Magical Mechanications (7 page)

Then it came to her. She really could be thick at times.

Tracer fire zipped by her cockpit and between the struts of her Hornet. If she were going to make for her escape, it had to be now.

Scarlett flipped the Hornet’s motor from “Patrol” to “Combat/Evasion” mode. The engine rumbled to an eerie silence, but her plane launched itself into the horizon, the lightest of touches from Scarlett on the stick sending the plane into wild corkscrews. She was now in full electric mode, and miles ahead of Wolff.

On her dashboard, the map of the Western Front scrolled by at a consistent, steady pace, far faster than she had ever seen. The speedometer only measured as high as one hundred fifty miles per hour, but the needle inched beyond that before it stopped, unable to go any further.

The Proximity Alarm screeched. Scarlett looked in her rearview and could see in the distance the outline of the Fokker prototype. The Big Bad Wolf had let her go once, most likely out of a sense of chivalry. They had been mismatched. Now, the rules of combat were at play. Wolff was not intending on repeating the gesture to Scarlett. Not after Grandmother’s house.

Her gaze jumped back to the map. The French border was far behind her. Rang-du-Fliers was closing in fast.

So was the Schwarzer Geist.

Scarlett pushed forward on the stick, taking her Hornet into a long, slow dive. She would have to try and shake off Wolff, if fuel and luck would have it, somewhere over the English channel. Whatever the cost, she could not afford to reveal her hidden airfield.

The order suddenly lit up on her dash. This was a new communications system that both Tink and Hemsworth both cooked up, produced, and managed to fix into the dashboard before she left for Germany. With the late afternoon sun now beginning a descent before her and Wolff still within a warning distance, the message painted on its long, slender glass plate seemed to burn insistently.

Return to Base.

Someone must have sighted them at the Front, relayed a message back to Rang-du-Fliers. Still, this message was sent? Were they serious?

Her eyes went to the fuel and battery gauge. The battery was close to dry. The fuel would be enough to get her to base, but only just. If she were to try for Calais, it would mean a death at sea for both of them.

“You had better be right about this, Adams,” she swore as the Hornet leveled out and headed for home.

Scarlett flipped the engine mode back to “Patrol” which, in turn, brought the petrol engine back online. The changeover was instantaneous as the Hornet’s fuselage shuddered. Scarlett also lost the incredible response time in her controls. There may be a few miles left on the battery, a sudden kick which she might need once over the airfield.

The forest underneath her whizzed by and then disappeared, just as the Proximity Alarm went red. Scarlett’s gaze went back to the rearview. Wolff would be within the perfect firing range in seconds.

The explosion to her left caused her to pull up instinctively, but then she realized the low-ceiling flack was not for her. Around Wolff, shells exploded, dotting the sky with dark patches of black. Scarlett looked down, and beat the side of the Hornet’s fuselage as she cheered madly. On either side of her landing strip were three massive, all-terrain “Lions.” Their back legs were in a crouch position while the front legs were straightened to their full length. With the extra angle, Hemsworth’s tanks could now take aim on the incoming Fokker.

One shell ripped through two of her right wings, but the airplane continued its pursuit, opening fire on the Hornet.

This time the bullet cut through the fuselage, and searing pain swept over Scarlett’s shoulder.

No, Scarlett,
she chided herself,
that’s an insane thought.

Insane, but perhaps her best option at present.

She flipped the Hornet back into “Combat/Evasion” mode, and within seconds the electric motor took control. Scarlett then threw the plane into a wild corkscrew, hoping Wolff would follow. Then on her third loop, Scarlett pulled back on the stick hard while angling flaps as hard as they could go. She felt the Hornet turn in such a way, she could not be certain of her control over the plane. Around her, everything blurred by as if she were on a merry-go-round moving too fast, and what was behind her was in front of her.

Scarlett pulled trigger, emptying her twin machine guns into the Big Bad Wolf.

The plane now hurtled at her in a great ball of fire. Scarlett jerked back hard on the stick and her wheels bumped against the top wing of the Fokker.

The petrol engine gurgled back to life, and for a moment Scarlett fought to keep the Hornet flying as nothing was responding straight away. Yellow and red lights blinked madly across her dashboard. It was impossible in this eternal second of time to tell if she were flying or falling gracefully from the sky, but the pain in her shoulder offered her flashes of alertness.

