Flaming Zeppelins (23 page)

“That's pretty fine,” Twain said. “But does it do anything besides look pretty?”

Passepartout said, “Might I suggest we strap ourselves in the seats. Tight.”

Passepartout hastened to do just that, but not before he strapped Ned into his seat. Ned's seat was behind Verne's, Passepartout was behind the seat that Twain took, which was to the right of Verne.

“How do you say it,” Verne said, “grab you ankles and kiss your asshole, because here we go? Or, I hope. This is its maiden voyage.”

“What?” Twain said.

“First time, monsieur.”

“But where do we go, Jules? The barn door is over there, to the right.”

There was a big lever on Verne's left. He popped it free, jerked a small gear forward, put his foot on something, and the sleek machine rose up on a set of rubber-wrapped wheels (one front, one rear), pooted a burst of fire and steam out of its ass and leaped.

It seemed as if suddenly the barn wall jumped at them.

Twain threw his hands over his eyes.

The craft hit the wall with a sound like grapeshot, then they were through it amidst a crack and a rain of splinters.

The craft hit the shoreline in an instant, dove into the sea, raced across it like a shark, water spraying the windshield like bulldog drool.

“My God, a submersible,” Twain said. “Like in your book.
20,000 Leagues.
”

“No, it does not go under,” Verne said. “Not completely. It is a very fast boat. In fact, I call it a speedy boat. And it can serve as a land vehicle. And, like a flying fish, it can fly, or rather leap, short distances.”

“Damn, that was some takeoff,” Twain said. “I think I'm sitting a foot higher in my seat, if you know what I mean.”

“If you feel the need,” Verne said, “There is a toilet in the back. The feces are absorbed by chemicals, flushed out the rear of the boat. I believe once the chemicals do their work it is harmless.”

“I take my hat off to your skills at invention. Or would, if I had a hat.”

“I contributed. I borrowed ideas from Wells. But Passepartout is the builder,” Verne said.

Twain turned in his seat, looked at Passepartout, and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Thank Mister Verne, he hired me for both my butler skills and my machine-designing skills. But many people must be given credit for their discoveries from which we borrowed, and the machine itself was constructed with Mr. Verne's money, and a team of experts. I provided the blueprint and turned a few bolts myself, monsieur.”

Ned was writing furiously. He held up the pad so Twain and Passepartout could see it.

PLEASE TO PAT EACH OTHER ON THE BACK LATER. MACHINES WITH UGLY OCTOPUSSIES STILL OUT THERE. WE ARE OUT THERE. WE ARE JUST ONE MORE INGREDIENT IN THE SOUP. DO WE HAVE SOUP ON BOARD?

Twain read this aloud so Verne could hear it.

“The seal is quite right; let us see if we can lose our enemies. See the device to your right, Samuel. I have one on my left.”

“The mirror?”

“Ah, but it is arranged so that by looking into it you can see behind you. There are a series of mirrors alongside the craft, each feeding images into the other.”

Twain looked. The Martian machines were running through the water toward them. And they were running fast. Twain could see at least five machines. White foam splashed up around the legs of the machines. One of them stumbled, fell, disappeared beneath the water, rose up again and continued its pursuit.

“This way, we can keep watch on what's behind us,” Verne said. “The good thing is, they are behind us.”

“They're catching up,” Twain said.

“Yes,” Verne said. “They are fast. But, can they manage the deep water?”

As if in answer, out of the heads of the machines came the hot rays. The beams hit all around Verne's racing craft, and where they hit, the water steamed and hissed.

“They may not need to catch us,” Twain said, looking into the relay mirror. “They can boil us in here like sardines in a can.”

“I hardly think we would boil, sir,” Passepartout said. “I think we would explode.”

OKAY. THERE'S NO SOUP. BUT SARDINES WERE MENTIONED. DO WE POSSIBLY HAVE ANY OF THOSE? ANY KIND OF FISH? I'M WRITING HERE.

Twain patted Ned on the head. “Later, Ned. Later.”

