Magical Mechanications Read online

  Magical Mechanications

  By

  Pip Ballantine and Tee Morris

  Little Red Flying Hood

  By

  Tee Morris

  One

  At the turn of the century, mankind had taken to the skies. Naturally, Death followed.

  The Great War, so it was being called nowadays, “would be over by Christmas” so the recruiters had told Her Majesty’s finest. What with England’s Imperial might and Jerry scrambling to keep up, this should have been a dawdle. The Empire’s fine fighting men would be back in time to light the pudding, enjoy a Cracker, and sing “Ding Dong Merrily on High” at Midnight Mass. Yes, most assuredly everyone would be home by Christmas.

  That was three Christmases ago.

  Now as Scarlett Quinn had done the two previous Christmases before, and as she would probably do in the holidays to come, her hands gripped the stick of her Bristol Scout. The throttle opened as the Frenchman shouted “Contact!” just before throwing the propeller into a spin. Once the engine gurgled and spluttered to life, the antiquated biplane rolled its way to the end of the runway, the crewman who also doubled as the camp’s chef shouting something to her. It was probably the menu for tonight. It was his way of wishing her a safe flight, and an even safer return.

  Scarlett adjusted her goggles, checked the modest Maxim mounted to her left, and breathed in the mix of fresh morning air and petrol fumes belching from her plane. As she continued down her checklist—the integrity of the rigging, flap response, fuel, ammunition—she recalled the words of a general passed on to her when she was admitted into the Royal Air Corps. “The airplane is useless for the purposes of war.”

  It must have been very easy to make that proclamation from a desk somewhere in London a long way from the secret airstrip in Rang-du-Fliers on the northern coast of France. Hers was a small operation to keep King and country informed. To Scarlett this nameless, faceless general only served as their inspiration.

  It was time to prove him wrong. Once again.

  As always there was the rush of delight, the elation when her Scout took to the skies, but Death was here too. She had seen it during her training at Curragh Camp. Even with the advancements of science, airships and aeroflyers, and now talk of amazing rockets that could propel Man to the Moon and back, Scarlett was regarded as “blessed with the luck of the Irish” in how she survived flight school, especially in the wake of her fearless maneuvers in the skies.

  That was her secret. Death might have followed the Empire to the skies, but she had avoided Death as she was the superior pilot.

  The Scout had been refitted with better navigation equipment, a modest heating unit for her seat, and the camera apparatus housed in the undercarriage. Soon she would be over enemy territory, her solitary plane daring the Kaiser to come out and make quick work of her—at least that would be their intent. Scarlett would disappoint them in the end. She was bound to her duty to the Empire, and it would be her reconnaissance that would fulfill this pledge of hers.

  A light flickered on her panel, and the small, backlit map that scrolled slowly across the screen indicated she had crossed into the Western Front. Peering over the side of her plane, Scarlett watched the scarred and pitted French countryside slowly slip underneath her. Even from her height, the toll this Great War was taking on France was unmistakable. Miles of strange patterns turned the nation into a giant, muddled jigsaw puzzle. Once she believed it had been an endless field of green—maybe not the bright and vibrant Kerry Green that she trained over, but still a place full of life.

  In between the zigzags and odd arcs carved into the earth, she could see trench extensions which dared to reach in the direction of the enemy. Scarlett banked the plane to one side when she reached one of these peculiar branches. Earth crumbled at its end, inching westward from the German side to where the Allies were waiting for their next command.

  Her Scout finished its circle, and then sank into a dive. Once leveled out, Scarlett threw a switch on the camera and slowed her airspeed down, just enough for her to catch a bit more detail on whatever was burrowing through the earth from the German side. The camera light was showing green, and she knew there would be plenty of film for this pass remaining. Just another minute or two and she should have an image to share with the RAC back at the base.

  Just over the sound of her engine came the pop-pop-pop of gunfire. She tightened the grip on her stick. Any evasive movements would blur the images, making this run utterly pointless.

