Read Online Romulus Buckle & the Engines of War by Richard Ellis Preston Jr. - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Ellis Preston Jr.
Tags: Science-Fiction
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his.
He had done the same for her, before.
It was sad, but quite all right.
She almost floated as she walked now, and she arrived at the banks of the wide, slow-moving stream, where the dark, clear water danced with the gleams of mineral stones beneath, and slipped under tree-lined banks, the trees forming a canopy of shadows and bursts of light overhead.
The wind chimes jingled, louder now. Max turned her head to see a small island in the center of the river, a sandy sanctuary where a small monastery sat, a white cross atop the dome. A set of silver wind chimes lolled languidly in the breeze as they hung above the front doors, both set wide open.
The sunlight warmed Max’s face, and she stood still. She was alone. She was in no hurry.
A memory came to her as if bidden, spilling into her awareness with the surety of the current sweeping past the toes of her boots. She was a child, running, running down the halls of Balthazar’s house in Tehachapi, running away from Buckle. There came the yank on her long hair, her head jerked back, and when she drove it forward, there was the low, sudden whack of the door frame against her skull, and a vague sensation of falling.
The vision drifted away as if carried along by the water of the stream, and Max was left alone with the whispering leaves in the trees and the answering whisper of the sunlight dancing on the water, and the music of the wind chimes.
Max heard the far-distant clop of horse’s hooves thundering across rough ground, approaching. A seeping cold at her back made her shiver. Clouds suddenly blocked out the sun, making the world a shade darker.
The breeze died away and the wind chimes fell silent.
Max was in no hurry.
But the horsemen were.
THE GOOD LIEUTENANT
S ABRINA S ERAFIM STOOD ON THE weather deck of the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
’s launch, the two-hundred-foot
Arabella
, eyeing the mountains surrounding the town of Tehachapi. It was two o’clock in the morning and the cloud-bound moonlight was odd, having just reappeared after the snowstorm, casting the snowy peaks with a translucent purplish light.
Sabrina brushed a crust of snow off the rail in front of her. She liked the
Arabella
. The launch was light and highly maneuverable, but still robust enough to carry a four-pounder or two, if necessary. She rested easily on her mooring hawsers, alongside a pair of trader-guild tramps, ugly little merchant dirigibles.
The town of Tehachapi to the north was picturesque, its cottages, with their busy chimneys and their windows glowing with the orange of the hearth fires within, nestled in the shallow valley.
A dark pang crept into Sabrina’s heart. To the northwest loomed the bombed-out ruins of the old Crankshaft stronghold, blown near to smithereens by the Imperial Blitz the year before. A large stone cairn stood on a bluff nearby, its stones chiseled with the names of the dead.
Including her adoptive mother, Calypso.
But these were old pains. As the first lieutenant and chief navigator aboard the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
, and currently the acting captain of the
Arabella
, she had far more pressing concerns to deal with. Captain Buckle, scheduled to return by midnight, was long overdue. And she had decided to go after him.
“Here, ma’am,” Lieutenant Andrew Windermere said, bringing Sabrina a steaming cup of coffee. He was wrapped in his thick gray bearskin, his eyes glowing in the buglit darkness on the
Arabella
’s deck.
“Thank you, Mister Windermere,” Sabrina said, accepting the metal mug; the aroma cut through the woody outside air and made her mouth water. By the time she lifted the coffee to her lips, it was unfortunately cold—the steam draining the liquid of its heat in the frigid air—leaving only a very bitter, lukewarm, hastily prepared soup brimming with hard, black grounds.
“It is lovely,” she said.
“It is shite roasted on an open fire—beg your pardon, Lieutenant,” Windermere replied, taking a big sip from his
He had done the same for her, before.
It was sad, but quite all right.
She almost floated as she walked now, and she arrived at the banks of the wide, slow-moving stream, where the dark, clear water danced with the gleams of mineral stones beneath, and slipped under tree-lined banks, the trees forming a canopy of shadows and bursts of light overhead.
The wind chimes jingled, louder now. Max turned her head to see a small island in the center of the river, a sandy sanctuary where a small monastery sat, a white cross atop the dome. A set of silver wind chimes lolled languidly in the breeze as they hung above the front doors, both set wide open.
The sunlight warmed Max’s face, and she stood still. She was alone. She was in no hurry.
A memory came to her as if bidden, spilling into her awareness with the surety of the current sweeping past the toes of her boots. She was a child, running, running down the halls of Balthazar’s house in Tehachapi, running away from Buckle. There came the yank on her long hair, her head jerked back, and when she drove it forward, there was the low, sudden whack of the door frame against her skull, and a vague sensation of falling.
The vision drifted away as if carried along by the water of the stream, and Max was left alone with the whispering leaves in the trees and the answering whisper of the sunlight dancing on the water, and the music of the wind chimes.
Max heard the far-distant clop of horse’s hooves thundering across rough ground, approaching. A seeping cold at her back made her shiver. Clouds suddenly blocked out the sun, making the world a shade darker.
The breeze died away and the wind chimes fell silent.
Max was in no hurry.
But the horsemen were.
THE GOOD LIEUTENANT
S ABRINA S ERAFIM STOOD ON THE weather deck of the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
’s launch, the two-hundred-foot
Arabella
, eyeing the mountains surrounding the town of Tehachapi. It was two o’clock in the morning and the cloud-bound moonlight was odd, having just reappeared after the snowstorm, casting the snowy peaks with a translucent purplish light.
Sabrina brushed a crust of snow off the rail in front of her. She liked the
Arabella
. The launch was light and highly maneuverable, but still robust enough to carry a four-pounder or two, if necessary. She rested easily on her mooring hawsers, alongside a pair of trader-guild tramps, ugly little merchant dirigibles.
The town of Tehachapi to the north was picturesque, its cottages, with their busy chimneys and their windows glowing with the orange of the hearth fires within, nestled in the shallow valley.
A dark pang crept into Sabrina’s heart. To the northwest loomed the bombed-out ruins of the old Crankshaft stronghold, blown near to smithereens by the Imperial Blitz the year before. A large stone cairn stood on a bluff nearby, its stones chiseled with the names of the dead.
Including her adoptive mother, Calypso.
But these were old pains. As the first lieutenant and chief navigator aboard the
Pneumatic Zeppelin
, and currently the acting captain of the
Arabella
, she had far more pressing concerns to deal with. Captain Buckle, scheduled to return by midnight, was long overdue. And she had decided to go after him.
“Here, ma’am,” Lieutenant Andrew Windermere said, bringing Sabrina a steaming cup of coffee. He was wrapped in his thick gray bearskin, his eyes glowing in the buglit darkness on the
Arabella
’s deck.
“Thank you, Mister Windermere,” Sabrina said, accepting the metal mug; the aroma cut through the woody outside air and made her mouth water. By the time she lifted the coffee to her lips, it was unfortunately cold—the steam draining the liquid of its heat in the frigid air—leaving only a very bitter, lukewarm, hastily prepared soup brimming with hard, black grounds.
“It is lovely,” she said.
“It is shite roasted on an open fire—beg your pardon, Lieutenant,” Windermere replied, taking a big sip from his
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