Airfleets Over Ostend (a steampunk short story): Clockwork Imperium, #3
By J.P. Medved
()
About this ebook
The third short story in the Clockwork Imperium series.
The mysterious and alluring Myra Abernathy has disappeared without a trace, and Henry Emerson is left wondering just who she really was, and who she really worked for.
But dark events in Europe soon overtake him, cutting short his search for the American woman. A Flemish rebellion in Belgium threatens King Leopold II, and Henry's airship, the Bellerophon, with the rest of the British Air Navy's Second Squadron, is sent to help.
With his friends James and Raheem aboard, Henry and the squadron are tasked with retaking the Belgian aerodrome by the coastal town of Ostend.
But as Henry steers the Bellerophon into position, he can't help but wonder at the letter Myra left for him. A letter that warns things are not as they seem on the European continent and that someone behind the scenes is secretly maneuvering the great powers like pieces on a chessboard, for reasons unknown and sinister.
Airfleets Over Ostend is a 13,000 word (50 pages) steampunk novella.
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Airfleets Over Ostend (a steampunk short story) - J.P. Medved
Airfleets Over Ostend
A Clockwork Imperium Short Story
J.P. Medved
Copyright 2014 by J.P. Medved
Also by J.P. Medved
The Clockwork Imperium Series
The Great Curry Contest (free prequel)
To Rescue General Gordon (Clockwork Imperium #1)
Queen Victoria's Ball (Clockwork Imperium #2)
Airfleets Over Ostend (Clockwork Imperium #3)
The First Venus War
In the Shade of the Ishtar Trees
Visit J.P. Medved's official website
www.jpmedved.com
for news, free stories, and updates on upcoming books
I
As the little Belgian continued talking, his thin mustache twitching above his mouth like a nervous insect, Henry Emerson imagined how it would feel to throw the man overboard. The three hundred foot fall through the air to the gray water of the English Channel below might kill him, but the thought of his rapidly diminishing screams provided a considerable counterpoint in Henry's mind. The idea of finally getting some silence on his bridge caused Emerson to smile just a little too broadly.
Arnaud took this as agreement and, smiling himself, added, And zee best part of eet eez zee land eetself eez practically free! Zose dirty savages 'ave no idea 'ow much zee ivory eez worth.
As the Belgian took a breath, Henry finally found space to interject, Mr. Pouliot, that doesn't sound, strictly speaking, like the benign trusteeship of the Congo Free State promised by your King.
Arnaud Pouliot, Vice Under-Secretary of the Belgian Royal Air Service, narrowed his eyes in Henry's direction and pursed his lips. The expression made him look not unlike a large, hairless rat, thought Emerson. The man was short, shorter even than Henry, who had what he liked to think of as 'an airman's build.' Pouliot's knee-high boots, midnight black below the dark blue of his uniform, were impeccably polished.
Finally, his brain seeming to have come to some conclusion, the Belgian smiled again and winked. "But 'av course we are taking every precaution to ensure zee comfort, honor, and Christian education of zee sav- ah, natives, Monsieur Captain Emerson."
Emerson nodded curtly, surveying the deck behind for someone to save him.
The stout wooden surface was crowded with airmen in royal blue uniforms, navigating the tight quarters while carrying boxes of ammunition, rope, and stacks of silk patches, or performing last-minute enhancements to the thin, nickel-plated armor around the gun casemates. A pair of quick-firing three-pounders sat on either side of the hull, with two Gatlings, fore and aft, and four, four-barreled Nordenfelt one-inchers in the spaces between rounding out the airship's compliment of weaponry.
Raheem Aranjapour was aft, making a show of inspecting one of the mounted Nordenfelts and very studiously not looking in Henry's direction. The ship's newest Master Gunner, despite Henry's hand in his promotion and transfer, was decidedly less-than-grateful to his friend for the reassignment.
As he'd reminded Henry upon hearing the news, his deep baritone rumbling unhappily, I do not like heights. And the last time I was on one of those contraptions you crashed it into the desert.
Henry thought the big Sikh was being remarkably unjust in his assessment of the Sudanese affair, but decided not to press the issue. Aranjapour had barely spoken a word to him since.
James Billingsworth took his promotion to First Lieutenant and subsequent assignment to Henry's new ship in an entirely different manner. His night-long, gin-fueled celebration, spent as far away from the finer London establishments as possible, and including a reluctant Henry until the pair were thrown out of a Whitechapel pub, ended with a stone cell, iron bars, and the payment of a tidy sum of his family's money to an angry constable with a rather large welt on his forehead.
Billingsworth, significantly more sober since that evening four weeks ago, popped into view from belowdecks. His wide, ruddy face was split with a grin and Henry waved him over.
Sir, the magazine is made secure as you ordered, and the marines are kitted out.
He leaned in and his grin grew wider, "Though some of the boys are a little green in the face after that wind over