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| Cover art by Mark Molnar |
Thank you for joining me today to welcome SteamU Professor Steve Turnbull for a discussion of his work, Murder out of the Blue. Steampunk readers who enjoy their airships will really treasure this dispatch from character Winifred Churchill from aboard a sky-liner powered by the Faraday device. Do I have your attention yet? Let's take flight, shall we?
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Travel aboard the Sky-Liner, RMS Macedonia, by Winifred Churchill, Foreign Correspondent, The Manchester Evening News
(A
travel piece, Mr Tyndale? Am I not your ace reporter, as the Americans have it?
What I should be writing about is the double deaths aboard the RMS
Macedonia. Of course, you have no doubt
saved money by stealing the story from The Times of India, and inventing what they do not say. The Manchester
Evening News will be all the better for
it, no doubt.)
I boarded the P&O Sky Liner early on
the morning of 28th April, 1908. To call it morning is to be generous: it was
still dark and it was raining though the monsoon had yet to strike. The streets
of Bombay were strangely quiet, sounds muffled by the mist that clung to the
ground, as my horse-drawn hansom came to a clattering halt on the cobbles
outside the air-docks. One might believe oneself to be in Manchester or any
large British city, save for the heat and the smell that is uniquely that of
Bombay. They chose to build the air-docks on a swamp.
The ship I was to take passage on had
docked a few hours earlier. Under normal circumstances none of the disembarking
passengers would have still been present. However for this particular journey
things were not normal.
Many of the second and third class passengers,
ending their journey in Bombay, were still on the site. The police had spent
most of the night questioning them in regard to the deaths aboard the vessel. I
understood that the Inspector had already gone aboard with the intention of
interviewing those closely connected with the murder.
(But,
of course, I am not covering that story.)
The Peninsula and Oriental Steam
Navigation Company’s latest addition to their airborne fleet, the RMS Macedonia, is 50,000 tons of steel
and glass. Once the Faraday device is engaged this is reduced to a mere 15,000
tons and its six steam turbine-driven rotors are able to lift it to a cruising
height of 3,000 ft. And once air-borne the rotors are rotated through ninety
degrees to provide the forward thrust while its six stubby wings provide the
lift.
The vessel boasts four decks of cabins,
with its Promenade and Observation decks completely encased in glass in
imitation of the greenhouses at Kew. ‘A’ and ‘B’ Decks are for First Class
passengers while ‘C’ and ‘D’ are for second and third class respectively.
(Quite
frankly, Mr Tyndale, I do not see why I do not rate First Class. We will have
words on this subject when I return. It is well that I was travelling only as
far as Ceylon.)
The activation of the Faraday Device is
something many fear, and others enjoy. I may say that I am indifferent. I have traveled on so many forms of transport in the last half dozen years, most with
and some without a Faraday device that I adapt to the reduction in weight
almost without thinking. There are those that claim it has therapeutic powers—and
while there is no indication to the veracity of this claim that does not
however prevent thousands from paying charlatans for their hour each day in
reduced gravity.
For a vessel like the Macedonia it is standard practice to run
the rotors up to about half speed and then engage the reduced gravity. Dawn was
a few hours away when, with the rotors at maximum velocity and the noise
reverberating from the surrounding buildings, the ship rose effortlessly into
the damp firmament. You can imagine the view, indeed you will have to imagine it, just as I did, since
there was nothing to be seen except indistinct lights from the buildings in the
city.
I spent some time in my second class cabin getting such rest as
I could before taking breakfast in the sumptuous, though not as sumptuous as
some, salon. I cannot criticise the quality of the food. When one has spent
time not knowing where one’s next meal is coming from and not recalling your
last, one does not make light of any sort of food.
(You
will recall I have been in that situation more than once as your most intrepid correspondent.)
