Lazarus Machine, The (A Tweed & Nightingale Adventure): 1 Read Online Free
Author: Paul Crilley
traffic that ferried people across the city.
It was actually quite beautiful, thought Tweed distantly. He could see the soft glow of automata as they stalked their heavy way through the streets, the white light of their æther cages combating the orange glow of streetlights. It would actually be quite peaceful if it weren't for the loud thrum of the airship engines and the screech and rattle of the chain winching the container upward.
Tweed's hands started to ache. He was grasping the metal lip with nothing more than his fingertips, and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold on.
As they rose higher the wind started to buffet him, swinging his legs back and forth. He could feel his fingers slipping. He looked down. The houses were tiny. If he fell now a red smear on the cobbles would be all that remained of Sebastian Tweed.
He needed to come up with a plan very quickly. Very quickly indeed.
His attention was distracted from the vast measure of distance between his feet and the ground by the sound of the chain slowing down. He arched back, peering upward. The container was sliding into the base of the airship. Tweed watched as the top of the cage fitted snugly inside the gap.
In fact…
He looked at his fingers gripping the edge of the container floor, then up at the airship. There was only the tiniest of gaps between the container and the hole.
So, next question: Fall to his death with his fingers attached, enjoying a very brief period of non-pain, or fall to his death with no fingers, screaming all the way?
Tweed frantically searched the underside of the airship for something he could use. A few feet away was the nearest of the connecting struts that circled the gas-filled balloon. Tweed curled upward and braced his legs against the bottom of the box. Just before it slid all the way into the dirigible he pushed off with his feet and sailed backward through the air. His arms flailed upward, connecting with the strut. But the weight of his body ripped one side of it free. He dropped, then jerked to a stop as the other end held firm. Tweed swung back and forth on the broken arm, buffeted by the wind.
The dirigible rose above the airship lanes. It entered a cloud bank, and heavy moisture clung to Tweed's hair. He reached up, slowly stretching his hand to see if he could grab one of the other struts. He was tall, but not quite tall enough. Typical. The one time when his height would have benefited him, and it did nothing but mock his efforts.
Then the strut he was holding snapped.
He plummeted through the clouds. Water and mist whippedpast his face, tickling his skin. The wind roared in his ears. He forced his eyes to stay open but all he could see was white and grey.
He burst out of the bottom of the clouds. Clear air was all around him. He could see London, the horizon. And—
Tweed had only a second of stunned surprise to see the huge transport dirigible rising rapidly toward him before he slammed into the balloon with enough force to burst the air from his lungs.
He bounced, then started to slide down the curve of the gas bag. He scrabbled frantically with his hands, grabbing hold of the thick wire that held the bag in shape, feeling it cut into his skin.
He slowed, then stopped moving. He waited to make sure nothing else was about to snap or break, then pulled himself back up to the very top of the cigar-shaped dirigible and flopped onto his back. He stared up at the moon as he struggled to regain his shaky breath.
Well.
That just happened.
Tweed sat up. The balloon was huge, one of the massive transport dirigibles that Brunel & Company had recently started building. Huge steam engines at the rear acted as a backup for the Tesla power, pushing it ponderously through the sky, the turbines giving off a deep throbbing that vibrated through the whole airship.
Tweed cast his eyes upward, but Moriarty's zeppelin had vanished somewhere into the bank of clouds. Tweed had lost them.
But on the plus side, at
It was actually quite beautiful, thought Tweed distantly. He could see the soft glow of automata as they stalked their heavy way through the streets, the white light of their æther cages combating the orange glow of streetlights. It would actually be quite peaceful if it weren't for the loud thrum of the airship engines and the screech and rattle of the chain winching the container upward.
Tweed's hands started to ache. He was grasping the metal lip with nothing more than his fingertips, and he wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold on.
As they rose higher the wind started to buffet him, swinging his legs back and forth. He could feel his fingers slipping. He looked down. The houses were tiny. If he fell now a red smear on the cobbles would be all that remained of Sebastian Tweed.
He needed to come up with a plan very quickly. Very quickly indeed.
His attention was distracted from the vast measure of distance between his feet and the ground by the sound of the chain slowing down. He arched back, peering upward. The container was sliding into the base of the airship. Tweed watched as the top of the cage fitted snugly inside the gap.
In fact…
He looked at his fingers gripping the edge of the container floor, then up at the airship. There was only the tiniest of gaps between the container and the hole.
So, next question: Fall to his death with his fingers attached, enjoying a very brief period of non-pain, or fall to his death with no fingers, screaming all the way?
Tweed frantically searched the underside of the airship for something he could use. A few feet away was the nearest of the connecting struts that circled the gas-filled balloon. Tweed curled upward and braced his legs against the bottom of the box. Just before it slid all the way into the dirigible he pushed off with his feet and sailed backward through the air. His arms flailed upward, connecting with the strut. But the weight of his body ripped one side of it free. He dropped, then jerked to a stop as the other end held firm. Tweed swung back and forth on the broken arm, buffeted by the wind.
The dirigible rose above the airship lanes. It entered a cloud bank, and heavy moisture clung to Tweed's hair. He reached up, slowly stretching his hand to see if he could grab one of the other struts. He was tall, but not quite tall enough. Typical. The one time when his height would have benefited him, and it did nothing but mock his efforts.
Then the strut he was holding snapped.
He plummeted through the clouds. Water and mist whippedpast his face, tickling his skin. The wind roared in his ears. He forced his eyes to stay open but all he could see was white and grey.
He burst out of the bottom of the clouds. Clear air was all around him. He could see London, the horizon. And—
Tweed had only a second of stunned surprise to see the huge transport dirigible rising rapidly toward him before he slammed into the balloon with enough force to burst the air from his lungs.
He bounced, then started to slide down the curve of the gas bag. He scrabbled frantically with his hands, grabbing hold of the thick wire that held the bag in shape, feeling it cut into his skin.
He slowed, then stopped moving. He waited to make sure nothing else was about to snap or break, then pulled himself back up to the very top of the cigar-shaped dirigible and flopped onto his back. He stared up at the moon as he struggled to regain his shaky breath.
Well.
That just happened.
Tweed sat up. The balloon was huge, one of the massive transport dirigibles that Brunel & Company had recently started building. Huge steam engines at the rear acted as a backup for the Tesla power, pushing it ponderously through the sky, the turbines giving off a deep throbbing that vibrated through the whole airship.
Tweed cast his eyes upward, but Moriarty's zeppelin had vanished somewhere into the bank of clouds. Tweed had lost them.
But on the plus side, at
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