Avast, Ye Airships Anthology Read online

  “Never heard of such a thing,” Bea commented. “What kind of company flies about hin and yan with a skull on their flag?”

  “Pirates! That’s a pirate ship. Get back inside, Miss Bea. Pirates are invading our valley! Everyone back inside! I’ve got to go get my rifle! Stay calm everyone, no need to panic.”

  “Appears to me that you’re the only one panicking, Vern. Pirates are just folks with a naughty streak.” Miss Bea shaded her eyes with her right hand as she stared upwards. “The way that thing is weaving about and getting lower, I’d say it ain’t long for the air. I’m surprised it made it over the mountains. Seems to be heading for your place.”

  “Dang it all!” The constable took off running down the road, most of the congregation following him.

  The valley was surrounded by high, rocky mountains, accessible only by foot, burro and airship. Anything out of the ordinary was considered a big event, and no able-bodied citizen risked missing a moment of it.

  “Come on, Buster!” Miss Bea called.

  An old brown hound dog who’d been curled up beside the church steps roused with a yelp before trotting to her side. Miss Bea lifted up her long skirt, dashing after the crowd.

  The faster the crowd ran, the faster the ship came out of the sky, finally resting right on top of Vern’s outhouse and the nearby chicken house. The ship was a small one, roughly half the size of the church, and much more compact than the Steam Express vessels which sometimes delivered mail-order goods. Still, it smashed the wooden building to smithereens.

  As the dust settled, a door started lowering from the ship with the loud grinding noise of metal gears in need of oil. Vern reappeared with a gun, cautiously approaching the ship with the weapon aimed.

  “Vern! Put that thing down. Now.”

  “Look what they did to my property, Miss Bea!”

  “Whatcha got your temper up for? Neither you nor any chickens were in residence. No harm, no fowl.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “Wasn’t meant to be. You haven’t had so much as a laying hen since you started calling on the Widow Hopkins ten years ago. Fact is, you ought to do the right thing and get hitched to her while you are both spry enough to get up to marital antics.”

  A thin, pale woman, whose gray hair was still carefully pinned into a bun despite her run, stepped forward. “You tell him, Bea. I’m tired of waiting.”

  “This isn’t the time to talk about my private business.”

  “Your private business?” the widow snapped. “We go heading off down the road, hand in hand towards the tavern every Saturday night, Vern. That’s hardly private. I demand to know your intentions.”

  The men in the group suddenly became very attentive to the cleanliness of their fingernails or shoes.

  “Excuse me, fine townspeople…”

  “I don’t have any intentions!” Vern shouted.

  “Excuse me…”

  The Widow Hopkins swung her cloth handbag at his shoulder.

  “Excuse me—would someone please call this animal off my dog!”

  Miss Bea turned around. A stocky, short person in a metallic rick-rack trimmed black waistcoat and trousers stood on the ship’s lowered ramp, flanked by two taller men with drawn swords. She figured the stranger for a man, until she noticed the bosom bumps causing a strain on her shirt buttons.

  Just in front of the woman was a potbellied stove turned on its side. Only it had legs—and a dog-like head with smoke steaming from its ears. Buster stood a few feet away, baying.

  “That’s a dog?”

  The woman smiled. “In a manner of speaking. I call it ‘Smokey.’ I have a slight issue with the real thing, seeing as they smell like dogs. Especially when wet, I’ve found. All I have to do for Smokey is to add coal to his chest several times a day.”

  “Buster, you come over here. Don’t judge those who are different. It’s Sunday.”

  After one last bark, Buster obeyed. By the way his ears remained pulled back, Bea could tell he wasn’t happy about it.

  Vern stepped in front of Miss Bea. “We were speaking of intentions, stranger. Just what are yours?”

  “The repair of my ship. I’m Captain Isabelle Stewart of the Piggy Plunder.”

  “That’s the name of a pirate ship?” Vern asked.

  “Don’t judge, it’s Sunday.” The captain looked very pleased with her own wit. “Tell me, handsome sir, are you engaged with one of my gender?”

  Vern grinned slightly. “Me? Naw…”

  “Yes, he is!” shouted the Widow Hopkins. “He’s mine.”

