The roar of her hovering Engines drowning out all other sound, Cap examined the wreckage of her wings. The right had been sheared off completely; only a portion of the leather remained. Sabotage had done for the other wing, the corroded leather strap still faintly smoking. The fabric remained attached, but the wing had been torn and broken in too many places to effect repairs.

The corroded leather told Cap a tale of betrayal, one she had unwittingly been complicit in. She had been so careful to check each and every part the bastard had machined for her, to test each and every batch of alloy he mixed. Cap knew David Abrams lusted after her work from the moment he saw the partial designs. She had kept the secret of how the parts fit together from him for just that reason.

Cap thought she’d been so clever, keeping the secret of her Engines; she just hadn’t been nearly as careful with the construction of her wings. They were, after all, just cut down versions of Orville’s design. She’d shared them with David, much as she’d shared herself with him; as a consolation for not sharing the design of her Engines or the secret recipe for the mix of fuel that powered them. Now, it seemed, that attempted kindness had come back to destroy her.

Suspicious, she checked her parachute. It took a full minute of careful digging for her to find the shattered glass vial within the tightly packed cloth. Her fingers burned from touching the cloth, her face burned with shame, and most of all her heart blazed with impotent fury at the man who had killed her.

A glance at the gauge confirmed her fuel was running out fast. Her Engines, her finest creations, her Masterwork, were hungry beasts at the best of times. Hovering as they did now made them even more voracious. A quick mental calculation told her they would drink the last of their fuel long before she reached the ground at any survivable rate. Ever conscientious, she did the calculations again, by hand, on a scrap of wing. The cold, hard Physics of her predicament stared back up at her; she was going to die.

For a moment, grief threatened to overtake her. Kay was barely weaned. The baby’s father alternated between trying to steal her away and refusing to acknowledge her existence. Without Capricious, Kay would be an orphan alone in a country not her own. Cap left no great wealth to see the child through to adulthood. She wept for her daughter, a destitute orphan. She knew that existence well; it had been her own after her grandmother passed.

Cap’s parents had left her with old Gramma Jones. Gramma Jones had passed and left her with the Sisters of Saint Francis. The Sisters kept her until she turned eighteen, when she had, by dint of much studying and the androgyny of her name, been offered a scholarship to study at a college in New England. Through all of it, since Gramma died Cap had been alone; it had suited her fine until she came to Europe to university, where she had been struck with the idea for her Engines.

In Europe she sought and found a metallurgist and machinist of surpassing skill to smelt and forge her parts. That same machinist’s protestations of undying ardor seduced her, and she had grown their daughter even as he constructed the parts for her Engine. She came to realize, inch by inch, that he had seduced her to take credit for her greatest work.

She had been such a fool. Letting whimsy take her, Cap ran her calculations again, replacing her own weight with that of all the things she loved: Kay and her Engines. Cap smiled sadly as she realized that the list began with one and ended with the other.

At that moment inspiration struck. Her smile widened, baring her teeth. Her brows furrowed, her eyes narrowed, and her heart sang with evil glee as mayhem and destruction filled her mind.

***

Leigh’s ears rang. She bled from small cuts on her hands and face, and her whole body ached from striking the floor when Sebastian tackled her. The lieutenant rolled her over, and she blinked at the light now coming through the gaping hole where the outer wall had been. Sebastian’s mouth moved, but she heard nothing. Shaking her head, she reached up and pulled her emergency hearing protectors out of her ears.

“Miss Abrams, are you injured?”

“I don’t think so. Just aching and horribly scratched up. Did a Mechanical have a catastrophic failure?”

“I’m… not certain. Let me check on the others.”

While Sebastian went to help the general and David, Leigh took stock of her equipment. One by one, she opened her pouches, pockets, and sleeves, removing the tools and powders, the parts and potions. Each one she checked briefly for damage and returned to its pocket. The familiar ritual soothed her; as she worked the world narrowed down to her and her tools. When she finished, she looked up to find Sebastian and the general staring at her, the same strange look mirrored on both faces. Shamed that she had been so completely engrossed, she attempted to explain.

“I’m so sorry, gentlemen. I’m afraid many of my tools are rather fragile. If they’re broken, I’d be completely useless to you. Please, is there anything I can do to help?”

The general’s voice remained angry, but that anger was now chained, the way a man would do when life and death were on the line. “Miss Abrams, most of my technicians only carry one belt, and that one is rarely full until they’ve been working for a few years. Your father has equipped you well.”