  Her eyes quickly dipped to her right to where the modest set of six bombs were housed. Two standard fragment bombs, guaranteed to ruin anyone’s day. A pair of “Screaming Banshees” that, on impact, deafened anyone not caught in the initial blast. The final two she knew were exactly what this rather sticky situation called for.

  She reached for one of the Firestorms, and waited for another few hundred yards before rolling her plane. With her plane inverted, while the Germans scrambled to draw a bead on her, Scarlett dropped the Firestorm. Then she flipped the plane back upright.

  She craned her neck to look back and saw the blanket of fire spread throughout that branch of the trenches. Just ahead was the end of the extension, and everything was an agitation of soil, rock, and mud. The Kaiser appeared to have something like a Manchester Mole, something the Army Engineers had been developing for the past year but could not seem to perfect.

  Then came more shots, only this time from above her.

  She had hoped it were Ornithopter Corps which, rumor had it, Jerry was reactivating in the more remote sectors of the Front. Recent intelligence indicated this was in order to concentrate more advanced weaponry for larger scale targets like Paris on the European Front, and Auckland in the Pacific Theatre. Ornithopter Corps were easy to outmaneuver, but when she looked up, her breath caught in her throat.

  Descending on her like hawks on the hunt were two LVG’s, and between them in the lead was a design she did not recognize from any previous RAC reports. A triple-winged plane, bright blue and white flashes coming from the engine’s grill, descended on her, its most visible feature being speed. The aircraft’s escorts struggled to keep up. Scarlett couldn’t see the markings of either escort or lead plane, but the gunfire proved more than enough indication. Her borrowed time had just run out.

  At the turn of the century, mankind had taken to the skies. Naturally, Death followed. Today, Death’s gunsights were on Scarlett Quinn.

  She opened the throttle up just a fraction more. Any more speed and she could easily ruin the images she was capturing. Just a few more yards, and then it would be her flying deathtrap against Germany’s best engineered planes. If the pilots had truly earned their wings, it would be quite a morning for her.

  The green light for the camera switched to yellow. She was running out of film.

  Bullets from above zipped by her Scout while from below came both pistol and rifle fire. Scarlett threw her gaze for a moment to the right wing. There were a few holes in the canvas Tink would have to mend, once back at base.

  The trench extension ended. She gave her run another five seconds. Then she flipped the camera off, and pulled back on the stick.

  Her stomach slipped further down into her bowels as the Scout angrily trembled and shook with the sudden ascent. No, her plane did not care for some of her antics. In fact, if an old, antiquated biplane could possess etiquette, it would have probably said rather pointedly, “Manners, Miss Quinn!” Instead it reluctantly ascended into the sky. The three German planes compensated and started a climb of their own.

  “That’s right, boys,” she said, casting another glance over her shoulder. “Come on and chase me.”

  An indicator sudd
enly flared to life, warning a stall was imminent. Time to dive. Scarlett pushed the stick forward and now the sky banked away from view. Now, the barren, scarred countryside stretched out before her. Behind her, the three planes were closing in, their rifle fire trying to pick her out of the freezing cold air.

  Scarlett banked hard to the left, ending her quick dive and taking her Scout in a wide loop to come around on the three planes. With one of the LVGs now to her left, she opened fire. Sparks danced along the one plane before its fuselage flashed and exploded into flames. The remaining LVG and triple-winged monster tumbled out of sight.

  Knowing very little of this experimental plane, Scarlett focused her attention on the LVG. They were both evenly matched for speed, but when it came to armament and maneuverability…well, a red wagon with a slingshot outclassed her Scout. It would be design versus skill until she knew what quality of pilots these men were. The LVG banked hard right, turning his plane in a wild corkscrew fashion. Scarlett attempted a few rounds, but the plane kept slipping out of her sights. She quickly looked to either side of her for the strange, new plane, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  When she turned her attention back to the LVG, the quick plane was halfway through an arch that would line him up for a strafing run across her own fuselage.

