"The Engineer's Prayer" by Daniel Tyler Gooden
This week we've got a sneak peek at the first short story by our very own Content Editor, Dan Gooden. The Engineer's Prayer gives us a look at the Brailee (Losa's airship) and the men and women who keep her up and running:
Atop the Brailee, with only sky above and wind everywhere else, the young engineer lifted his feet and carefully pushed his body up until he rested on his index finger. Wrapped in leather, cold-weather gear, he looked like a sausage.
Torman was barely heard over the roaring wind. “Brun, this is amazing!”
“Any second the captain will order full burn, and then you’ll feel some weight in your shoes,” the old mechanic shouted back. Torman was nearly floating because the Brailee was almost in freefall.
The old man grinned at his companion's enjoyment but turned back to look at the sea with a sour face. They were still thousands of feet up, but the lady was a heavy bitch and her mass was hard to stop.
The Brailee was the first of the great steam-driven airships. Her iron skeleton was surrounded by the taishu culmerant, a viscous soup found somewhere in the creature’s stinking innards. Some genius engineer had boiled it down, and now the blue gel served as flesh and soul to the Brailee. When warmed by her hundred-odd Aiemer engines the culmerant could carry the Brailee—her bombs, her iron skeleton, the propellers and steam equipment that drove them, the thick shielding across her long belly all her--massive tonnage as high above Baeg Tobar as one could go and still breathe.
Brun took his eyes off the rising sea and tried to peer through the deep blue culmerant. The wind was too loud to hear the captain’s order through the relay tubes, but he would see it. Buried under the blue were the Aiemer engines; when fired they would be like stars exploding in the night sky. An engine's hard dunnum steel petals would create a small pocket of Aiemer; its light would be brilliant, and its massive outpouring of heat would arrest the ship’s stone-like plummet. If it didn’t, they would spear right through the taishu below them, taking the Brailee, its crew, and the hundred thousand Yuin-damned shuen that lived on it right to the bottom of the Yan Po ocean.
“Tools buckled down?” Brun shouted over his shoulder.
Torman dropped back to the deck and shouted into his ear. “I’m ready. You got your burn glasses?” The kid was green; he’d come straight from Deos and the Pilean Engineering Academy, but he was full of good details. Those engines would be blinding at a full burn, even outside the shell. He pulled on his goggles over his fur-lined hood. They couldn’t repair what they couldn't see.
Brun felt the engines before he saw them. It was like some drunkard had leaned on his shoulders. The burn rose then out of the blue guts of the Brailee. The Aiemer engines blossomed like suns and the light exploded up at them. The weight doubled, then tripled, and he let it push him flat on the deck. Now the drunk sat on his chest and Brun fought to breath. He counted, concentrating on the numbers.
The captain was attacking out of the sun, falling in its light to surprise the floating shuen city. With their weight and speed, Torman had calculated the full burn needed to level the Brailee would last twenty seconds. Any number past that and they’d be a drowning ship rather than a flying one.
Torman figured right. At 18, when the wind quit roaring, the drunk climbed off Brun’s chest. The sea and taishu were still lost behind the wash of blinding light. The engines would burn at full until they got positive lift. Only then would the captain throttle them back.
“What a ride,” Torman shouted. The wind had stilled, and from somewhere below the Brailee Brun heard the familiar sound of bombs crashing into their targets at close range. He cupped his hands around his eyes, trying to see through the brilliance. He found Torman, faint as a ghost in the wash of light.
“When we get the all-clear, grab your tools and get back to amidships,” the mechanic ordered.
“I know. A full burn should put out 27,000 Vuls of heat on just one engine,” said Torman, fading out as he started calculating the number of engines in the upper nose and shoulder of the Brailee. Brun didn’t care how many Vuls. All he knew was that the heat was incredible. It moved through the culmerant slowly, but when it reached the outside deck it could take a frozen pot of water and boil it off in under a minute. There was no excuse not to be safely amidships on the observation deck by then.
“Cinching down,” came the call over the order-relay tube. The light dimmed, and they could see the whitecaps of the sea around them. The towers of the taishu shrunk as the Brailee climbed back up. Brun said a quick prayer and thanked Yuin Losa had been aboard. To attempt timing the mechanics of turning from freefall to positive climb just before sea level was stupid. The Black Queen, the God-King’s own flesh and blood, had no doubt saved them from crashing into the sea with her divine presence.
