Read Online Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War by Richard Ellis Preston Jr. - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Ellis Preston Jr.
Tags: Science-Fiction
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with a rumbling complaint of squeaking metal and grinding stone. Ten seconds later, the multitudinous noise stopped as the door came to rest inside the wall, leaving an open doorway leading into a darkness that reeked of musty old wood.
Buckle advanced with his torch. The chamber was a small, enclosed space, but spacious enough to house a handmade bed frame, dressing table, writing desk, and bookshelf. All the furniture was warped from the cold and damp, and laced with old cobwebs.
A large candle rested in a copper sconce on the table, its tubular form misshapen by the tendency of the wax to flow with gravity over time, the wick flopped over and splayed at the top, like a jester’s hat. Buckle lowered the torch gently over the candle. The wick caught flame, sputtering, and added its small sphere of yellow light to the room.
The walls were covered in a riot of bizarre scribblings applied by sticks of charcoal. A black potbellied stove sat in one corner, home of the stovepipe that ran up to the ceiling and across, to exit through a hole cut just above the top of the doorway. Buckle noticed a large iron wheel protruding from the wall to the immediate left of the door, the device that would close the door and reload the mainspring. Beside the wheel, tucked in the corner, sat a stack of neatly cut wood, as dry as old brown bones. And there was an axe.
Someone, a long time before, had made this little chamber his home, a little home safe from the beasties. And now the little chamber would make humans—well, a human and a Martian—safe from the beasties once again.
Buckle heard a roar, a rough-throated, loud, echoing roar.
A sabertooth had discovered their hiding place. And he was calling the others.
Buckle spun on his heel, pistol and torch leading, and charged back into the main cave, suddenly fearful that the sabertooths might have slipped inside: inside where Max lay, helpless and inexcusably undefended. He found Max untouched and the chamber empty, but when he spun to the mouth of the cavern he saw a sabertooth, its massive black bulk atop the snowdrift in the churning darkness, pacing back and forth, its green eyes occasionally catching the glow of the fire and shining in a ghastly, jade-gold, ghoulish sort of way.
The shadow of another sabertooth appeared alongside the first, looking straight in.
Buckle needed to buy himself a few seconds—enough time to pick up Max and carry her into the little chamber—so he shouted the zeppelineer boarder’s cry of “Hurrah!” and attacked. He booted the fire in an explosion of swarming red embers and sent the burning log rolling along the floor toward the entrance of the cave, followed by the clattering iron pot. The burning wood and iron sizzled as they slid to a stop on the ice.
The pacing sabertooth halted, glaring at the flaming log. Buckle rushed forward, swinging the torch, his pistol leveled. They saw the pistol, the damned clever beasties, lunging away into the storm just as he fired. The muzzle flash illuminated the cavern for one brilliant red instant, the contained
crack
of the shot walloping Buckle’s eardrums.
Buckle jammed the pistol back into his belt, turning back from the hanging cloud of powder haze to leap the scattered remains of the fire and scramble to Max. Tossing the torch toward the side chamber, he gathered her in his arms, bundled her up in the parka and bear fur, and carried her into the secretchamber. Not trusting what was left of the heavy-timbered bedframe, he laid her down as gently as he could in the middle of the little floor, a floor that glimmered in the candlelight, as smooth as polished stone.
He needed the survival kit.
He needed the morphine.
Drawing his empty pistol as he leapt through the doorway and picking up the torch on his way, Buckle was aware there were things slinking into the main chamber, things that were not made of stone.
As Buckle skidded to a stop in the middle of the scattered remains of his fire, the icy
Buckle advanced with his torch. The chamber was a small, enclosed space, but spacious enough to house a handmade bed frame, dressing table, writing desk, and bookshelf. All the furniture was warped from the cold and damp, and laced with old cobwebs.
A large candle rested in a copper sconce on the table, its tubular form misshapen by the tendency of the wax to flow with gravity over time, the wick flopped over and splayed at the top, like a jester’s hat. Buckle lowered the torch gently over the candle. The wick caught flame, sputtering, and added its small sphere of yellow light to the room.
The walls were covered in a riot of bizarre scribblings applied by sticks of charcoal. A black potbellied stove sat in one corner, home of the stovepipe that ran up to the ceiling and across, to exit through a hole cut just above the top of the doorway. Buckle noticed a large iron wheel protruding from the wall to the immediate left of the door, the device that would close the door and reload the mainspring. Beside the wheel, tucked in the corner, sat a stack of neatly cut wood, as dry as old brown bones. And there was an axe.
Someone, a long time before, had made this little chamber his home, a little home safe from the beasties. And now the little chamber would make humans—well, a human and a Martian—safe from the beasties once again.
Buckle heard a roar, a rough-throated, loud, echoing roar.
A sabertooth had discovered their hiding place. And he was calling the others.
Buckle spun on his heel, pistol and torch leading, and charged back into the main cave, suddenly fearful that the sabertooths might have slipped inside: inside where Max lay, helpless and inexcusably undefended. He found Max untouched and the chamber empty, but when he spun to the mouth of the cavern he saw a sabertooth, its massive black bulk atop the snowdrift in the churning darkness, pacing back and forth, its green eyes occasionally catching the glow of the fire and shining in a ghastly, jade-gold, ghoulish sort of way.
The shadow of another sabertooth appeared alongside the first, looking straight in.
Buckle needed to buy himself a few seconds—enough time to pick up Max and carry her into the little chamber—so he shouted the zeppelineer boarder’s cry of “Hurrah!” and attacked. He booted the fire in an explosion of swarming red embers and sent the burning log rolling along the floor toward the entrance of the cave, followed by the clattering iron pot. The burning wood and iron sizzled as they slid to a stop on the ice.
The pacing sabertooth halted, glaring at the flaming log. Buckle rushed forward, swinging the torch, his pistol leveled. They saw the pistol, the damned clever beasties, lunging away into the storm just as he fired. The muzzle flash illuminated the cavern for one brilliant red instant, the contained
crack
of the shot walloping Buckle’s eardrums.
Buckle jammed the pistol back into his belt, turning back from the hanging cloud of powder haze to leap the scattered remains of the fire and scramble to Max. Tossing the torch toward the side chamber, he gathered her in his arms, bundled her up in the parka and bear fur, and carried her into the secretchamber. Not trusting what was left of the heavy-timbered bedframe, he laid her down as gently as he could in the middle of the little floor, a floor that glimmered in the candlelight, as smooth as polished stone.
He needed the survival kit.
He needed the morphine.
Drawing his empty pistol as he leapt through the doorway and picking up the torch on his way, Buckle was aware there were things slinking into the main chamber, things that were not made of stone.
As Buckle skidded to a stop in the middle of the scattered remains of his fire, the icy
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