“Oh, no, Sir. My original training was in Logic Pathways, but I’m afraid I cross-qualified in Power Systems, Motor Linkages, and Control Systems. I suspect the nuns will be quite upset with my hubris. Of course, the degrees I entered the service with meant I was pre-qualified as a Surgeon, Apothecary, and Communications Mechanic. I aught have done Armorer as well, but I’m afraid I never received the paperwork for my degree in Metallurgy.

The burning blush crept across Leigh’s face, but some particularly oblivious part of her had taken control and wouldn’t let her shut her mouth.

“Please, Sir, I know I’m required to have additional room on my tool belt for useful salvage parts, but I was only issued two belts. Might I have another?”

General March’s face had taken on a menacing, fey expression as she spoke. She knew she’d done something wrong, but not what exactly she’d done. For a moment her military training warred with her earlier schooling. In the end, the years of schooling won out; her hands clasped in front of her, her gaze dropped to the floor. It was all she could do to keep from crying, to keep from asking how she had failed.

“Cole, go find out what happened to the wall. Report back as soon as you know anything. Abrams, I don’t know how you got her all of those tools, but we need those for the war effort. I…”

David interrupted the general. Leigh knew it would only stoke his anger, but took small comfort from the fact that it might redirect it to her father. “General March, I have never given my offspring tools.”

“So where did she get them?”

A long-suffering sigh preceded David’s answer, and a quick glance showed his wooden fingers gliding against one another. “Exactly where she said. She has four advanced degrees. The final sheepskin arrived at the manor after you had left for Army training, my dear. There is a reason my daughter has an androgynous name, General. Between her name and a letter from myself indicating that my heir has a physical condition which makes her unable to attend classes in person, she was able to take her courses by correspondence.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing.” As March spoke, he pulled gear from his desk: a canteen, a bulky personal crystal device, a revolver.

“For an ordinary student, it would not be possible. However, as you might imagine, my influence is not insignificant at institutions of higher learning. Between that and a substantial donation, exceptions were made. Now she is here, and exactly what she says she is.”

“Please, Sir, I know I’m terribly forward, and I know I must have done something wrong, but I just want to help.”

“I highly advise you allow her to assist you, general. I sent her to the Americas when war threatened. Around the time she completed her final degree, I realized what the Hun were up to and recalled her.”

“You’ve divined the Central Powers strategy, and you’ve yet to inform me?” The general’s tone made it clear his exasperation was wearing at his control.

“No, only the part that I care about.”

“And that would be?”

“Hadn’t I mentioned it earlier? This is the last functioning Expeditionary Force Mechanical base on the Continent. Given that they’ve obviously reverse-engineered the DaVincis, I expect…”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Sebastian dashed back into the room, interrupting whatever wisdom David was about to impart about the Central Powers’ DaVinci war machines. “General! The tower reports two hundred Prussian Blitzmen and one Bertha Command Mechanical approaching from the south. They will be here in less than an hour. What do we do, Sir?”

March’s head swiveled back to the senior Abrams. “How quickly can she work?”

“You just saw her break down seven issue tool kits, clean them, and repack them in under two minutes. Pray it is fast enough to make a difference in the upcoming battle.”

The General belted his revolver and headed for the door as he spoke. “Cole! Escort Lieutenant Abrams to the Garage. Make sure they know she is in charge of repairs. Take command of the Men as she repairs them. Defend the Garage and prepare to move to support me at my command. Unless I call for you, you hold that Garage. Understood?”

Sebastian snapped to attention and saluted. “I will hold that Garage or die trying, Sir!”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. What are you waiting for, man? Move!”

***

One eye on her fuel gauge, Cap pressed the friction switch on her Steno-Matic device. After a moment spent warming the wax that dictated its actions, the device let out a delicate chime to indicate it was ready. As Cap spoke, the device spat out a devilishly thin strip of paper, coiling into a tiny metal bin she had placed to catch any notes she might have of her aerial adventure.

“Note to self; have David review plans for improved Engines on landing. Current fuel stores should be usable with the new design. New design is required to power new Mechanical Device, which will be Terrestrial rather than Aerial. Supplies to be gathered follow:”

As she spoke, she sketched. Before her eyes a vision took shape: a vision of death and retribution given physical form. Dissatisfaction gnawing at her, she briefly considered the size of the new Mechanical Men being produced in the Massachusetts foundries. Letting her honed intuition guide hands equally adept, she sketched out a human figure for scale. Satisfaction washed through her, and she continued to dictate as she drew.