  Scarlett pulled back hard on the Scout’s stick, opening the throttle to coax as much speed as she could. Provided Tink’s latest modifications were sound, the Scout would hold together, even as it shot upward, inverted, and then swooped down after the apex. The LVG overshot its own loop, and slipped in front of Scarlett. Her Scout was close enough to read the pilot’s name painted into the canvas, but she didn’t get enough time to commit it to memory as she pulled hard to the left, her bullets ripping through the enemy plane’s engine.

  When the LVG exploded, Scarlett only had seconds.

  Her plane corkscrewed around flying debris, chunks of canvas, wire, and wood. It was only seconds but the flight felt as if Scarlett were lost in some horrific nightmare suspended thousands of feet in the air. Finally righting her plane as more bullets flew by, Scarlett looked everywhere but couldn’t see her last remaining opponent.

  Then the three-winged monster reappeared, flying up from underneath her. Tipping to its right, it flew alongside her, and now Scarlett could see the details in the plane. It was painted black, only the white outline of the German Cross visible in its tail section. The plane was longer than her own. She should have heard the ugly snarl of horsepower, but the plane made no sound whatsoever. From where the engine would have been, Scarlett could see those odd flashes of blue and white.

  How was this thing staying in the air?

  She caught a glimpse of something in red written along the bottom of the plane before it pitched almost at a perfect angle to the right, away from Scarlett, quickly disappearing over the horizon and heading for home.

  He could have easily shot me down, Scarlett thought. He left me alive. Why?

  An alarm rose from her dashboard. Before she glanced at what it pertained to, she saw the smoke. One of these Huns had managed to draw a bead on her, but from the protestations from the engine, it would not be serious enough to take her to ground. It would however mean facing the wrath of Tink which, as Scarlett considered the holes in the canvas, could be worse than ditching her Scout in No Man’s Land.

  Scarlett switched the seat heater off, conserving the old bucket’s resources—threadbare as they were—to the engine. She also chucked the remaining bombs in her cockpit, just to lighten the payload. Her eyes then came to the emergency release of the Maxim, slapdash secured to the left side of her plane. It was her only defense, albeit not much if the enemy came from any direction other than the left.

  “Pay the Piper,” she muttered to herself as she took hold of the release switch. “Fly another day.”

  The Maxim tumbled from the left side of the plane, and instantly the Scout lifted a few feet higher. Now it came down to luck. If she could coax the engine enough to get within sight of Rang-du-Fliers, then she could glide her in to a landing.

  But what kind of landing? That remained to be seen.

  Two

  “Now come along, Tink, you’re not still upset with me?”

  The young woman’s ebony skin glistened in the sunshine. Considering how cold it was in this present French winter, it was astounding that she was sweating.

  Then Scarlett bit her bottom lip. It had been close on two weeks since her last reconnaissance mission, and Tink was still working on the Scout.

  “You should just be lucky that my daddy had me spending time in the garage with my brothers instead of playing house like all the other river kids in Lafayette.” She dabbed at the sweat across her brow as she added, “I will tell you somethin’ right here and now, Red, my brothers wouldn’t know where to start in keeping this thing in the air. The stress you put this rigging through…”

  “Well you know, these planes do go through a bit of wear and tear.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Scarlett’s eyes narrowed on her mechanic. “There’s no need for such cheek, Tink.”

  “I’m from the South. You could not handle the cheek I keep in my back pocket.”

  “At least you’re talking to me again,” she said, smiling.

  “I suppose I am, Red.”

  She shot her mechanic a wry grin. “Would you please stop calling me that? Bad enough I got this wild mane of red hair, I don’t need to be reminded of how it makes me stand out.”

  Tink laughed. “Why do you think I do it? Only way I can get back at you for this,” she said, motioning to the battered plane. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get her up in the air before the end of tomorrow.”