They went far out fast and furious, and the water grew deep, and the silver machine rode up high on the waves and dipped and reared, and finally the walking machines began to fall deep. Pretty soon the water was up to the bulk of the machines, up to the windows that showed the tentacled aliens working at the controls as desperately as one-armed paperhangers.

Then one machine went under and did not come up. Then another went down. Metal legs thrashed. One tried to rise. A wave took it and washed it back and under. It rose up again. All that could be seen was the top of the machine. The window. Green-gray heads behind it, flashing tentacles.

One of the beasts pressed its double anus against the glass. It and its companion Martian, its copilot, screamed and cursed. But the sleek silver craft darted over the waves, out of sight and sound of their grunts and sneezes, coughs and wheezes, and pretty soon the speedy boat, as Verne called it, was just a silver line, a shiny needle shooting through water, sewing up the ocean like a Neptunian tailor.

All of the Martian crafts floated to the surface. None was lost. They had crashed in the sea and had come out of the sea. They were prepared for that business. But they weren't ready to race across water. They could slide out of their “meteors” inside their little watertight, air-filled suits, click the machines together as fast as a kid could line up jacks. They could enter into their machines through their watertight, air-controlled hatches. And they could make the machines crawl across the bottom until they could stand tall and step on shore.

But that crossing the water bit, on the surface and fast, they had left that out of their plans. Someone had snoozed.

They stalked back to shore. The machines stood there on the sand. Tall, wet and shiny. Inside the machines, the Martians, their critter faces pressed to their windows, looked out at the ocean and the world they intended to conquer, and they were seriously pissed off.

Twain thought: Could he actually be back in Morocco, dozing, wine-sodden, out of his head, Huck on a shelf, shitted all over, fly-swarmed and dead?

He pinched himself.

Ouch.

Didn't seem that way.

The craft went bumping over the waves. It made Twain sick at first, but in time, his stomach settled. There was the smell of the ocean being channeled through the top of the machine by a whirligig that pulled the air throughout, and in the beginning made the interior too cool and too strong with the smell of salt. But in time it became refreshing.

The stalking machines were long left behind, and now there was only the water and the jumping craft, bouncing up the waves and down them, in the ocean that was home to Gibraltar and the Pillars of Hercules. Just the thought of that made the historical-minded Twain happy. He could envision himself and his companions as ancient Greek heroes who had sailed this stretch of sea.

He tried to recall which heroes he had read about, which ones had sailed the sea on which they bounced.

Who was it?

Jason?

Odysseus?

Theseus?

All of the above?

He couldn't remember, but it was fun trying. And it was better than thinking about the machines. Twain was certain there were many more of them, and that they were spotted about the world. Had to be. If the meteors were in fact not meteors, but machines, craft from space, then there were many more. And had it not been for this fact, he would have enjoyed his trip.

That was nice to consider.

His life had been so miserable for so long, so lost without his wife and daughters, he had not considered the possibility of fun. Solace maybe, out of the contents of a bottle.

But fun?

Who would have thought? He actually felt good to be alive.

Of course, it was a partial kind of fun. The boat ride was nice. But what had gone on before, and might go on after, was bound to be less than fun.

Another snag was that Verne and Passepartout kept exchanging looks; Verne looking over his shoulder at the butler, his face scrunched up like fruit too long on the vine.

“What's wrong?” Twain said. “Something's wrong? Am I right? There's a snag. Right?”

“There is a snag that is small,” Verne said. “Or, to say it another way. We are about to be snagged.”

“How's that?”

“This craft, it is a prototype.”

“So.”

“So, it isn't designed to be…permanent.”

“How's that?”

“The sides, the bolts, they are screwed in, okay, but not great.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“Well,” Verne said, looking at Passepartout, “we thought there were other things needed. So, the sides were designed to come loose easily, until certain changes were made inside. Designs, decorating.”

“Decorating?”

Ned made a seal sound and twisted his mouth so that one side seemed to be wadded up. He slapped his pad, wrote, held it up. It said: I NEVER EVEN GOT TO TRY THE SHITTER.