The throttle was not cut back. The Hornet was leveling out. The runway was no longer a moving target. This time, Scarlett’s landing only included a bounce five feet high before the plane rolled to a stop.

Scarlett slumped back into her seat as she stubbornly tried to power down the plane before passing out. “I must be getting better at the landing,” was last thing she remembered hearing herself say before surrendering to the darkness.

Six

“So, why are we here again?” asked Hemsworth.

“Perspective,” Scarlett replied, holding the glass just shy of her lips before saying again, “perspective.”

Before the tank commander and the pilot, the English channel ebbed and flowed. At least they knew it did. From where they looked over Calais, there were no waves to follow with their eyes. Simply a blue canvas stretching for miles. As it was a particularly clear day, they could see the faint outline of England on the horizon. For King, Country, and the Empire.

But was it all worth it?

Now Scarlett completely understood why Tink came up here. Alone with thoughts. A moment’s reflection here, in private.

Her gaze wandered over to the broad-shouldered soldier, enjoying the afternoon with her atop this particular outlook. “How much longer, you think?”

“Oh, a few more days, then I should probably contact H.Q. and tell them I will be back on the front with a new pride of Lions.”

Scarlett laughed. “No, silly, I meant with the war. The Great War. How much longer, you think?”

Hemsworth ran his fingers through his blonde hair, letting out a long, slow breath. He seemed to hold his breath a lot around her. He really needed to just relax a bit, enjoy life. “It would have been shorter had you not retrieved the plans of the Schwarzer Geist, but it would also have been a different world under the Kaiser.”

“Makes me wonder then if it was worth it.”

“Now hold on, Little Red, you can’t look at it that way.”

Scarlett raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? And exactly how am I supposed to look at it, Major?”

He leaned back into the grass, propping himself up on his elbows. “Perhaps that come out wrong.”

“I invited you up here so I could share this experience with you, as a way to say thank you. Don’t make me regret this.”

“What I meant was, you are helping to find a balance with the way the world works. One of the reasons why war happens usually comes down to what one side has and the other doesn’t. When you think about it, that explains what’s happening right now.”

Scarlett chuckled. “You make it sound like the Great War is really a group of spoiled children fighting over the same toy.”

“Maybe,” he said, finishing off his glass of wine. “I just know if you hadn’t taken the chance, hadn’t risked your life for King and Country, right now the Kaiser would have a weapon in their arsenal we wouldn’t know how to combat.”

“The Hornet did just fine.”

“Yes, but the Fokker was different. You saw it up close. Hopefully, we can replicate from those schematics how they solved the range and temperature problem of the engine.”

“And how does that help the war effort again?”

“Well…” Hemsworth began, but his thought seemed to falter. Finally, he said, “We were able to stop a dangerous weapon from being potentially exclusive to the enemy.”

“Did it ever occur to you that in a war, there is no hero and villain, no noble knight and mortal enemy? In our Great War, we see Germany as the enemy out to crush us under their boot heel, while Germany sees us as the overbearing Empire forcing our unwanted policies and restrictions on their way of life which was fine…until we can along and told them ‘No, do it this way.’ Being Irish, I can understand how that feels.”

Hemsworth went to speak, but again, took a long moment before finally replying, “Is this the perspective you wanted to share with me up here?”

“Actually, no, I just wanted to share a bottle of fine wine with you and I really can’t do it all by myself at present,” she said, motioning to the one arm in a sling.

“How is the shoulder healing up?”

“Should be back up in the skies in no time,” she said cheerily. “That being said, pour me another glass.”

“I’ll have to get the other basket,” he said, returning to his feet.

She watched as Hemsworth trotted over to the massive Lion and retrieved from behind the “paw” closest to him another basket with a bottle of wine and two freshly baked loaves of bread.

“Did I ever thank you for coming to my rescue, Major Hemsworth?” she asked, holding up her glass.

The cork slipped out with a short, crisp
pop
. He passed the open bottle under his nose and smiled appreciatively. “Actually, no you didn’t, Captain Quinn,” he said, pouring her glass, “and what with rushing you to a hospital, the promotion, and debriefing, I don’t think we got around to it. But if you want to thank me, try this on for size…” Hemsworth poured himself a new glass, and then held it up into the breeze. “Harry.”

