Chapter Twenty-Three

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express:

Reimund and Isabelle try to find Captain Miro, but he’s busy with the storm. They head back to Julia’s room and present her with the evidence of Dunlap’s guilt. Julia mentions that the man’s wife was desperate for his reputation to be restored. 

Isabelle is relieved to hand over all responsibility for this affair. 

Then, an explosion rocks the ship…

Hugo asked, “What was that?” His size gave him certain advantages. The explosion that juggled the rest of them barely rocked him. 

Sirens answered. Despite her many trips, this was the first time Isabelle had heard the Aerial Express shriek.

The ship shuddered and coughed. Moans and cries slipped into the stateroom from all directions. Reimund gripped the sides of his chair, and Marie keened a prayer to whatever god would listen.

Julia ignored everyone. Eyes squeezed shut, tongue moving behind her lips, she shook her head in tight twitches. Isabelle realized she was going through a mental checklist. The woman knew the ship better than anyone else. It owed many of its systems to her design, including the new engine, and she communed with them in her imagination, asking questions and interpreting tremors.

Eyes still closed, she patted Marie’s hand, which clutched her thigh. To Hugo, she said, “The stabilizers. Alastair did something to the stabilizers.”

He swore. “Does he mean to take the entire ship down?”

Isabelle focused on her breath. In, out, in, out, no-too fast, slower, in, out. “I’m not sure it matters whether he intended to kill everyone. Not if we all die anyway.” 

“Could he be using the chaos to escape?”

Julia winced, eyes opening at Reimund’s question. “Yes. I expect that’s it. He must be heading toward the emergency shuttles.”

Hugo gave a decisive nod. “I’ll stop him.” He opened the door and vanished. 

A different priority gripped Isabelle. She’d prefer Dunlap not slip away, but, well, if that were the price of their survival... Everyone dying — Dunlap included — was not a victory. “Miss Beechcraft, can you fix the ship?” 

“Yes, I imagine the aetheric conduits need recalibrating.” Julia stood, pointing at Reimund. “You come with me. I’ll need an extra pair of hands when we get there. The external stabilizers are on the side of the navigation tower.”

Thunder rumbled far off, and there was a fresh lurch. Their designated savior stumbled. As the ship bucked, Julia’s feet failed altogether, the motion hurling her into a table. Her head bounced off the edge and slammed against the wood floor. She lay unconscious.

Shock paralyzed the remaining three until Marie’s anguished scream cut through the frozen chaos. She slid to her knees beside her friend, shaky hands relocating Julia to her lap.

Isabelle and Reimund turned to one another, colorless with horror.

Breathe. In, out.

“Aetheric conduits.” She almost wanted to recall the words when hope sparked in Reimund’s expression, but she forced herself onward. Could someone else on the crew save the ship? Did they even know about the problem? “The stabilizers must operate by channeling aetheric energy.”

The damaged components were near the navigator’s office. Maybe Tess could help. Unless…would Dunlap harm her friend? She was no better at staying out of trouble than Isabelle, who pictured her trying to interfere with the sabotage.

Isabelle had helped Pippa with a project once, a floating tray that proved more effective as a projectile weapon than a means of service.

In, out.

The basic principles of aetheric stabilization would remain the same, just on a larger scale. Much larger. The difference between a lit candle and a forest fire.

When Isabelle retold herself the story later, she’d pretend she tossed the words “follow me” over her shoulder as she strode into the corridor instead of squeaking a question — “follow me?” — while she swayed in place.

Either way, her feet moved out the door, and Reimund came after her.

It was easier than expected to reach her cabin. This may be because Isabelle had no energy to overthink her body’s mechanics. The crisis condensed her inner monologue to a list of actions: (1) retrieve supplies from her room, (2) get to the stabilizers, (3) see what there is to see. Every so often, her mind found space for additional, unhelpful commentary. We’re all going to die...I’m not an engineer...Reimund can’t believe I know what the hell I’m doing.