“Iron; sixty tons. Pitchblende; eighty tons unrefined or forty tons yellowcake. White Silica; one ton.”

Another frown. Her muse of wild inspiration had spoken to her yet again. A diagram appeared on the canvas wing fragment before her, and she traced over it. She penciled in charges, forces, and stabilizing factors. In her mind’s eye she saw the finished product, and she mused with vicious glee on David’s fate. “Aluminum, five tons; rubber, one ton; gelatin, one ton powdered.”

Another glance to the side showed her fuel tank nearly empty; five minutes or so remained before it ran dry. At least ten seconds would be required for the final boost, so she needed to cut things short. Her pen raced across the canvas sheeting, sketching parts and forms, gears and cogs, lenses and mirrors and tanks.

The sketches were still rough, unfinished, but no time remained. She folded the fabric over and over, tucking it into itself as she went. David was too clever by half; he would fill in the blanks, turn her rough sketched plans into blueprints. Once he had that, he would be unable to stop himself; he would turn those blueprints into reality.

The gauge hit the ‘Empty’ mark, leaving just the fuel in the lines. She exhaled, shoving the coarse, thick fabric down between her breasts and bodice. Before she could think twice about it, she grabbed the emergency cutoff with her other hand and pulled the rip cord. She plummeted.

***

The moment Sebastian towed Leigh into the Garage he ceased to exist for her, as did every other fleshy being in the bay. Rank upon rank of Mechanical Men stood, sat, or lay silently in various states of disrepair. Here, two ranks of Edisons in varying stages of damage. There, a brace of Teslas, their characteristic electric slings characteristically nonfunctional. In the back, a large mass of outdated Colts. She could scarcely believe her eyes, but there was even a solid formation of near functional Franklins, their furnaces dark.

The only good news was a huge stack of boxes arrayed along one wall. Stamped on the side of each was the Colt-Gatling logo, the number 0.75 beneath it. Guns and ammunition she had in abundance, but not all the Mechanical Men in the Garage had hands that would hold a Colt-Gatling. Those that did might not have the requisite two. The few mechanics in the Garage had already stopped working on the Men and moved to the nest across the courtyard from the Garage. There they had taken up positions behind swivel-mounted Colt-Gatling Mechanical guns.

Leigh’s heels clicked an echoing cadence as she walked briskly through the formation of Mechanical Men rank by rank. She reached the back rank, stationed more than halfway from the rear of the enormous Garage, in less than a minute. For a moment, she wondered at the placement of the Men; they were too close together to work on properly, and despite a shadowed patch on the back wall, most of the rest of the Garage seemed well lit.

She froze, eyes widening in horror, as the shadow moved like a man shifting his weight. It was huge, the height of a Command Mechanical at the very least, and it appeared to be squatting on its haunches like some savage warrior. Black as night, leaning against a wall stained by generations of soot, the details were scarce, but she could see a massive shield adorning the left arm. A gargantuan spear, taller than any tree she’d ever seen, stood braced by one hand against the floor. Something else, maybe a quiver for the spear, maybe a smokestack ,poked over one shoulder.

Sebastian’s voice cut through her shock, “Abrams! I said, ‘can you fix them?’”

Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from the giant in the back of the room. Facing Sebastian, her fear dissolved as the work began to absorb her once more. “How far do you need to take them?”

When she spoke, the sound of shifting metal echoed through the length of the Garage. Her lizard brain driving her, she began walking toward the exit to where the least physically damaged Men had been collected. Sebastian stood there, a half dozen mechanics arrayed behind him. They weren’t alike as peas in a pod, but between the shapeless grey coveralls and the buzzed hair preferred by military mechanics, the only way she could tell them apart were the nametags on their breast pockets.

Sebastian considered a moment. When he spoke, his voice had returned to calm, effected ennui. “Not far. A few hundred feet. I suspect they’ll need to shoot and survive being shot at for a while.”

Hearing her goal set before her, knowing the impossibility of it, doubt fell away. A windmill stood before her, and like Quixote, she would charge it. She couldn’t bring herself to care at the arrogance in her voice. “I will need full fuel for one hundred fifty. Leave the mechanics here, I will need assistants.”