Torman rubbed his eyes and took down his hood. “I don’t think my goggles worked,” he said. “I still see an after-image.”
Brun turned to find the young engineer looking down at the deck, rubbing the lens of his glasses. He followed his gaze and found one burning sun still shining deep under the deck. He dropped to his knees, pulled the whistle over the relay tube, and blew two loud blasts. “Cinch down failure!” he shouted, squinting to take another look at the spear of light. “Secondary level…engine 48, or 68.”
“Grab your bag,” he started to shout to Torman, but the boy already had the access hatch open and was switching over to his safety line.
The heat was already beginning to build. It rose out of the shaft as hot breath from some waking beast. The two engineers slide down the rail, Torman ahead and watching the bright star.
“It’s 68 all right!” the boy hollered as they stopped their descent at the junction. The small room seemed an underwater observatory, its wide walls the semi-transparent culmerant in which the banks of engines floated. The light from the engines bathed the engineers, the dials and gauges all in a rippled blue.
Engine 68 burned all out. Brun had slapped his shaded goggles back over his eyes, but still the engine was an eye-tearing blaze. Its heat was moving aft quick, too—he couldn’t feel it yet, but he’d learned to watch the culmerant. Something about the way the light pierced the gel—a crisp sparkling—could tell you it was getting hot.
“The intake wheel is jammed,” Brun grunted. He braced his feet against the pipe and pulled again. The wheel would not budge.
“What about the steam return?” Torman asked as he lent his weight to the wheel. When it still failed to move, Brun agreed. Closing off the steam pipe would freeze up the engine like a dam below a waterwheel.
That valve turned, and the petals on Engine 68 started to collapse. As they fell the Aiemer fled its hollow, but only for a moment. When the fire renewed, Torman dropped to his knees, trying to get below the burn to see.
“Yuin-damned,” he muttered. “The return pipe cracked. It's spilling out into the culmerant!”
Brun saw it too. The steam had punched a hole in the blue gel. It shoveled its way through the material, pressing out toward the surface skin. Somewhere it would blow out, hopefully not under some important station, and the culmerant would collapse back onto itself—if they could get the pipe shut down.
Atop the Brailee, with only sky above and wind everywhere else, the young engineer lifted his feet and carefully pushed his body up until he rested on his index finger. Wrapped in leather, cold-weather gear, he looked like a sausage.
Torman was barely heard over the roaring wind. “Brun, this is amazing!”
“Any second the captain will order full burn, and then you’ll feel some weight in your shoes,” the old mechanic shouted back. Torman was nearly floating because the Brailee was almost in freefall.
The old man grinned at his companion's enjoyment but turned back to look at the sea with a sour face. They were still thousands of feet up, but the lady was a heavy bitch and her mass was hard to stop.
The Brailee was the first of the great steam-driven airships. Her iron skeleton was surrounded by the taishu culmerant, a viscous soup found somewhere in the creature’s stinking innards. Some genius engineer had boiled it down, and now the blue gel served as flesh and soul to the Brailee. When warmed by her hundred-odd Aiemer engines the culmerant could carry the Brailee—her bombs, her iron skeleton, the propellers and steam equipment that drove them, the thick shielding across her long belly all her--massive tonnage as high above Baeg Tobar as one could go and still breathe.
Brun took his eyes off the rising sea and tried to peer through the deep blue culmerant. The wind was too loud to hear the captain’s order through the relay tubes, but he would see it. Buried under the blue were the Aiemer engines; when fired they would be like stars exploding in the night sky. An engine's hard dunnum steel petals would create a small pocket of Aiemer; its light would be brilliant, and its massive outpouring of heat would arrest the ship’s stone-like plummet. If it didn’t, they would spear right through the taishu below them, taking the Brailee, its crew, and the hundred thousand Yuin-damned shuen that lived on it right to the bottom of the Yan Po ocean.
“Tools buckled down?” Brun shouted over his shoulder.
Torman dropped back to the deck and shouted into his ear. “I’m ready. You got your burn glasses?” The kid was green; he’d come straight from Deos and the Pilean Engineering Academy, but he was full of good details. Those engines would be blinding at a full burn, even outside the shell. He pulled on his goggles over his fur-lined hood. They couldn’t repair what they couldn't see.
