel, and the motor suddenly roared. The acceleration was unexpected. He stumbled back, throwing a hand out instinctively to stop himself going down, and his gloved hand landed on one of the motor’s hottest pipes. There was a hiss. He flinched away from the sudden heat, narrowly avoiding a burn. 

In those same few moments he heard Romarny shout in alarm. For a moment he thought she had tumbled off the back and into the propeller, but a quick glance settled that fantasy. She was still aboard, but had lost control of the jet’s alignment. They were swinging about, the tail going all the way to the south and then more. If it had not been for the resistance from the fixed rudder it would have been a precipitous turn, and the bow was getting dangerously high now.

Rod was still lurching away from the motor, still compelled by his instinct to avoid a burn, and the next nearest thing to grab at for support was the wheel. 

This just made matters worse. 

The sudden tug must have freed one of the wedges. The wheel spun under his hand and the rudder came entirely free, swinging suddenly around. Romarny wailed, and next thing she was coming at him almost through the air, frantically holding onto the howler tube that had pulled itself completely free of all restraint.

Without hesitation he lunged for it too. They collided amidships, on the port side of the wheel, and fell painfully into the bow. The howler, pulled down from its original trajectory, smacked into the inside face of the windscreen with a loud bang, fracturing the strange glass-like material.

Tangled together, they both continued to cling to the wretched runaway, its warm blast steaming just above them. The windscreen would not hold it for long.

Cover the front! she yelled above its roar, Block the light!

He struggled against her, getting one hand up and over the screen.

Both hands!  Block it as much as you can!

With another heave (and a painful grunt from her because he had planted his knee into her belly), he got his other arm up and his other hand over. His two gloves created quite a good shade at the front but it was still getting some light in the sides. Still, with its power diminished, Romarny could finally twist the outer brass ring and cause the cunning contrived internal parts to spring the ends shut. Even so it was not easy, for she had to pull it back from where it had embedded itself into the screen. Finally the front snapped shut, sending fragments of windscreen flicking violently away, and its banshee cry abruptly ceased.

Thank the Gods! he said, brushing crumbs of windscreen from his gloves. He was upset about