  The Captain nodded acknowledgement of the claim. “Too bad for me, I’m sure.”

  “Vern, you’re grinning like a lust-struck tomcat.” Miss Bea placed a hand on his shoulder, forcing him back a few steps. “Pirates or not, we ain’t ones to turn away a traveler in need. If we supply what you’re looking for, will you forget about any plundering?”

  “I assure you, we have no intentions of plundering this settlement. We reached the limits of our plunder license for this quarter in Saline City just over the east mountain.”

  “You plundered Saline City? Why didn’t you say so! That’s worth the loss of my outhouse. Worthless lot of lazy-ass thieves is what they are,” Vern explained.

  “Never mind him. Their mayor’s son beat him at a greased pig contest when they were young’uns.” Bea held out her hand, pleased when the Captain shook it firmly.

  Her pa always said that was a sign of strength and character.

  “While Vern here is helping gather supplies, why don’t you let us cook y’all a hot meal? We’ll push aside the pews in the meetin’ house, set up the table, and have a proper celebration of you promising not to plunder.”

  Captain Stewart smiled. “That would be quite acceptable—and much appreciated. However, I insist on helping with the preparations. Have you heard of song-catchers? Perhaps they have visited here, collecting your quaint folk songs and putting them on paper for others to enjoy. I do the same with various cuisines from around the region. Just a pastime, mind you.”

  Bea crossed her arms, glancing in Vern’s direction. “That ain’t nothing dirty is it? I think it’s been made clear Constable Vern there is claimed. Like I told them song-catchers that come around here some years ago, we don’t cotton to dirty ditties.”

  “Recipes…I collect recipes of cuisine, of…vittles.”

  “Ah, well, why didn’t you say so using plain language? The Good Lord has crashed you in the right place! Go grab your apron and let’s get cooking.”

  Looking down at her feet, the Captain sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t have one.”

  Miss Bea motioned with her right arm, smiling an invitation. “Come with me. I’ve got one to spare.”

  “I’ve never seen Miss Bea without an apron,” Vern said. “She’s even got some full ones that’ll cover your bos…pardon me, your blouse.”

  “I’m touched you noticed my…blouse. Please, select a few of your friends who might be of help, and my men will show you want needs to be repaired.” Captain Isabelle came to Bea’s side, keeping pace with her as they walked towards Bea’s home. Buster and Smokey joined them, each lumbering in their own way beside their respective master. “Are all your aprons as beautiful as the one you’re wearing?”

  “Like this one? This isn’t a working apron, it’s a showing one. Handed down from my Grandmama. It ain’t never been worn for cooking. It’s strictly Sunday-go-to-meeting.”

  “Oh.” The Captain pursed her lips together, making a clicking noise with her tongue. Her expression was one of deep thought. “I don’t suppose you would kindly consider selling the one you are wearing?”

  “Can’t do that. Not even for all the tea in the Steam and Robots catalogue. Now, now, don’t fret! I’ll loan ya one of my others. They’re quite sturdy and serviceable. Constable Vern was right, you won’t get any spillage on your fancy duds. In fact, I’ll gift ya with my newest one. I even spun the cotton to make the fabric myse
lf. Made it to gift to Widow Hopkins should Vern ever get right about her, only he’s being slow about making her honest.”

  “Yes, thank you. I guess it will have to do.”

  #

  For pirates, the Piggy Plunder’s crew of five were right nice folks as far as Bea was concerned. She spent several days teaching Captain Isabelle all the tricks to biscuits, gravy, and even her surefire buttermilk pie recipe, not minding that the pirate wouldn’t stop asking about her floral apron.

  “Ah, well, I hate to see her go,” Bea muttered to Buster as she washed the last of the pots and pans they’d used. As dusk darkened, she could see the faint glow of the ship’s engines far beyond where her laundry hung on the line. Even with the time the Captain spent supervising repairs instead of in her kitchen, Bea had fallen behind in her chores. Not that it mattered. The night was warm enough her wash should dry by morning.

  “Buster, I’ll miss that Isabelle lady, for sure.” The hound managed to raise up from his rug and lumber to Bea’s side. She reached down, scratching his head. “I’m praying she’ll pass this way again. My, all those adventures she’s had. Might consider pirating myself if the Good Lord calls me to it.”

