“Please, listen! We must go down. We must!” This was one of those times Sophronia wished she had blackmail material. Why oh why were those lessons only for older students?
“If we were to go down, that newfangled gadget would have told us.” The man pointed to a small cradle, in which sat a guidance valve. It was partly encased in mechanisms that attached to a lever. Sophronia remembered what she’d learned about the first prototype—that it required two to communicate. This was the second, and Professor Braithwope’s suit housed the first. She remembered Vieve and her troubles convincing the sputter-skates to turn off using her guidance valve. It hadn’t worked properly because she’d needed a second valve. This, then, was supposed to have been the vampire’s safety net. Professor Braithwope, or his suit, should have alerted engineering when something went wrong. That lever should have dropped. But it hadn’t, and the professor was falling.
Sophronia might have argued with the man indefinitely, but there came a screeching, airy, puff noise, and a long metal tube, which ended above the platform, spat out a pelletlike object that nearly hit the man on the head.
He grabbed it out of the air and cracked it open on his knee; it split like an egg. Inside was a message, which he read and then, giving Sophronia a suspicious look, reached for a massive bullhorn. The brass horn was almost as tall as he, and all over covered in keys and levers. Raising it to his lips and adjusting the controls to his liking, the man yelled out over the chamber. “All hands, pull back, we’re going down at speed. Propeller tilt to steady a rapid decent. Greasers Six and Fourteen, take your sooties up top. We’re collapsing the midship balloon.”
A collective gasp met that statement.
So I managed to climb the ship and get him the message here before the pilot’s bubble did. No wonder they want working guidance valves. No wonder everyone is so desperate to get their hands on these things. Everything about air travel could be faster—for everyone, not just those who float inside the aetherosphere.
Into the resulting comparative silence—the machinery still clanged and the boilers still flamed despite the fact that all human movement had stilled—a small voice said, “Not all the way?” in a shocked tone.
The red-faced man said into the bullhorn, “Yes. All the way. The rest of you, perform your cool-down tasks and then brace for a rough descent. We aren’t landing, mind you, but we are going down fast!”
The chamber sprung into action. It was as though everything were in reverse. Sooties who had been running one way began running the other. Stokers stopped stoking. A few even threw water on the burning fuel, the resulting steam adding to the congestion of the room.
The angry man looked at Sophronia. “You, get out of here! Find yourself a place to brace. This is no lark, you realize? And what’s your name?”
“Monique de Pelouse,” said Sophronia, without missing a beat.
“I wager it is. Now off with ya. Get!”
Sophronia got.
A truly harrowing few seconds followed. The ship sank so fast Sophronia could feel it in her belly. It was a wobbly sensation, especially when one was accustomed to not feeling anything at all on the floating school. She holed up in her favorite meeting spot behind a—now much diminished—pile of coal, near the floor hatch. Eventually, Soap joined her there. Together they watched the ground approach through the hatch.
“What did you do, miss?” asked Soap as London came into view.
“It wasn’t me. I tried, but he only took instructions when some tube spat at him.”
They could see Hyde Park at the city center and Regent’s Park to the north.
“Pilot’s orders. Must have agreed with you. But deflating a balloon? It’s not done, not ever. The expense alone!”
They began to see streets and houses distinctly.
“Are we going to crash?” wondered Sophronia, her heart fluttering.