Age of Aether

Nine: The Phlogistonian

"Oh.  Right," Bantam said tapping his forehead.  "That's me, still not thinking with my top hat."

  "In any event, I will ask him to kindly relay the message to Mr. Volzstrang, who can attend to it on that end.  I will send the message in such a species of mathematics that Mr. Volzstrang will know at once that it could not be a forgery, and that I must be its author."

"And then Volzstrang will raise the alarm.  Keep everyone on their toes."

"Yes," Rachelle said, pushing him down.  "Now.  You must rest." 

It was accidental, of course, but she was tantalizingly close.  In the act of pushing him back down, she'd overextended just a bit more than she had anticipated, and her weight now was on his chest.

Their eyes met.  She didn't pull away. 

The curve of her waist, the line of her neck … these things were immediate and palpable in new ways he had not considered.

Normally, this would be the moment Ben Bantam would certainly not miss.  But this was different.  Rachelle was different from any girl he'd known before.  Something held him back. 

She seemed to sense this and pushed herself back up.  "Sleep, Mr. Bantam.  Rest.  And when you awake, the message will have been accomplished."

Bantam watched her as she moved away.  Gracefully, she sat at the ornate desk across the room.  She pulled stationary from the drawer and began to compose her message.

WHEN BANTAM AWOKE again it was midday. 

Rachelle lay next to him, on top of the covers and still fully dressed except for her hat.  She was curled up breathing softly. 

He resisted the urge to sweep her hair away from her eyes.

Gently, he rose.  He pulled his suspenders on, and adjusted the various buttons and things.  Damn weird clothes, he thought.

He went to the open air balcony.  A sea of cloud stretched in every direction.  A wide staircase of marble stood just before him, descending down into mist as though one could simply walk across the sky.

It should have been ferociously windy and cold.  But it wasn't.  It was strangely peaceful.

Above him were three massive propellers, continuously making small adjustments, rotating this or that was every so slightly, in an effort to keep the Phlogistonian in a perfectly stable hover above New York City.

Ah, and possibly the propellers also worked against the wind as well, balancing it breath for breath.  Bantam wasn't sure exactly how the sky had been tamed, but it had been.

Then Rachelle was suddenly beside him.  "How did you sleep?"

"Like a dead man.  That Pinion …" He shook his head. 

"Yes," she said quietly.  “The message has been sent, as I promised.  There is nothing more we can do now.  And you must eat.  Here.  Let me order room service.  The firepit on the balcony is quite marvelous.  We can have a salon of our own, just the two of us."

A TRAY OF meats and cheeses and wine was set up for them on the balcony.  Bantam could hardly stop himself from consuming it in a rude and ravenous fashion, looking up at Rachelle with apologetic eyes -- but she seemed not notice.  Instead, she ate with the dainty grace of a woman of this age.