  The Scout was terribly outdated, alarmingly outgunned, and hardly worth the time and parts put into keeping her in the air; but for all of both Tink’s and Scarlett’s complaints, this was their only plane. It had been their only plane as it was expendable. That was the one word Scarlett hated using when it came to the Scout, but that was a painful truth about her assignment at Rang-du-Fliers. No one else wanted the assignment so close to the front. Everyone knew the risk. It was, though, how Scarlett could best serve. The intelligence she could gather would save countless lives.

  “Just tell me it was worth it,” Tink insisted.

  “We sent the film over to the War Office.” Scarlett shrugged. “No reply. No new orders. Not sure what to do here.”

  “Well, you can’t fly and get your mind off things as is your wont, so you can always do what I do. Grab a bottle of wine, find the highest point you can, and watch the sunset.”

  “What good will that do me?”

  “It will give you some perspective.”

  “You think I’m in need of it?”

  “We all need it from time to time. Perspective,” and she shrugged before returning to work on the plane, “or just a really good bottle of wine.”

  Scarlett gave her faithful mechanic a soft chuckle, and then walked out of the hangar, into the cloud-covered day. It was quiet without the sounds of patrols above. That baffled her as she half-expected the skies to be filled with British, French, or German planes. It had been two weeks since her encounter with that incredible flying machine and yet there was nothing in the sky to even indicate that anything out of the ordinary had happened. Whatever this machination was, it could very well be the advantage Jerry needed to take control of the skies.

  She had written it up in her report, along with a description of the Mole-like device. So why had no one from the War Office contacted her yet? Why had there been no new orders? They must have a good reason to maintain radio silence, she thought as she crossed the open field to the small shed just opposite of the house.

  Scarlett dialed in the sequence to the combination lock and then slid the door open. She threw the switch opposite the wooden platform underfoot and descended into the ground a few feet, squinting at the harsh lights of the Communications bunker.

  “Do you
always have to keep it so bright down here, Adams?”

  “Considering I am out of the sun and living like a troll under Westminster Bridge, yes, Lieutenant Quinn,” Adams said, giving her a stiff smile. Even as fair as her own complexion was, Scarlett found Communications Specialist Alabaster Adams so pale that he was practically opaque. Add to the color of his skin the high, rigid cheekbones and his thin, lanky frame, and it would be believed he were a carved ivory statue come to life. “Scientists believe that the human body needs a certain amount of light daily as it can affect mood, attention spans, erotic desires…”

  “You can stop there.” Scarlett glanced at the empty “In” box, then looked at the æthermessenger. “Still nothing?”

  “As of ten minutes ago, and the ten minutes before that…” He checked his pocket watch and nodded. “Yes, and ten minutes before that…”

  “Point taken.”

  “Although I must confess this is the most interaction we have shared since my assignment.” Adams sniffed. “I think I preferred the occasional visitation schedule.”

  “You are not a prisoner here. You can go on, stretch your legs, enjoy some actual French sunshine.”

  “But that would mean…” He swallowed nervously. “…going outside.”

  Scarlett blinked. “And the problem with that is…?”

  “Lieutenant Quinn, there is a reason I am exceptional at what I do. Apart from understanding the nuances of atmospheric changes and how they affect æthersignals, and staying abreast on all manners of technological advancements, I tend to work best when in a safe environment.”

  “Like this bomb shelter, for example?”

  “Exactly. You see, there are risks involved when going…” The corners of his mouth twitched, and then he continued. “…outside. Unknown elements that could, at a moment’s notice, steal from your operation the best asset it possesses.”

  Scarlett nodded. “I should warn Tink then. She may be in danger.”

  Adams raised a single finger at her, then paused. Perhaps he thought better of what he was going to say. “To answer your original question, no. No message from Command or anyone else. Will that be all, Lieutenant?”