Ghosts of Engines Past
Read Ghosts of Engines Past Online
Authors: Sean McMullen
by
SEAN MCMULLEN
Published by
ReAnimus Press
Other books by Sean McMullen:
© 2013 by Sean McMullen. All rights reserved.
http://ReAnimus.com/authors/seanmcmullen
Cover Art by Jim Burns, design by Julian Nagy
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It is 1840. Balloons were the only way to fly, and air safety standards were the stuff of science fiction.
This is about a frontier that is only eight miles away—straight up. Nineteenth Century balloons were quite advanced machines, and could go way higher than was safe. The trick was defining what was safe. I was inspired to write this story by a very dramatic 1862 engraving of the balloon pioneers James Glaisher and Henry Coxwell, hovering at about 36,000 feet and only moments from death. They lived, but others died before people worked out that five miles was risky, six miles was a very bad idea, and seven miles was suicide. Our narrator, Mister Harold Parkes, has eight miles on the job statement. His balloon can do it, he cannot, but he's British so that's not going to stop him. This story defines classic steampunk for me. It is full of Victorian optimism and ill-informed bravery, and the balloon and steam technology works. Do not try this
at home, however; the air safety standards were written for a lot of good reasons.
Consider a journey of eight miles. One could walk it in less than an afternoon, in a carriage it would take an hour, or one could conquer the distance in one of Stevenson's steam trains in fifteen minutes or less. Set two towers eight miles apart, and a signal may be transmitted by flashing mirrors in less time than modern science is able to measure. Eight miles is not all that it used to be, yet seek to travel eight miles straight up and you come to a frontier more remote than the peaks of Tibet's mountains or the depths of Africa's jungles. It is a frontier than can kill.
My journey of eight miles began in London, in the spring of 1840. At that time I was the owner and operator of a hot air balloon. It was reliable, robust and easy to fly, and I provided flights to amuse the jaded and idle rich. It was a fickle income, but when I had clients, they paid well for novelty.
Lord Cedric Gainsley was certainly rich, and when his card arrived I assumed that he wished to hire my balloon to impress some friends with a flight above London. I kept it packed aboard a waggon to launch from wherever the clients wished. Its open wicker car could carry six adults, indeed the idea of six people of mixed sexes packed in close proximity seemed to add to the allure of a balloon flight.
My first moments in Gainsley's London rooms told me that he was no ordinary client. The walls of the parlour were decorated by maps alternating with sketches of mountain peaks and ruins. The butler showed me into a drawing room completely lined with books. This was nothing unusual, for many gentlemen bought identical collections of worthy books to display to visitors. At that time it was also fashionable to collect, so Gainsley collected. In and on display cases were preserved insects, fossil shells, mineral crystals, old astronomical instruments, clocks dating back to the Fourteenth Century, lamps from the Roman Empire, and coins from ancient Greece. Seven species of fox were represented by stuffed specimens.
As I began to look through Gainsley's library, however, I realised that many books had been heavily used, to the point of being grubby. They were mainly concerned with the natural sciences.
“Does geology interest you?”
I turned to see a tall man of perhaps forty handing a top hat to the butler. He wore a black tail coat with a fashionably narrow waist, but was just slightly unkempt. A rich man who did not want to draw attention to himself might look that way.
“Geology—you mean the books?”
“Yes, they made me rich. I learned to tell when minerals were present, in places where other men saw only wilderness.”
The butler cleared his throat.
“Lord Cedric Gainsley, may I introduce Mister Harold Parkes,” he improvised, not entirely sure of the protocol when the baron had opened the conversation first.
“Thank you Stuart. Now have Miss Angelica ready and waiting for my summons.”
“Very good, my lord.”
Once we were alone, Gainsley waved at a crystal brandy decanter and told me to make myself at home. He paced before the fireplace as I poured myself a glass, and showed no interest in a drink for himself. I took a sip. It was very good, far better than I was used to.
“How high may your balloon ascend, Mister Parkes?” he asked.
“I take pleasure seekers a mile above London,” I began. “My rates—”
“Your rates are not a problem for me. Could you ascend, say, two miles?”
I blinked.
“At two miles the air is thin and cold, sir. Besides, the view of London is not as good as from a lower altitude.”
“Two miles, and hold that height for six hours.”
I blinked again. Pleasure flights seldom lasted more than one hour. People got bored. More to the point, the balloon needed to carry fuel for its burner to maintain the supply of hot air. That was a constraint.
“I must ask some questions, sir. How many passengers, what weight will they total, and what weight of food and drink will they carry? You see, to stay aloft for so long, the balloon must carry some fuel to keep the air heated. With the weight of fuel for six hours, I may not even be able to get off the ground.”
“Yourself, myself, a young woman of one hundred and forty pounds, and food and drink not exceeding ten pounds. Nothing more.”
“Then it is possible, but not certain.”
“Why not?”
“Nothing in ballooning is certain. Above us is a dangerous and unforgiving frontier.”
Gainsley thought about this for a time.
“You are a man of science, Mr Parkes, like me. You invented the mercury ascent barometer, and you calibrated it to five miles.”