(In fact, Reimund had complete faith in Isabelle. This was for many reasons, some of which are sweet, but mostly he believed because he needed to believe. He didn’t know whether Isabelle would save them — he accepted the variables at play — but without confidence that Isabelle could save them, his brain started gibbering, so her capability became dogma, and he clung to it.)

Isabelle opened her door. Her alchemy case lay on its side in the center of the room. She hurried to it and examined its contents. Her obsessive care prevented major mishaps, keeping almost everything intact. She’d have to replace the odd beaker and flask.

She pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and lined a medium-sized graduated cylinder. Into this container, she collected stoppered test tubes of powdered magnesium and silver nitrate, plus vials of elemental mercury, copper, and liquid aether. She rose but paused with a tilt of her head and reached for the hydrogen-aether salt she’d created...was it yesterday, the day before? Not important.

Reimund watched her from the doorway, mouth in a tight line. She gave him the go-ahead, and he led the way.

They hesitated at the exit, and he shouldered the door, straining against the wind to assist her through the gap.

The storm’s initial fury abated, it indulged in spite, deciding to drown what it failed to blast. Isabelle scraped her hair to the side of her face. Corrosion, she wished for her coat and goggles. 

The airship dropped a foot. Reimund reached for Isabelle but missed, and she grabbed for the too-close rail. She hugged the metal with both arms, one hand still holding the cylinder full of supplies. Another jolt sent a foot dangling over the ledge.

She told herself that it only looked like the sky would devour her. If she fell, she’d drop fifteen feet to the lower deck, the impact sufficient to break an arm or leg but survivable. Of course, then, she’d lie incapacitated, gasping and hoping someone else would come to the ship’s rescue.

Reimund pulled at her waist, asking her to release her desperate hold on the metal bar. In the bravest moment of her life, she let go. They sprawled across the deck and regarded each other as they drew in wet gasps of air. The tube of silver nitrate rolled free from Isabelle’s bundle, but he caught it before it went far.

He handed her the element. “Wait here.” She couldn’t hear him, but she understood his outstretched palm. Reimund crawled to a metal box nearby. He pulled out a thick rope and avoided the heavy lid’s attempt to catch his fingers as it closed. He returned and looped the sisal cord around her waist and then his, tying fancy sailor’s knots Isabelle didn’t recognize.

Huddled tight to the ground, they gained inches. It took them far too long to reach the stairs leading up to the navigator’s domain.

Or rather, to reach the place where the stairs should be. Halfway across the deck, they discovered the explosion’s purpose. A wave of dismay battered Isabelle. She should have anticipated something like this. Dunlap’s sabotage of the stabilizers was catastrophic but wouldn’t have required him to blow anything up. So, instead, he demolished the stairs reaching the equipment…and Tess.

Had he killed her friend? When Isabelle discovered the broken skeleton of the staircase, she picked up her pace, skidding toward their destination and overtaking Reimund, who worked to keep up.

They evaluated the destruction in silence. It could be worse. They could thank the storm for the lack of fire, and the platform’s height wasn’t great. There was space for storage underneath, not another room.

Isabelle crawled on top of the rubble, heart seizing as the wreckage shifted. She stretched up and could just reach the ledge above. She slid back down, scanning for more substantial debris to pile. 

Reimund either read her mind or beat her to this conclusion. The rope at her waist chafed as he pulled in the opposite direction. She staggered toward him, and they sifted through the nearby wreckage. They tried to move one of the heavy metal boxes of rigging, but it refused to budge. They gave up. Heedless of cuts and splinters, each seized a side of the most intact piece of the stairs, and they wrestled it close to its original location.

Reimund climbed the waist-high platform and placed his forearms on the ledge, levering himself up, and rolling onto his stomach above.

The rope connecting them crushed Isabelle’s modest bosom into even smaller proportions before lodging in her armpits. She took her turn on the shivery wreckage, and Reimund caught her arms as her perch slid sideways. He hauled her beside him.

When she could, Isabelle crawled to the office door, using its handle to pull herself upright. She sidled to the nearest window. The wind’s howl fractured into a sad wail.