  Buster barked, his ears standing nearly straight up in alert. He spun towards the kitchen door, growling, just as Vern ran inside.

  “Good grief! Wipe those dirty boots off before you come a’storming in on my clean floor.”

  “Miss Bea, I’m sorry, but it’s those pirates…”

  “I don’t care! Go right back out that door and wipe your feet.” She pointed her right index finger at him, and then the door. “This old hound dog has more manners than you!”

  Vernon muttered some not-so-fit-for-mixed-company words under his breath before complying. In seconds, he re-entered.

  “That’s a little better, I suppose.”

  “Miss Bea, will you listen? I was saying my goodbyes to the Piggy Plunder’s men when I overheard that lady Captain telling her first officer they’d be leaving as soon as she had the ‘crowning glory’ to add to her collection.”

  Bea put a hand on each hip. “She called my rhubarb pie recipe a real jewel. She didn’t take notes while we were cooking it, though. I reckon she just wants to jot it down a’fore they take off.”

  “You don’t understand—she wants your Sunday apron! She’s plundering aprons. The hold was full of them, but I didn’t think nothing of it, figuring it for merchandise or some such.”

  “Now how does it make sense her telling me right-out she didn’t have an apron?”

  “She lied!”

  “Lied? I told you pirates weren’t to be trusted! Where’s your gun, they might get violent.”

  “I left it at home today since it kept getting in the way when we were wielding. Listen, you’ve got to get out of here. I’m sure they’re right behind me. Let the Captain have the apron!”

  Bea ran into the parlor as Buster started chasing his tail in the kitchen. She snatched her Grandpa’s childhood pellet gun from its place of honor above the fireplace.

  “That’s not going to hold off pirates!”

  Bea didn’t slow down as she headed for the door. “Maybe not, but if I aim it right, they’ll be mighty sore in the nether regions!”

  She wasn’t more than twenty feet from the door when she stopped suddenly. Vern collided with her from behind. “Dang nabbit it all down a rabbit hole, Vern. Watch it!”

  “Where’s the pirates? All I see is that steam-bellied metal mutt.”

  “It’s heading towards my wash!” Smokey was moving faster than Bea imagined possible. Smoke not only poured out of its ears, but also its rear. The metal around its gut glowed from the heat.

  “What’s she feeding that thing? Gun powder?”

  Just as Smokey reached the clothesline, Bea raised her gun and fired. As the mechanical dog hit one of the poles holding up the line, shot ricocheted off its metal. The pole fell, covering Smokey with her half-wet bloomers. It took a few more steps before falling over, the underwear catching fire. Immediately, Smokey righted itself, holding the corner of the floral apron in its mouth.

  From the distance, Bea could hear the Captain shouting, “Run, Smokey, run! Come to Mother!”

  Knowing she didn’t have time to load the gun again, Bea countered, “Sic ’em, Buster! Get that apron!”

  “What good is that going to do?” Vern asked. “That hound can’t take down red-hot metal!”

  Before Bea could reply, Buster caught up with Smokey, running right alongside. He raised his leg and started peeing.

  “I ain’t never seen a dog run on three legs while doing that,” Vern said in amazement.

  “I didn’t know he could!”

  Smoke rose from every joint and around every bolt on the mechanical creature’s body. It stumbled. When it fell, its legs moved slower and slower until they stopped. The glowing slowly died out.

  “You dastardly hill people! You murdered Smokey!” The Captain shouted.

  Bea reached the body, grabbing the apron from Smokey’s slightly-gapped mouth. “You lied to us! Said you weren’t going to plunder.”

  “Of course I lied! I’m the captain of the Piggy Plunder. You may have won this round, but beware I will be back for that apron with…with two steam dogs.” Captain Isabelle Stewart turned, disappearing in the darkness.

  Bea started to go after her.

  Vern grabbed her arm. “You’ve got the apron. Let them go. We’ll be ready for them next time.”

  She pulled away, holding up the apron. “Look at that. Not only did that monstrosity get it dirty, there’s a hole in it. She should count herself lucky I can mend it. Come on, Buster. I’m going to make sure every dog in town is kept well watered. There will be pee in this valley!”

