She let her thoughts settle, her whirlwinds becoming more placid and losing the red tinge of frustration that stemmed from the much-detested sensation of ignorance. You have docked at Lossermark, I assume?
Day and a half ago. Things’ve gotten a little confused since this tub’s original captain woke from his coma. He’s pretty trying company, I must say.
If he proves a barrier to our objective it’ll need to be dealt with. The time for scruples is behind us.
Hopefully it won’t come to that. My uncle’s got a notion of how to proceed. Looks like the future’s gonna need a helping hand.
There was a pause before he conveyed his next thought, several nascent dust-devils sprouting then fading before he found the right words. The White’s coming. You know that. When it does there’ll be a lotta people in Feros needing your help. Our people.
He didn’t need to share a memory for her to discern the object of his concern. Joya and Fredabel.
I can help them more if I can find the Artisan, she said eventually, conjuring the image of the design Bloskin had shown her. If he’s still somehow alive he possesses knowledge far beyond our own. I have to take the chance.
The domes he had raised turned to instant powder as another shudder rippled through the moon’s surface. You’re really gonna do this? Place yourself at their mercy?
I have never been at anyone’s mercy, Mr. Torcreek. I don’t intend to start now.
The late-afternoon shift was winding down by the time she got to the workshop, the industrial cacophony not quite at its usual bone-shuddering pitch. Tekela and Arberus were overseeing the final assembly of a Mark II Thumper, an even more fearsome beast than its predecessor with lengthened barrels for greater range and a higher rate of fire thanks to the more efficient gearing her father had designed. Their work-force of twenty former Carvenport artisans laboured away at the production line, an array of work-benches snaking through a recently constructed extension to the shed which had been the birthplace of the Lethridge family’s often wondrous, if rarely profitable innovations.
Jermayah was engaged in yet another heated discussion with a tall man in a long, heavily besmirched white coat. The tall man stood with his arms crossed and gaze raised in stubborn dismissal as Jermayah expounded at length on the correct arrangement of fuel lines for the bulky yet complex confection of iron and copper sitting on the bench between them. From the recent scorch-marks on the bench Lizanne deduced yet another test had ended in failure. The tall man glanced over as she went to a neighbouring bench, ignoring his questioning glare and extracting a roll of blue design paper from a near by bin. Taking up a thick pencil she weighted down the paper’s edges with some discarded knick-knacks and began to draw. As expected it took only moments before the pair of them forgot their argument and came to scrutinise her work.
“A balloon,” the tall man said in a determinedly neutral tone as the diagram began to take shape on the paper, Lizanne reproducing the image from memory with practised ease. “The envelope shaped so as to be navigable through the air. Hardly an original idea.”
Lizanne kept drawing, completing the sausage-like shape and the ribs tracking along its length, before going on to set out a much neater Mandinorian translation of the original Eutherian notes.
“Interesting,” Jermayah said, leaning closer to read the words. “‘Fashion the structure from a composite of tin and zinc.’ Of course, lightness and strength combined. Remarkable.” His stubby finger tapped the calculations. “Have these been verified?”
Lizanne didn’t reply, completing the diagram by adding the propelling apparatus to the body of the main structure. “A parting gift, Father,” she said, looking up to meet the tall man’s gaze. “I’m going away for a time.”
Professor Graysen Lethridge stiffened and turned his eyes towards the lumpen collection of iron and copper resting on the neighbouring bench. “I have little time for flights of fancy. The Lethridge Tollermine Mark One Caloric Engine nears completion. And when it does the world will change for the second time in a generation . . .”
Unwilling to suffer through another speech, Lizanne tossed the pencil aside and walked away. “Build it or don’t,” she said, striding off towards Tekela and Arberus. “I have good-byes to make.”
“Wait!”
She paused, turning to regard his flustered visage. As long as she could remember she had possessed the gift of turning this occasionally brilliant man into a barely coherent picture of paternal rage and disappointment. Today, however, there was at least an attempt at restraint in his demeanour. It took a moment of jaw clenching and needless coat straightening before he said, “Might your father know your destination? Or have you once again sunk yourself into the mire of Ironship’s covert intrigues?”
“A public intrigue, in fact.” She looked at Jermayah expectantly, adding a few insistent eye-flicks before he took the hint and retreated to tinker with the caloric engine.
“I now hold the respectable post of diplomat,” she said, returning to the bench. “They’re sending me to Corvus, ostensibly to help negotiate an alliance. In fact”—she gestured at the diagram—“I am tasked with finding whoever designed this.”
The professor’s eyes roamed the design with a new intensity then narrowed in recognition. “The same hand that crafted the baffling box you brought me, if I’m any judge.”
“Quite so, Father.”
“The Corvantine Empire is vast. How could you hope to accomplish such a thing?”
“There are . . . lines of enquiry,” she said, unwilling to divulge anything that Bloskin might take exception to. “Will it work?” she asked, nodding at the diagram.
“Perhaps, with a sufficiently light-weight means of propulsion . . .” He trailed off and glanced at the as yet lifeless caloric engine. “I see my daughter’s gift for improvisation hasn’t deserted her.”
She smiled. “I have every confidence in you, Father. Also . . .” She pulled a sealed contract from her pocket and placed it on the bench. “I was able to negotiate a new agreement on your behalf.”
His gaze darkened and he made no attempt to retrieve the contract. “I want . . .”
“. . . nothing to do with that band of thieves. I know.”
She sighed and broke the seal, unfolding a document signed by all Board members currently in Feros. “‘The Ironship Trading Syndicate (hereinafter referred to as “The Syndicate”),’” she began, reading aloud the opening paragraph, “‘hereby acknowledges, without prejudice to any preceding legal decisions or agreed contracts, that Professor Graysen Lethridge is the sole inventor of the Mark I thermoplasmic engine (hereinafter referred to as “the engine”). Furthermore, the Syndicate agrees to pay a restitution fee of ten million in Ironship Trading Scrip in lieu of incurred royalties. The Syndicate also agrees to pay a further twenty million in Ironship Trading Scrip for the exclusive right to use, manufacture, sell or otherwise exploit for commercial gain any and all original designs contained within the engine for a period not to exceed fifteen years from the date of this agreement. At the conclusion of this period both parties undertake to engage in reasonable negotiations for the renewal of this contract.’”
She leaned across the bench to place the document in front of him. “There’s more, mainly relating to termination rights and confidentiality. It requires your signature but you should have a lawyer look it over first.”