Tess was inside and conscious but not in her chair. From the floor, she wrestled with the controls, immobilized by a broken leg.

The navigator glimpsed the face at the glass, and her tense jaw slackened in shock. Isabelle raised her hands in a plea for patience and continued her slow passage around the deck. She and Reimund reached the massive control box.

The wall provided some protection from the wind as she withdrew the knife from her chatelaine and attacked the screws. It wasn’t the best tool for the job, and they refused to budge.

“Let me.” Reimund displaced her and retrieved his more substantial knife. He worked the screws loose, flinching when his grip slipped and the knife cut into his palm. He loosened the screws on one side and used the blade to pry up the cover. It still wanted to close, but he set his feet and held it.

Isabelle studied the internal mechanism of the stabilizer. The components sizzled with disrupted aetheric energy, and sparks flew. She muttered curses, the gusts ripping away the sounds and scattering them to the abyss. 

Isabelle needed to repair the conduits. She selected the mercury from her supplies, tearing out the stopper with her teeth in defiance of the potential poison, and spat out the cork. She cradled the bundle in the curve of her arm while placing small bits of the element at the holes in the stabilizer core. Next, she added copper beads, nudging them next to the more volatile substance.

Now for the tricky part. She needed to combine magnesium and silver nitrate in the major breach and hold the severed strip together long enough for the silver to fuse it.

Isabelle opened the two tubes. This was going to hurt, and there was a chance she’d do more damage than good. She wished Pippa were with her. Surely, her best friend would have a less insane way to accomplish this.

Moving with glacial care, she tipped one vial into the other. The proportions weren’t perfect, but that was fine. The word snagged her train of thought. Fine. Everything is fine. She murmured the lie like a mantra while she blended the two ingredients into a paste with a dry stir stick.

With a quick prayer, Isabelle spread the concoction on the jagged edges of the strip. She held everything together, shut her eyes, and stepped to one side. 

The rain was the final component. The omnipresent water hit the delicate machinery and would cause problems in the long term. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they survived to worry about that?

A flash burned her hands, likely tripling their scars, and Reimund yelped as it brushed him. He almost dropped the metal plate. Isabelle guilted him with a glare. He could handle his minor share of the pain. This was a new level of ow for her, which was saying a lot for an alchemist.

She withdrew her hands. Reimund started to lower his burden.

“No.” Isabelle watched a gauge to her left. Its dial flickered, the hand slowly rising. Before relief could take hold, the flow of aether stalled at a trickle. It might eventually reestablish its regular volume, but they didn’t have eventually.

Here went nothing. Or everything. Or something. Corrosion, she was tired.

Isabelle took her ugly, ruined flask, the compound of aether and hydrogen still stuck to its sides. This was not aetherized hydrogen — hydrogen used to conduct aether in a direction. This was a true salt of the two elements, and she didn’t know what would happen if she opened up one of the valves and dropped it in. In theory, the addition could prove strong enough to shock the system back to the necessary levels. In theory.

Isabelle fiddled with her chatelaine, blessing her friend for the gift of the lighter. She could never have done this with matches. The blood on her hands helped secure the flask, which was...fortunate? She shielded her project and flicked the fire-starter’s wheel under the compound. Licks of flame heated the glass and melted the edges of her salt until she could tip a sizable chunk out the top.

Reimund watched her, befuddled. He was an attractive man, and their kiss had sparked something inside her. Pity she was probably about to blow them both up.

She flipped the valve cap and tipped her salt into the cavity.

Three endless seconds passed before an intense rush of hot air blew back toward her. She and Reimund staggered, the plate snapping into place.

Eyes apologetic, he again pried open the plate. The gauge of aether remained jittery but showed a strong flow. Isabelle waved for him to let go.

The effect on the ship was faster than she expected. Their flight didn’t smooth completely, but she thought she could feel as the crew reestablished control.

The jumbled motion calmed, and Isabelle did the only sensible thing she’d done all day.

She slumped onto the deck and passed out.

That’s it for this chapter! See you next week.

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