Scarlett tipped her head to one side. “Sorry?”

“Harry. Please. Call me Harry.”

She looked him over from head-to-toe, then shook her head. “No, I prefer Hemsworth. Seems to suit you better. What with those broad shoulders, blond hair, and blue eyes, you don’t look like a Harry.”

His mouth turned into a slight scowl. “I’m not really enjoying this perspective, Little Red, you know that?”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “You know I’m not particularly keen on that nickname.”

“Your choice,” he said with a shrug. “Call me Harry, and we can drop this whole nickname nonsense.”

Scarlett puckered her lips, took a moment to look out over the Channel, then took a sip of her wine. “Thanks, Hemsworth, for being there. I don’t know if I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Harry took a seat next to her, and gently nudged her. “You were the one who shot down the Big Bad Wolf. You were fine. I just made a promise to you I would offer support. I did, as I said I would, and I would do it again. But as for the thought, think nothing of it,” and he touched his glass with hers, “Little Red.”

Aladdin and His Wonderfully Infernal Device

by Tee Morris

One

Perhaps the marketplace at noon was not the best place to be—at least when you were poor. Since you had no goods to trade, no money for food, nothing more than your wits and the clothes upon your back, you tended to notice the more unpleasant smells, sounds, and sights of the bazaar. Instead of succulent smoked meats or the brilliance of silks both catching the hot Arabian breeze, you tended to notice the smell of goat shit and the pleas of blind beggars.

For Aladdin, however, while hunger roiled in his belly, his senses were trained upon one shop, one keeper, and one essential item. As if it were the Tear of Allah itself the polished wheel sat before the workbench, amidst the other parts of the desk clock. Obviously the artisan felt this morning a need to attract attention to his skills and his business, as he had elected to work in the sunshine. Aladdin had anticipated this, thus he waited in the coolness of the shadows, watching for the moment that would appear. As the sun rose and set, as stars winked to life in the night, and as people bustled about in between these natural regimens, so would Opportunity—the friend and ally of a thief—present itself.

What was important—as an exceptional thief such as Aladdin would say—was to recognize the
right
opening. Too many times, Opportunity would try to lure him out of hiding to play an unkind trick and threaten his capture. Capture would mean the end of his wicked ways, and—provided he survived—a life reliant on generosity.  He saw many beggars in the streets, sentenced to one-handed servitude.

Perhaps his fellow vagrants would scoff,
“Serves them right. They were too slow”
,
but Aladdin knew the truth. They had been too
quick
. Too quick to judge. Quick to think that Opportunity was beckoning, when in fact it was merely a deceptive shade. Already Aladdin had seen two such false openings, so in the darkness of his favorite hiding place he remained.

There. A customer, fascinated with the clockmaker’s work. A conversation struck.

Aladdin’s eyes returned to the palm-sized wheel; its cogs glinting in the light of a Persian sun. The merchant’s attention was preoccupied, but the timing—and that made Aladdin smile a bit—remained off. He needed to wait. Just a few more seconds…

Then came applause, followed shortly by a small crush of people. Aladdin slipped deftly between children, mothers, and men, all chattering pleasantly about the magician’s talents, and how his reputation had more than been upheld. Most impressive; even from as far as Africa, the Great and Powerful Jaha had found such devoted followers.

Aladdin emerged on the other side of the corporeal flow, and soon his palm was bathed in the sun-baked warmth of a polished brass gear.

He saw no shadow or swath of linen stir, he felt no vice grip around his arm; there was nothing but the throng of people, and the movement reminding him of the Karun after a heavy rain.

However, the rushing river never made a sound like this:
“Stop! Thief!”

Time to run,
whispered Opportunity’s deceptive twin.

The gear’s teeth bit into his hand as his fingers tightened around it. His shoulder pressed against the mass of flesh around him. Women called out, and children cried as they were shoved aside. He couldn’t look back—at least not straight away. First, he needed distance, and then he could formulate a way out of the city.

