Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection by Michael Coorlim
Authors: Michael Coorlim
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room hatch behind me and shut my eyes, listening, trying to track down the source of the whine I'd heard earlier. I could still hear it when I concentrated, among the sliding of the turbines and the dull roar of the furnaces. And something else, something soft, a scrabbling stealthy movement among the dark metal structures. It was rhythmic, something slapping against metal in a regular fashion.
The whining seemed to be coming from the turbines – they were labouring harder and harder to function. The slapping sound emanated from behind a two by two panel set into a bulkhead. It was slightly ajar, tool-marks evident near its popped lock. I opened it, and found a fist-sized fat-diamond shaped cavity in which a series of pistons spun freely. Leather connective straps attached to the pistons flailed uselessly against the steel casing, whatever they had secured now absent.
I took a quick look around the immediate area, but couldn't find anything that looked like it might have fallen from the compartment. Unfortunately I'm unschooled in the mechanics of areonautical engineering and had no idea what might have been removed from the ship's workings. I returned to the control room to put the question to the Chief Engineer.
***
I described the empty panel to the best of my ability, and the Chief Engineer's face paled. I followed Miller as he raced, without a word, into the engine room, stopping in front of the open hatch and its empty cavity. He gave out a groan of mixed frustration and terror, grabbing handfuls of his hair and stumbling back a from the hatch, sliding down to the ground when he hit the wall opposite.
"What is it, man?" I asked.
"We are dead." The Engineer's voice was flat. Hollow.
"Bad then, is it?"
"Can you even conceive -- do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep an airship this size balanced upright?"
He pulled small fluid-filled level out of his breast pocket, lay it on the floor, then dropped prone next to it, eyeing it carefully. I crouched for a look myself, and saw that we were listing a few tenths of a degree. The Chief let out another hopeless moan and rolled over onto his back.
"The movement of the turbines, the mixture of gas in the air bags, the balance of the ballast – it's all precisely calibrated to keep the Rio Grande from listing," he said, "and it's the job of the gyroscopic stabiliser to control the analytical engine that calibrates it. Without it those oscillations you've been hearing are going to intensify at a prodigious rate, the ship is going to flip over, and we're going to go tumbling out of the sky."
"We'll hit London," I said. "Hundreds will die."
"Hundreds?" He scoffed. "Mr. Wainwright, do you have any idea how much hydrogen we're carrying? We're an enormous bomb. If we crash, there won't be enough London left to fill a rubbish bin."
***
We reconvened in the Captain's stateroom with Bartleby and Mr. Herbert.
"It's sabotage, then," Bartleby said. "I've spoken to some of the crew about Henderson – he was well regarded and personable. Organized weekly poker games."
"Yeah, I played with him several times," the Chief said. "He was good enough."
"Pity his luck ran out."
"It wasn't a matter of luck," the Chief said. "Henderson was a professional gambler. Played the long game. He won some, lost some, but always came out ahead. Patient. Calculating. Compare that to passionate men like the First Mate, they'll bid big on every hand. They might win a pot or two they end up losing entire months' wages in the long run."
"Speaking of, where is Dewit?" I asked.
"Overseeing the clean-up in Engineering," Nussbaum said.
"Regardless," Bartleby said, "nobody seemed to have a personal issue with Henderson – he was most likely simply unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Given that James found the body so shortly after the engineer was killed and that the room hasn't been left unoccupied since, we can surmise that the... gyrostabic...
The whining seemed to be coming from the turbines – they were labouring harder and harder to function. The slapping sound emanated from behind a two by two panel set into a bulkhead. It was slightly ajar, tool-marks evident near its popped lock. I opened it, and found a fist-sized fat-diamond shaped cavity in which a series of pistons spun freely. Leather connective straps attached to the pistons flailed uselessly against the steel casing, whatever they had secured now absent.
I took a quick look around the immediate area, but couldn't find anything that looked like it might have fallen from the compartment. Unfortunately I'm unschooled in the mechanics of areonautical engineering and had no idea what might have been removed from the ship's workings. I returned to the control room to put the question to the Chief Engineer.
***
I described the empty panel to the best of my ability, and the Chief Engineer's face paled. I followed Miller as he raced, without a word, into the engine room, stopping in front of the open hatch and its empty cavity. He gave out a groan of mixed frustration and terror, grabbing handfuls of his hair and stumbling back a from the hatch, sliding down to the ground when he hit the wall opposite.
"What is it, man?" I asked.
"We are dead." The Engineer's voice was flat. Hollow.
"Bad then, is it?"
"Can you even conceive -- do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep an airship this size balanced upright?"
He pulled small fluid-filled level out of his breast pocket, lay it on the floor, then dropped prone next to it, eyeing it carefully. I crouched for a look myself, and saw that we were listing a few tenths of a degree. The Chief let out another hopeless moan and rolled over onto his back.
"The movement of the turbines, the mixture of gas in the air bags, the balance of the ballast – it's all precisely calibrated to keep the Rio Grande from listing," he said, "and it's the job of the gyroscopic stabiliser to control the analytical engine that calibrates it. Without it those oscillations you've been hearing are going to intensify at a prodigious rate, the ship is going to flip over, and we're going to go tumbling out of the sky."
"We'll hit London," I said. "Hundreds will die."
"Hundreds?" He scoffed. "Mr. Wainwright, do you have any idea how much hydrogen we're carrying? We're an enormous bomb. If we crash, there won't be enough London left to fill a rubbish bin."
***
We reconvened in the Captain's stateroom with Bartleby and Mr. Herbert.
"It's sabotage, then," Bartleby said. "I've spoken to some of the crew about Henderson – he was well regarded and personable. Organized weekly poker games."
"Yeah, I played with him several times," the Chief said. "He was good enough."
"Pity his luck ran out."
"It wasn't a matter of luck," the Chief said. "Henderson was a professional gambler. Played the long game. He won some, lost some, but always came out ahead. Patient. Calculating. Compare that to passionate men like the First Mate, they'll bid big on every hand. They might win a pot or two they end up losing entire months' wages in the long run."
"Speaking of, where is Dewit?" I asked.
"Overseeing the clean-up in Engineering," Nussbaum said.
"Regardless," Bartleby said, "nobody seemed to have a personal issue with Henderson – he was most likely simply unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Given that James found the body so shortly after the engineer was killed and that the room hasn't been left unoccupied since, we can surmise that the... gyrostabic...
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