Passepartout said, “It may hold long enough for us to reach land. Farther along, closer to Italy, that's our goal. But it's quite a ways, and though I think we'll arrive safely —”

The left side of the craft came off and water gushed up over the side. Passepartout said, “And maybe we shall not.”

Ned wrote:

SHIT!

“To the rear,” Verne said, “I shall hold its course. Hurry!”

Harnesses were unsnapped. Verne leaned the boat on its right side. More water crashed in from the left, rushed about their ankles. The top blew off and Twain and Passepartout and Ned were thrown to the rear.

Passepartout gestured to the circular couch, said, “Grab one end.”

Twain struggled to his feet, did as he was told.

“Now push your end toward mine.”

Twain did as he was told. The couch stretched as a partition came out of it, and it continued around until it clicked into the other end, forming a circle. Twain noted that there were thick rings placed strategically all around the top of the couch.

“The craft is losing its right side,” Verne yelled.

Ned wrote on his pad: SNAPPY, SNAPPY, SNAPPY.

But no one was paying attention.

Passepartout climbed into the ring of the couch, sat on the cushioned seat, bid Twain and Ned to do the same. Twain helped Ned climb over, then they hoisted the cruiser into place. Passepartout took hold of the bottom edge of the couch and pulled. Thick wooden sections sprang out, snapped together, filled the gap.

“What good is a couch pulled into a circle?” Twain said.

Ned whistled and wrote. NOW IT HAS A BOTTOM. IT'S A BOAT.

Passepartout made no comment to either.

The right side of the boat shredded, just crunched up like an invisible hand had squeezed it. Verne righted it just in time to keep from being swamped. They were essentially jetting across the water now on a leaky, silver V.

The couch slid precariously to the left.

Passepartout lifted up one of the couch cushions. There was a box under it. He took out the box and set it in the center of the couch bottom he had made, opened it quickly. It was full of cables and the cables had snaps.

Passepartout snapped them into the rings around the top of the couch. The cables went from the couch, into the box, and in the box was something folded up. It was bright orange and of an odd texture.

“Stand back,” Passepartout said, reaching into the box. He yanked something, a lever perhaps, and up jumped a balloon, hissing and filling and swelling up large. The cables struggled as they might yank the balloon back into the box.

“Jumping Horny Toads,” Twain said. “All that was in that little box?”

“Sir,” Passepartout yelled. “Master Verne. Please. It is time. It is past time.”

The balloon was throwing off the boat's balance even worse, slowing it down, causing it to wobble. The back end dipped, the front end rose.

Verne unfastened his harness, careened and wobbled from his seat, lunged over the side of the couch onto its cushions.

“Grab your nuts, monsieurs,” Passepartout said. “Master Verne, if you will assist me.”

What happened next happened very quickly.

Verne leaned over one side of the couch, as did Passepartout, and grabbed at something.

Twain peeked, saw on Verne's side that the couch was fastened to the floor by a cable and bolts, and there was a lift lever attached to the cable.

“One,” said Passepartout, clutching a similar lever on the other side.

“Two,” said Passepartout.

“Three,” they said together.

Verne and Passepartout pulled the levers and the cables let go of the bolt.

They sprang to the heavens.

The motion was so hard Twain's neck was popped and he and Ned were nearly tossed out of the craft.

An instant later, beneath them, the boat wadded up and went to pieces in a million silver directions.

Out in the distance Twain saw an enormous swordfish jump, as if it were triumphant about the whole dang deal.

“I can't believe it held as long as it did,” Twain said. “With the balloon tugging, the wind, the speed.”

“It may be a strange thing to say,” Verne said, “considering it has come apart beneath us, but it was of an extremely sound design. Just wish we had not left the bolts loose.

“Yes, Passepartout. I do believe that furniture and decoration could have waited. But, alas. Millions of francs down the old shit hole.”

“How does the balloon work?” Twain said. “It's not hot air.”