latest killing elbowed out all other news, as though there were only London and its dead in the entire world.
And what a world. He turned the page, and his attention was snared by a report on Freedom, the fledgling township rising from the blood and dust of the savage lands controlled by the slaver-warlords in Texas. An escapade involving the Crown’s hero, Gideon Smith, had resulted in San Antonio, popularly known as Steamtown, being blown to smithereens. A brass dragon was mentioned—whether it was the same as that which had attacked London that summer, or of a similar design, the newspaper could not hazard a guess. But there was some connection, the editors were sure, and if Mr. Gideon Smith was on the case, then there was surely little to fear. This town called Freedom, though … the newspaper writer confessed to some misgivings about this evidently burgeoning settlement somewhere in the wilds of Texas and not far from the border with New Spain. Was there room for yet another faction in much-fractured America? Where would their loyalties lie? With England’s interests on the East Coast? New Spain to the south? The Californian Meiji? Or would they be conquered by one of the Texan warlords eager to take the now-destroyed Steamtown’s slice of the pie?
He laid the newspaper down. He was thinking of Spain, of a family holiday to Madrid when he was a very small boy. His mother had insisted they all go to watch a play, an earnest, boring affair that lasted all day and into the night. He had lost track of the dull story almost immediately, and would have fallen asleep but for the intermedio, a series of brash and energetic short musical productions that filled the gaps between the acts of the main play. They were designed to allow the theater-goers to stretch their legs, visit the bathrooms, or buy food; he had been rapt with delight, coming alive for those brief intervals, rousing from his torpor at the loud music and hilarity.
He picked up the saw again. Intermedio. He studied its cruel teeth. Life was like the play, long and boring and interminable.
But there were flashes of clarity, shrieking music, splashes of red.
He smiled. It was time for another intermedio.…
5
T HE G RAVITY OF THE S ITUATION
Apep burst through the layer of low, gray cloud that hung over Bodmin Moor into a spotless blue sky flooded with brilliant sunshine. Maria heard noisy, messy vomiting behind her and allowed herself the smallest of self-satisfied smiles, before pulling the brass dragon into an even steeper ascent. Above her she could see the ghostly imprint of the moon. It was said that Queen Victoria wanted to put an Englishman on the moon and claim the satellite for the British Empire. Others said it was impossible, it was too far, man could not fly so high. And beyond the moon … why, beyond was the black emptiness of the universe. She felt something inside her subtly shift, like tiny cogs fitting together, bearings settling snugly, rods and pistons smoothly aligning. But she knew, distantly, that it was something more than that. Those were the only reference points she had, the mechanical marvels that Professor Einstein had used to assemble her body, greater than the sum of her parts. The shift was in that part of her shrouded in mystery, that which she doubted she would ever fully understand. Her human brain.
“Maria.”
Moisture formed and then rolled off the glass windows in front of her—the circular “eyes” of the crocodilian brass dragon—as she pushed Apep on, and up. White trails whistled from the batlike wings and on the long snout in front of the windows, and beautiful, treelike ice formations began to crawl along the brass nose. She studied them as they advanced. Dendritic, that was the word.
“M-Maria! In the name of God, you’re going to kill us!”
Ah. Yes. The formation of ice on the nose of the brass dragon meant that the temperature was falling. She hadn’t felt it, but it was good that Doctor
And what a world. He turned the page, and his attention was snared by a report on Freedom, the fledgling township rising from the blood and dust of the savage lands controlled by the slaver-warlords in Texas. An escapade involving the Crown’s hero, Gideon Smith, had resulted in San Antonio, popularly known as Steamtown, being blown to smithereens. A brass dragon was mentioned—whether it was the same as that which had attacked London that summer, or of a similar design, the newspaper could not hazard a guess. But there was some connection, the editors were sure, and if Mr. Gideon Smith was on the case, then there was surely little to fear. This town called Freedom, though … the newspaper writer confessed to some misgivings about this evidently burgeoning settlement somewhere in the wilds of Texas and not far from the border with New Spain. Was there room for yet another faction in much-fractured America? Where would their loyalties lie? With England’s interests on the East Coast? New Spain to the south? The Californian Meiji? Or would they be conquered by one of the Texan warlords eager to take the now-destroyed Steamtown’s slice of the pie?
He laid the newspaper down. He was thinking of Spain, of a family holiday to Madrid when he was a very small boy. His mother had insisted they all go to watch a play, an earnest, boring affair that lasted all day and into the night. He had lost track of the dull story almost immediately, and would have fallen asleep but for the intermedio, a series of brash and energetic short musical productions that filled the gaps between the acts of the main play. They were designed to allow the theater-goers to stretch their legs, visit the bathrooms, or buy food; he had been rapt with delight, coming alive for those brief intervals, rousing from his torpor at the loud music and hilarity.
He picked up the saw again. Intermedio. He studied its cruel teeth. Life was like the play, long and boring and interminable.
But there were flashes of clarity, shrieking music, splashes of red.
He smiled. It was time for another intermedio.…
5
T HE G RAVITY OF THE S ITUATION
Apep burst through the layer of low, gray cloud that hung over Bodmin Moor into a spotless blue sky flooded with brilliant sunshine. Maria heard noisy, messy vomiting behind her and allowed herself the smallest of self-satisfied smiles, before pulling the brass dragon into an even steeper ascent. Above her she could see the ghostly imprint of the moon. It was said that Queen Victoria wanted to put an Englishman on the moon and claim the satellite for the British Empire. Others said it was impossible, it was too far, man could not fly so high. And beyond the moon … why, beyond was the black emptiness of the universe. She felt something inside her subtly shift, like tiny cogs fitting together, bearings settling snugly, rods and pistons smoothly aligning. But she knew, distantly, that it was something more than that. Those were the only reference points she had, the mechanical marvels that Professor Einstein had used to assemble her body, greater than the sum of her parts. The shift was in that part of her shrouded in mystery, that which she doubted she would ever fully understand. Her human brain.
“Maria.”
Moisture formed and then rolled off the glass windows in front of her—the circular “eyes” of the crocodilian brass dragon—as she pushed Apep on, and up. White trails whistled from the batlike wings and on the long snout in front of the windows, and beautiful, treelike ice formations began to crawl along the brass nose. She studied them as they advanced. Dendritic, that was the word.
“M-Maria! In the name of God, you’re going to kill us!”
Ah. Yes. The formation of ice on the nose of the brass dragon meant that the temperature was falling. She hadn’t felt it, but it was good that Doctor
Similar Books