It was when the sun came up one could
truly appreciate a journey such as this. On the observation deck, viewing the
coastline of the India sub-continent as we followed it south towards Kerala and
thence Ceylon. In the distance, inland, the obsolete exposed railway line. I know it seems hard to believe in this day
and age that there are places in the British Empire that do not have the great
metal tubes of the atmospheric railways, but it is so. Especially in India
where the distances are so vast the conversion process from the old external
railways has not yet been completed.
(I
assure you I would not be cruising at a mere 100mph in the air if I could have
taken the atmospheric railway and been at my destination in a fraction of the
time. A Sky-Liner may be luxurious particularly for long journeys but they
cannot as yet match the velocity of the tube.)
The wide Promenade Deck features courts
for various sports, though with modified rules for reduced gravity. It has to
be said that, in my experience, game-playing is not taken seriously under the
influence of the Faraday device. When one can kick, or even throw, a ball five
times as far as normal a game is played more for amusement than competition.
A question that is frequently asked is
that of piracy, especially in these eastern and southern regions. I do not have
much to say on this subject save that I do not believe there have been any
credible reports of any vessel being hijacked whilst in flight whether it be a
modern Sky-Liner or a simple ice freighter.
Does “ice freighter” sound curiously
romantic? Sadly I must disappoint. The trade in ice is cutthroat and the
competition quite ferocious. For this reason, there are dozens, if not
hundreds, of vessels—some independent, others part of great fleets such as the
Imperial Ice Import Company owned by Cecil Bainbridge. These vessels, many
different types, travel to mountainous regions, or even the Arctic, to cut the
ice they can find into blocks and then transport it to the tropics. It is hard
and dangerous work. Romantic it is not.
(Yes,
Mr Tynsdale, I’m sure you would prefer that it was indeed romantic. I prefer
not to mislead the readership. And yes, I have travelled aboard one of these
vessels perhaps you would like me to write about that adventure one day. Or
perhaps I will save it for my memoires.)
My destination is Ceylon or, more
specifically, the Fortress. That vast symbol of British military power located
in the heart of Ceylon, built on the ancient rock known as Sigirya. One can be impressed by the ancients who named it thus because
in the local language it means fortress
in the sky. And that is precisely what it has become: the gateway to the
fortress in the void.
Seven thousand miles above the surface
of our planet the great Queen Victoria station hangs like a beacon to the
British Empire. And it is from Sigirya,
half a world below, that the vessels of the Royal Navy travel to that great
symbol in the sky. And thence to the planets bringing us back exotic goods in
the way the sea traders brought us spices only a hundred years ago.
(Honestly,
Mr Tynsdale, I realise I am supposed to be incognito but you should realise
that giving me a by-line to an article that has me on this vessel is as likely
to give me away as if I were to write an article about the crimes committed
aboard this ship. You do realise the Anglo-Indian Roedean girl who was
responsible for resolving the Taliesin Affair last year is intimately involved in this
case? Astonishingly she walks with a stick though she must be barely nineteen.
I am quite frustrated.)
In my next correspondence I shall be
reporting on the entertainments one can find in Ceylon and the sites one can
visit.
(Frankly
I think the piece is unprintable and I really must protest at this attempt to
ruin my reputation. Surely just disappearing would have been simpler? And as a
final point, I hope I do not have to remind you to transfer my wage to my
account, or should I contact my mother on this matter?)
Winifred Churchill
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| by Mark Molnar |
About the Author
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| Caricature Steve by Mar Mai |
When he's not sitting at his computer building websites for national institutions and international companies, Steve Turnbull can be found sitting at his computer building new worlds of steampunk, science fiction and fantasy.
Technically Steve was born a cockney but after five years he was moved out from London to the suburbs where he grew up and he talks posh now. He's been a voracious reader of science fiction and fantasy since his early years, but it was poet Laurie Lee's autobiography "Cider with Rosie" (picked up because he was bored in Maths) that taught him the beauty of language and spurred him into becoming a writer, aged 15. He spent twenty years editing and writing for computer magazines while writing poetry on the side.
Nowadays he writes screenplays (TV and features), prose and computer programs.
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