Sebastian’s reply was just as quick, just as cocksure. “I already checked with the lads here. We have three tanks of petrol for the liquid-fueled Men and one scuttle of stove coal. Nothing else.”

Like light through a crystal, thoughts bounced through Leigh’s mind. She plucked her words from the crystal’s shining center, and she knew the truth of them as they left her lips.

“Take three men with you, leave me the rest. Have one man bring as much furniture as he can carry, another to gather all the lamp oil he can find, a third to bring as many candles as he can. Candles are stored in the kitchen pantry, lamp oil beneath the main stair.”

Sebastian’s voice rang out, his tone turning her detached instructions into a command. “Smythe, Buttons, Davidson. You heard her, now Move!”

“You, bring me as much of my father’s brandy as you can. It’s stored in the cellar beneath the kitchen pantry. The lock will open to you if it can see your lieutenant’s bar.”

“What? I must stay at my post!”

Frustration skittered across Leigh’s working trance like water on a grill. “You’re not abandoning your post; you’re running for critical supplies that only you can acquire. Go quickly! I hear Prussian guns.”

Sebastian opened his mouth to protest once more, but in the distance the distinctive chatter-chatter-chatter of the machine pistols of the Prussian Mechanicals split the air. He nodded briefly and ran, words drifting back behind him.

“If I don’t return, tell them I died doing my duty!”

Leigh didn’t reply, already lost in her work. Her fingers flew, disconnecting panels, detaching locks, and carefully prodding the wax and copper brain of the first Mechanical she chose. Her world narrowed to the Men. Everything else was a tool or an obstacle.

“Rogers, Coal!”

Rogers’ reply was colored with indignation. “It will take too long to stoke the boiler!”

The bullet from her service pistol ricocheted from the ground near the unfortunate mechanic, flying off into the distance. She felt no anger, but she would not tolerate a broken tool.

“Coal!”

“On the way, Ma’am!”

As her fingers danced across a second Mechanical, she snapped out orders to the remaining two technicians.

“Patterson, remove the water from that one’s boiler. Gardner, carry this one to the bunker, bolt it behind a Colt-Gatling, and get it stoked.”

“It’s got no legs. I’m doing it, I’m doing it!” Gardner grunted as he lifted the torso of the heavy mechanical half off the ground and dragged it toward the bunker.

“It won’t be moving, just firing. Patterson, start loading the Mechanical guns while the boiler heats. As you finish loading each one, attach it to one of the Mechanicals I’ve flagged green. Weld them in place, they won’t be coming off.”

“How do I…” Patterson cut off, eyes darting between the half-dozen splashes of green paint. Leigh registered his hesitation, looked up from strapping a low-power crystal device to her goggles. Patterson froze as six mechanicals twitched in unison toward him.

Leigh’s voice sounded detached, even to her own ears. Not that she cared. Another tool was not working as it ought to. “Can you weld?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

One potential problem resolved, Leigh moved to the next possible problem. “Can you load?”

“Yes Ma’am. Just about to ask what color green, Ma’am. This is me in motion, Ma’am.” Leigh spared a moment to wonder why Patterson seemed so frightened, then dismissed it from her mind as he sprinted to the gun and ammo boxes and began loading.

As long as her tools functioned, Leigh didn’t care what else they did or did not do. Her hands moved of their own accord, taking actions to set things to rights before she consciously became aware anything was wrong. In the distance, the gunfire grew louder. Her eyes were lost to the pattern of lights flickering across her goggles. She’d worked up the code during her final practical exam. She could never quite explain it to anyone when she wasn’t working. When she was working, she didn’t care.

“Red marks: empty boiler and start firebox with minimal coal. Yellow marks: add fuel mixture and crank ignition. The water cooling on our line Browning is leaking. The MG08s on the Bertha are cycling oddly. They might be a new design. Or they’re going to break soon because someone tinkered with them.”

Patterson’s response caught her off guard. “What fuel mixture, Ma’am?”

Leigh looked up, concentration wavering. Something was interfering with her supplies. That had to stop. The sound of gunfire was close outside the great doors of the Garage. Without stopping to think, she stood and strode toward the doors. She found the selector on her goggles with her left hand, gripped her pistol in her right. In front of her eyes, projected on the inside of her goggles, dozens of yellow crosshairs from the Men she’d slaved to her goggles tried to follow a single red one sliding across the floor in front of her. She raised her pistol and looked out the door.