  The Clockwork Dragon

  by Steve Cook

  The clockwork dragon came in for another strafing run and I ran to the pilot’s cabin. The deck was dented from the constant pounding it was enduring, and I could see that the steps up to the cabin were all-but destroyed.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth to be heard over the battle. “Captain! Incoming!”

  Even as I spoke, I knew it was too late. I heard the roar of the dragon behind me and saw the grim set of the captain’s jaw; the sudden reflection of flame and anger in the glass of the cabin. I turned, readying my cutlass for a futile effort.

  The dragon flapped its massive metal-ribbed canvas wings once, slowing it in the air. The leather bellows in its chest blasted a gout of burning gases and oil onto the prow, and then another across the deck. Men screamed left and right; I saw one of the deckhands go overboard, trying to put the flames out on his sleeve even as his hair burned. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, almost overwhelmed by the acrid stink of the ship burning. At the prow, a metal cable twanged as it finally gave way, followed by another. I watched in horror as the cables flailed around and tore into one of the midshipmen, ripping him in half.

  “The mast! ‘ware the mast!” the captain shouted.

  The fore propeller spluttered its last as the mast began to fall over to one side, and the entire ship lurched sideways as the controls bucked. The dragon dropped the last ten feet onto the prow and the entire ship tipped crazily downwards. It roared, gears grinding together, metal teeth shining in the light of our destruction. Chest proudly thrust forward, it measured easily the width of the airship, and half its weight. The beast’s claws dug deeply into the wood of the deck. Its emerald eyes gleamed balefully, as its long neck snaked forward, brass plates clicking into line down its spine.

  We plunged through the clouds, cold mist suddenly enveloping us, and then burst out into the storm below. Rain lashed down on us, soaking everything, but—at least—the fires began to diminish.

  Bladed tail lashing, the dragon took a step forward, the entire ship shaking beneath it, and I bolted for the weapons locker. The door was hanging loose, all of the rifles missing, but the lightning-thrower was there at the bottom. I grabbed its long bar
rel, and checked it over. It was designed to throw little metal bolts pre-charged with the electricity stored in its amber battery, useless against something this massive, but it was all we had.

  I was in time to see one of the lookouts disappear into its holding stomach, or at least her top half. The legs writhed and kicked for a moment, and then fell over.

  “First Mate, I’d thank you kindly to get that thing off of my airship!” Captain Roth bawled, thunder booming as if in response.

  “Aye sir!” I replied, and shouldered the gun. The dragon dropped what it was eating and thudded closer.

  I pulled the trigger and the gun hummed into life. Each tiny dart rubbed past the amber and crackled out of the barrel, some stabbing into the brass plates of the dragon’s hide, others clattering uselessly off its swept-back horns and the immense, greasy hinges where its wings met its barrel-like body. Every impact crackled and sizzled, arcs of lightning rolling over its rain-slicked casing, but the dragon kept coming.

  “Captain,” I shouted, but it was too late. The dragon swept one foreleg forward, pistons hissing, and I was flying through the air, gun lost. I slammed into the railing and lay, struggling to breathe, as the dragon advanced on me. It raised its wings in triumph and I licked my lips, steeling myself for the end.

  A bolt of lightning arced out of the storm and struck it on the tip of one wing, instantly crackling over the darts I had shot into the thing. Uniquely conductive, they popped and sizzled, electricity dancing between them. The canvas wings immediately erupted into flame and white-hot light played all over its body. Like some sort of hellish angel with wings of flame, the dragon staggered backwards. Every part of it seemed to be flexing at once, joints moving jerkily, and I could see fire inside it, burning the delicate clockwork that moved it, consuming the leather and rubber parts.

  “Tip—” I started, then coughed and drew in a ragged breath. “Tip the boat, Captain!”

  The airship swung crazily one way, and then the other. With a roar every bit as loud as the storm’s fury, the brass dragon staggered backwards, tore a hole in the railing, and was lost over the side. The sound of its roar seemed to echo on for many seconds, and then there was just the rain, the thunder and the groans of dying men.