Aladdin felt a couple push into him from behind, alerting him that there was someone on his heels. He now ducked lower and weaved like a thread through the eyes of many needles. He could hear some people in his wake losing their balance, which was good—obstacles for his pursuers—until the crowd suddenly thinned and his steps grew wider. He pumped his legs and darted into an alleyway. The more he ran, the stronger the smell of fish grew. He could hear the calls of dockhands. He was close.

The walls on either side of him disappeared, and he now ran alongside the collection of junks and dhows expelling their riches. Aladdin ducked underneath palettes slowly rising into the air, his eyes still looking for the right cargo. Behind him, the rhythmic pounding of footsteps grew louder and closer.

Aladdin glanced to the right and then followed his gaze. His sudden turn was matched, but he had anticipated they would keep pace with him.

It would be his next move that would test their mettle.

His legs continued to pedal even after he had leaped off the dock. The world opened up around him, then suddenly cool air off the water caressed his skin. His stomach lurched as he tried to catch his breath. Aladdin was falling. Such a curious sensation.

His fingers caught netting and his other hand, still clinging onto the gear wheel, swung up. The treasure’s teeth dug into the thick hemp of the cargo net as his legs found purchase. Over the sound of his own deep breaths, he heard the whine of motors compensating for the sudden change in weight, but still Aladdin climbed. He leaned to one side and felt the cargo list. Luckily, it turned him away from the four men now lowering rifles as he ascended over them and into the rooftops.

Aladdin looked around him and watched as the cargo now swung over a building. The men below began calling for the guards still on the ground. With his breathing now under control and his muscles burning, he started to scale down the bulbous collection of crates. The dockhands were gathering under Aladdin, perhaps hoping to earn an extra coin or two from his capture. His arms trembled, but still he waited.

When two men reached for him, the young boy pushed, tucking his legs up to his chest. He rolled back and when his legs shot out, he sent one dockhand sprawling into his comrades. The hand clutching the gear swung before him, slicing into the cheek of the other closing on him. When he too fell away, Aladdin sprang forward, through the opening in the men and across the space to another rooftop. He continued across the rooftop and jumped again. It was when he reached the sole door on this rooftop that he stopped and looked back.

The guards were now on the edge of the first building, their eyes madly darting back and forth.

With a grin, Aladdin wrenched the door open and thundered down the stairs. Perhaps a head turned to follow his descent, but at this point he didn’t care; let them look. He was merely a shadow now, and soon he would be nothing but a wisp of sand disappearing in the wind.

He stopped at the door, took a breath, and tucked the still-warm gear wheel inside his sash.

Now it was time to find something to eat. He turned.

The man standing in the doorway did not wear the stern look or the standard uniform of the Sultan, but he looked large enough to be a part of the army. The boy could see a thick, sturdy frame under his robes, especially as his arms were crossed over his chest. His dark eyes considered Aladdin; the longer he looked at him the broader his smile became.

“After an impressive escape like that,” he said, his voice rumbling like a distant thunderstorm from off the sea, “you must be hungry.”

“Famished,” Aladdin answered.

The stranger nodded. “You have his spirit—that is most evident.” He stepped back and motioned down the street, in the opposite direction from the docks. “Come. Let us find some lunch.”

As they walked through the street, Aladdin noticed that the many people of the marketplace were pausing. In fact many of them were staring. In a few instances gatherings actually
parted
to make way for the two of them. Aladdin looked over his shoulder for soldiers or even an honor guard, but all he saw were people in their wake, pointing at them, and wearing the most brilliant of smiles.

Sweet, savory scents of cardamom, curry, and garlic now filled his nostrils. On cue, his stomach rumbled impatiently. Aladdin was indeed famished. He considered making an escape only after this stranger paid for a meal.

“Ah, Great Jaha,” a gentleman gabbled as they walked into his dining establishment, “you honor me with your patronage!”

Aladdin blinked. “Jaha? The magician?”

His companion didn’t respond to Aladdin but kept his attention on the shopkeeper. “Yes, Karim, such a pleasure to step into your fine establishment.” Jaha motioned to Aladdin, as if presenting him formerly. “My associate and I are more than ready for a meal. Please, only your best.”

Karim recognized Aladdin straightaway—as Aladdin recognized him—but the café owner’s outward disdain disappeared as quickly as water under the noonday sun. His eyes went from Aladdin to the magician.

“This is your associate?” His brow creased in confusion.

