Prosperity by Alexis Hall

Author:Alexis Hall [Hall, Alexis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Riptide Publishing
Published: 2014-07-14T16:00:00+00:00

In which our hero is subjected to the indignities of honest labour—Concerning skymining and its attendant dangers, both material and otherworldly—Reflections on the ubiquity of greed as it pertains to love, tea, and the promise of wealth—Sundry actions and their consequences—Yet more ungentlemanly behaviour, and some unladylike—Alliances are forged and loyalties tested—Some further notes of instructive and moral interest

he next day, we sailed into the claim and ’twas all hands on deck from then onwards.

Ruben rolled out a sheet of black metal attached to some sorta thermometer and we hithered and thithered chasing clouds, trying to find a good one. It took us about another half day to hit phlogiston, and then we had to crank up the turbines, which were so noise-making, it felt like we was waking krakens all the way to the Americas.

I spent my time below deck mostly, listening to Miss Grey’s footsteps pacing back and forth above me while she muttered about stirrings in the aether, which weren’t what you might call precisely good for the nerves. ’Twas hot down there from the caloric coming off the grill and I could feel the sweat gathering beneath my clothes, prickling over my brow, and occasionally stinging right into my glims.

Ruben called breaktime at what I suposed must’ve been noonish, but ’twas hard to tell through the clouds. Everything was drowned in grey, harsh though—not soft—with the sun glare searing through the mist and a sorta wet heat hanging in the air, slapping against exposed skin. The water had gone brackish and warmish and didn’t really do much quenching, and the grub was similiarwise soggy. All my senses felt bunged up, like a head cold made of warm.

’Twas some comfort to see Milord looking all sticky—shirtsleeves rolled up to display slender forearms, streaked with muck, and hair all wetted into clinging curls.

“Honest labour,” he announced, being the first to speak and in some strange sorta way the least oppressed, “is for flats.”

And I was so surprised, I burst out laughing, the sound ricocheting all over the place and then getting swallowed up by the clouds.

Ruben, who looked good in perspiration, gleaming and strong, took the battered brown hat from his head and dropped it onto Milord’s. “And now you look the part, you prissy ponce.”

’Twas exactly what I would’ve called Milord, but from Ruben it sounded like the warmest caress. Enough to make you wish to get called a prissy ponce.

Milord just sneered, but he kept the hat.

Suddensome, a deep flash of light sorta boomed through the clouds, lighting up the silver grey with an interior glow, orange as gas-flames.

“That’s the number on our dance card.” Ruben leapt to his feet and pulled Milord up with him. They ran for the grill, and I went and jumped back down below. I’d left it all set up safe as houses, but I was still just in time to stag the first few drops of condensed phlogiston come drip-drip-dripping off the grill, guided through the tangle of tubes to the containers.

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