Lunarhampton
Alleneal was at her side in an instant, fists clenching, flecks of spittle creaming his words. “An intruder, Ms Sting! I’ve given orders to shoot down all aerial spies. Where are the municipal troops? They ought to be on standby. Come with me: hurry!”
She followed him out of the building. On the steps, a ragged group of men were gathering, shouldering various firearms. Melissa was amused to note the age of the weapons: bolt-action rifles and shotguns from the last century. Some guards even held blunderbusses and muskets. “Get into line!” cried the councillor. “Take aim!”
The aeolipile vanished behind the Anglican Cathedral but bobbed up a minute later, reeling towards its Catholic counterpart like a convert. The capsule crashed against the edifice, showering stained-glass over a malnourished procession of worshippers. Then the whole thing lifted and changed course again, coming back towards Colmore Circus. Waving a used handkerchief, Alleneal screamed: “Fire!”
Melissa clamped hands to ears, an unnecessary precaution. The guns jammed or misfired, bullets rolling lamely out of barrels. A mob filled Victoria Square. While excited faces peered upwards, pickpockets worked on the gullible, lifting empty wallets and cancelled food vouchers. The aeolipile, a common sight in most towns, seemed a novel diversion here, as if the hydrogen-filled spheres had never eclipsed Birmingham’s moon. The weight of past centuries suddenly pressed on her: this scene was an example of primitive street theatre.
Reinforcements arrived from the Town Hall. A ballista complete with rocket-powered harpoon was hoisted onto the roof. Rusty pulleys strained to lift the device, which was positioned on a balustrade. The aeolipile, oblivious of the danger, tumbled towards the Science Museum. By the time it reached Cornwall Street, the ballista was primed. Without waiting for the councillor’s orders, the engineers released the mechanism, sending a bolt of blue flame in a steep arc toward the invader. Melissa thought it was climbing too rapidly, but the engineers had calculated well: dipping suddenly, as if pulled by an invisible hand, the harpoon caught the apex of the orb and lodged in the fabric.
The explosion was followed by an exuberant cry, which Melissa found more startling. It was emanating from the mouth of Alleneal Asherley. For the first time since she had arrived, the city was illuminated properly. The aeolipile did not fall at once: the burning envelope peeled away and exposed the skeleton, a delicate lattice. Too beautiful for these skies, she thought glumly. The councillor was bellowing into her ear: “Keep our secrets safe, we will! Bloody foreigners!”
She ignored him and frowned as the capsule broke free and plummeted to the ground. A wild cheer went up from the crowd. Wisps of ultramarine fire dispersed on the greasy air. Melissa angled her umbrella to protect herself from the soot and molten shards.
“There might be survivors,” she pointed out. “I suggest we find out immediately. My car is parked over there.”
“Good idea, Ms Sting. We need live prisoners.”
Melissa pushed her way through the crowd to the spot where she left her convertible. She had expected the hub-caps to be missing, but it was the rest of the vehicle which was gone. She discarded her brolly with a scowl. When the councillor reached her side, panting loudly, he betrayed a perverse pride. “Best thief in the country, the Brummie opportunist!” Melissa glared at him as her four hub-caps span like buttons and came to rest, one by one, with a mocking rattle.
(iii)
They travelled in the councillor’s limousine, with two bodyguards and a chauffeur, to the site of the crash. Glowing bolts from the balloon had embedded themselves in the pitted road. Tyres squealing, they clattered up Newhall Street, the limousine protesting at each gear-change. It had been requisitioned from the mayor, Alleneal explained. As she wiped her window with a sleeve to peer out, he added: “Everybody makes sacrifices for the cause. We’re a proud race.”
The frame of the aeolipile had been scattered over a wide area, but the capsule had come down in the middle of Church Street. Men in woolly hats were stooping over the pod, working at the shell with crowbars and chisels. In their striped and colourful headgear, they resembled mutant bees collecting pollen. They fled when the limousine pulled up, gaining the safety of doorways. Melissa jumped out and approached the craft. It had been completely stripped. At the heart of a bare frame, two figures sat strapped into smouldering chairs.
They were relatively uninjured, blinking in surprise. Ordering them cut free, Alleneal turned to Melissa. “Now we’ll learn what our enemies are up to. A happy accident, Ms Sting!”