Jaha lifted an eyebrow. “There is no problem with the company I choose to keep, is there?”

The restaurant owner shuddered. “Magister, forgive my impertinence, please,” he replied with a flourish, bestowing formal obeisance.

Aladdin followed Jaha to a small booth that isolated them from the rest of the patrons. Several took a pause in eating to watch them. Once they had taken their seats, the wooden pillar set within the wall of the establishment opened up. Mechanical arms presented a tea that was tepid enough to be soothing but not uncomfortable when combined with the day’s heat. They had only taken a few sips when a chime rang softly. From above their heads, a tray lowered and the mechanical arms now offered “manna from Heaven”—as the infidel crusaders from Europe would say—in the form of jasmine rice, soft flatbread, lamb and goat, seasoned by spices Aladdin only knew from scraps he scavenged.

“And they call me a magician,” Jaha chortled as the metal arms retracted from their table and returned to the kitchen above their heads. They both watched as the staff there replaced the hole in the ceiling with a new plate. “I suppose the Europeans are good for some things after all.” He then motioned to the food before them. “I don’t stand on ceremony, boy. Eat!”

It did not take long for Aladdin to stuff his mouth with bread and lamb. He only paused when he realized that Jaha was looking at him disapprovingly.

“I said ‘eat’ not ‘devour.’ Finish what food you have in your mouth,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it into a small bowl of yogurt, “and then watch and learn, boy.”

Aladdin doubted the magician had ever known what it was like to be hungry. That did not mean Jaha had been wrong in correcting him; Aladdin had been fairly gluttonous. As he chewed and chewed at the huge amount of food stuffed in his mouth, his cheeks burned with embarrassment as Jaha continued to slowly, meticulously savor the food before them. The magician seemed highly amused by Aladdin’s struggle.

When he finally managed to choke down his mouthful, Aladdin asked, “Why are you helping me?”

Jaha’s smile—the one he had worn when he had met him in the street—returned. “Why wouldn’t I wish to treat my own family to a much-needed, well-earned meal?”

Aladdin felt a sharp twinge in his chest. “Family?”

The magician stopped his hand half-raised to his mouth. “What is your name, boy?”

“Aladdin.”

“A good name, most fitting for our family,” he said with a hint of warmth in his voice. “Well, Aladdin, I will not mince words with you—I am your father’s brother, finally come home.”

An invisible hand felt as if it had clasped around his neck. His mother had never mentioned an uncle, let alone any sort of remote connection with the famous magician, the All-Powerful Jaha. They had a simple life—as simple as any of those who served at the Sultan’s pleasure. Aladdin knew he complicated that life with his antics; his mother always scolded him for his reckless ways. She cursed his lost father’s name, especially at moments when Aladdin would arrive home short of breath and wearing the sweat of a day’s mischief on his skin.

Never had his mother told him of an uncle. Never had she hinted that uncle was the All-Powerful Jaha.

“I was sold into bondage when your father was only three,” Jaha began, “so it comes as no surprise that he did not remember or speak of me. He knew me by a different name, of course.”

Aladdin tipped his head to one side. “Your name isn’t really Jaha?”

“A story we should save for another time, but in brief,” he said popping a few small berries into his mouth, “I was taught to pick locks by another slave. He had been quite clever this gent; he taught me sleight-of-hand and other illusions to pass the hours.”

“He could pick locks? Then why did he not escape?”

Jaha took a sip of tea, and continued. “He had for some reason he never explained, made me a ward of sorts. This meant we would escape together and split a small fortune that he had amassed before his own misfortune.”

“A likely story,” Aladdin snorted before helping himself to a piece of goat. He wrapped a piece of the soft bread around it. “So what happened to your teacher?”

“He died in the midst of our escape.”

Aladdin looked up from his morsel in mid-bite. Jaha was staring out of a window at the far end of the restaurant.

“Nassir gave me the location of his fortune with his dying breath, and I went in search of it, our master and his dogs on my heels. I knew if I wanted to truly be free, I needed a new life and that day Jaha was born.” He chuckled as he picked up his own tea. “The All-Powerful bit did not come to be until I began to travel. I had the skills of a talented thief, but instead I found a more ‘honest’ life in the pursuits of an illusionist.”