Brun felt the engines before he saw them. It was like some drunkard had leaned on his shoulders. The burn rose then out of the blue guts of the Brailee. The Aiemer engines blossomed like suns and the light exploded up at them. The weight doubled, then tripled, and he let it push him flat on the deck. Now the drunk sat on his chest and Brun fought to breath. He counted, concentrating on the numbers.
The captain was attacking out of the sun, falling in its light to surprise the floating shuen city. With their weight and speed, Torman had calculated the full burn needed to level the Brailee would last twenty seconds. Any number past that and they’d be a drowning ship rather than a flying one.
Torman figured right. At 18, when the wind quit roaring, the drunk climbed off Brun’s chest. The sea and taishu were still lost behind the wash of blinding light. The engines would burn at full until they got positive lift. Only then would the captain throttle them back.
“What a ride,” Torman shouted. The wind had stilled, and from somewhere below the Brailee Brun heard the familiar sound of bombs crashing into their targets at close range. He cupped his hands around his eyes, trying to see through the brilliance. He found Torman, faint as a ghost in the wash of light.
“When we get the all-clear, grab your tools and get back to amidships,” the mechanic ordered.
“I know. A full burn should put out 27,000 Vuls of heat on just one engine,” said Torman, fading out as he started calculating the number of engines in the upper nose and shoulder of the Brailee. Brun didn’t care how many Vuls. All he knew was that the heat was incredible. It moved through the culmerant slowly, but when it reached the outside deck it could take a frozen pot of water and boil it off in under a minute. There was no excuse not to be safely amidships on the observation deck by then.
“Cinching down,” came the call over the order-relay tube. The light dimmed, and they could see the whitecaps of the sea around them. The towers of the taishu shrunk as the Brailee climbed back up. Brun said a quick prayer and thanked Yuin Losa had been aboard. To attempt timing the mechanics of turning from freefall to positive climb just before sea level was stupid. The Black Queen, the God-King’s own flesh and blood, had no doubt saved them from crashing into the sea with her divine presence.
Torman rubbed his eyes and took down his hood. “I don’t think my goggles worked,” he said. “I still see an after-image.”
Brun turned to find the young engineer looking down at the deck, rubbing the lens of his glasses. He followed his gaze and found one burning sun still shining deep under the deck. He dropped to his knees, pulled the whistle over the relay tube, and blew two loud blasts. “Cinch down failure!” he shouted, squinting to take another look at the spear of light. “Secondary level…engine 48, or 68.”
“Grab your bag,” he started to shout to Torman, but the boy already had the access hatch open and was switching over to his safety line.
The heat was already beginning to build. It rose out of the shaft as hot breath from some waking beast. The two engineers slide down the rail, Torman ahead and watching the bright star.
“It’s 68 all right!” the boy hollered as they stopped their descent at the junction. The small room seemed an underwater observatory, its wide walls the semi-transparent culmerant in which the banks of engines floated. The light from the engines bathed the engineers, the dials and gauges all in a rippled blue.
Engine 68 burned all out. Brun had slapped his shaded goggles back over his eyes, but still the engine was an eye-tearing blaze. Its heat was moving aft quick, too—he couldn’t feel it yet, but he’d learned to watch the culmerant. Something about the way the light pierced the gel—a crisp sparkling—could tell you it was getting hot.
“The intake wheel is jammed,” Brun grunted. He braced his feet against the pipe and pulled again. The wheel would not budge.
“What about the steam return?” Torman asked as he lent his weight to the wheel. When it still failed to move, Brun agreed. Closing off the steam pipe would freeze up the engine like a dam below a waterwheel.
That valve turned, and the petals on Engine 68 started to collapse. As they fell the Aiemer fled its hollow, but only for a moment. When the fire renewed, Torman dropped to his knees, trying to get below the burn to see.
“Yuin-damned,” he muttered. “The return pipe cracked. It's spilling out into the culmerant!”
Brun saw it too. The steam had punched a hole in the blue gel. It shoveled its way through the material, pressing out toward the surface skin. Somewhere it would blow out, hopefully not under some important station, and the culmerant would collapse back onto itself—if they could get the pipe shut down.
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