“With the help of Green and Rush, yes. They took it on their record breaking flight some months ago.”
“Yet you are in difficult circumstances.”
“There is not a big market for ascent barometers. Many of my other inventions turned out to be impractical, but proving them impractical nearly bankrupted me. Pleasure flights are not my preferred career, but they are lifting me out of debt.”
I had once had visions of becoming the George Stephenson of the skies by inventing the airborne train, and I spent all my money installing a purpose-built Cornish steam engine with small windmill blades beneath a hot air balloon. Alas, although it did drive the balloon in any direction on a calm day, in wind it was useless. As I found out, a balloon is effectively a huge sail, and the wind was more than a match for any steam engine small enough to be carried aloft.
“Mr Parkes, my flights are to be no pleasure jaunt, and I need an innovative balloonist, one who can solve technical problems as they arise,” Gainsley now explained. “I intend to study the effects of extreme altitude on a very special person. I will pay you fifty pounds for each ascent, and I shall also pay for the fuel to inflate your balloon with hot air. My condition is that you work for nobody else while in my hire, and that you exercise absolute discretion regarding the flights and the nature of my research.”
His rates were certainly better than I was currently making from pleasure flights, in fact as a business proposition it was too good to be true. Once I had agreed, he pulled at a red velvet tassel that hung beside the fireplace. The butler appeared within moments.
“My lord?”
“Stuart, fetch Miss Angelica now.”
Angelica was a young woman a little below average height, with a delicate, angular face. She was wearing a dark blue woolen cloak and close fitting bonnet, but I could see nothing more of her attire. There was something odd about her eyes. They were listless, almost lacking in life.
“Miss Angelica has been in my service for some months,” said Gainsley. “I named her Angelica because she comes from very high altitudes.”
“A fallen angel?”
“Quite so, it is my little joke. Now then, put your glass down, make sure you are seated comfortably, and prepare yourself for a shock.”
Gainsley unpinned her cloak and let it fall to the floor. Such were my expectations that it took some moments to realise that she was neither clothed nor naked. Angelica was covered in fine, dark brown fur, except for her face. She had three pairs of breasts, each no larger than that of a girl in early pubescence. Her chest was surprisingly broad and deep, however, and I would estimate that her lung capacity was greater than mine. Her ears were pointed, in the manner of a fox. I sat staring for some time.
“Well?” asked Gainsley.
The young woman showed no sign of shame, which was a very strong clue. She was probably used to being on display.
“I have seen the like before,” I replied uneasily.
“Indeed? Where?”
“At fairgrounds, in the novelty tents. Women with beards, boys with six and seven fingers, I have even seen a child with two heads. By some accident of birth the human template was not applied to them correctly by nature. For this young lady, it is the same.”
“You are wrong,” said Gainsley. “She is a werefox, for the lack of a better word. She speaks no language, sleeps on the floor, and is not familiar with clothing.”
I managed not to make a reply, which is just as well because it would surely have been sarcastic.
“You clearly do not share my opinion?” he prompted.
“Indeed not sir.”
“Then how would you account for her condition?”
“A feral child, abandoned by her parents. She was born covered in fur, so they cast her out. Perhaps wild beasts raised her.”
“I thought that too, at first. I did indeed find her in a fairground. Her manager said she had been bought from a dealer, who also sold dancing bears. When she was captured in India's northern mountains she had been more active and entertaining, she could even do little tricks. At low altitudes she became very lethargic, however, and was only of value as a passive curiosity. It was not until some days later that I realized the truth. I returned to the fair and bought her.”
“And what is that truth?”
“The girl is adapted to very great altitudes. At sea level the richness of the air overwhelms her, much as a diet of that brandy would overwhelm either of us. I believe there is a whole race of humans who live on the highest of mountains, adapted to the thin air.”
The idea was fantastic. I looked back to the girl. Her lungs were certainly large in proportion to her body, and the fur would have protected her from the cold.
“I am not sure what role you have planned for me,” I said at last. “I know nothing of mountaineering.”
“Ah, but your balloon will be a substitute for the mountains. A trip to India would take years, but my business interests do not allow me to leave England for more than days. Your balloon can take us two miles high in... how long?”
“Twenty minutes, perhaps thirty. It depends on the load.”
“Splendid. We can do the flight above my estate, north of London, and be down in time for dinner. At two miles I can observe how Angelica reacts to thin air and cold. If it restores her senses, I might even be able to speak with her, to question her about her people.”
Gainsley helped Angelica back into her cloak, then rang for the butler to escort her away. Once we were alone again he walked over to the window and gestured to the crowded street outside.
“Look upon my prosperous neighbors, Mister Parkes,” he said. “Merchants, bankers, financiers, landed gentry. What do they do, other than grow rich and live well?”
“Visit the theatre, attend the races, go to balls?” I guessed. “Some take balloon rides above the races, that is all the fashion just now.”
“Theatre, balls, races,” Gainsley muttered, shaking his head. “Within a year of their deaths such people are all but forgotten. I want to be like Isaac Newton, James Cook or Joseph Banks, I want to be remembered for discovering something stupendous. Miss Angelica will make my name.”