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The ship buckled, the first indication that it was entering the aether vortex.

“Professor,” Boswell snapped, “make a decision now, sir, or stand aside.”

Nathanial did not even look at Boswell, instead he staggered towards Stevenson and gripped the young man by his shoulders. The ship rocked again. Nathanial smiled. “I do this for you, Erasmus, so you will get to see your sister.” He released Stevenson and looked to Boswell. “What must I do, Chief?”

Boswell nodded, smiling himself despite the rocking of the ship. “Take your station, Professor, and follow my instructions to the letter.” Boswell’s smile faded, and, his face now grim and focused, turned back to steam behind him, to where Nathanial could just make out the seaman he had almost bumped into previously, standing with the pipe in his hand, ready to receive and relay orders from the bridge. “Seaman Fenn, inform the bridge we stand ready.”

Nathanial stumbled back to the governor. He looked at Stevenson, who was steadying himself by the side of the propeller unit. The two men smiled at each other and Nathanial focussed on Boswell who stood, almost shrouded, in the steam. For a brief second, as Fenn relayed the bridge orders to Boswell, Nathanial wondered again as to what he was doing. Taking responsibility for all the lives on the largest flyer in the fleet. No, he thought, shaking his head, he was a scientist and he had developed the most precise way of measuring and manipulating the aether since Edison had built his first prototype propeller. The governor would not fail, and neither would he.

5.

AS HE approached the closed door Nathanial felt his body shake. Shock, or the result of the adrenalin surging through his body from the excitement in the engine room. It had proved to be less dangerous than he expected; a simple stream of instructions passed between Fenn and Boswell and the boatswain on the bridge. Instructions that Nathanial found himself very capable of following.

The turbulence itself was almost nothing after all. The ship rocked, certainly, and Nathanial had successfully managed to bang his head against the bulkhead next to the governor, but otherwise, according to Boswell, little damage was done.

Once they had successfully navigated the vortex Nathanial was summoned to the bridge. Stevenson led the way once more; the young man seemed to have composed himself nicely, once they had emerged from the aether vortex. Glad, no doubt, at the thought that one day soon he would be able to see his family again. As he followed Stevenson, Nathanial could not help but smile at the thought that he had somehow played a role in restoring the young man’s confidence. He was also relieved to breathe oxygenated air once more. He brushed his fingers along the leaves of one particular plant which stood in the short corridor leading to the bridge.

He looked at his hand closely. It was filthy, covered in grime and sweat. He did not even wish to consider how he would appear to Captain Folkard; his clothes were still damp with sweat, his ginger hair stuck to his head in clumps, and his whiskers…Nathanial touched them. They had curled under the heat and steam of the engine room.

“I think the captain has probably seen worse sights, Professor,” Stevenson said.

“Ah, I am that transparent to you?”

Stevenson smiled at Nathanial. “No, sir, but I remember feeling much the same after my first visit to the engine room.”

For reasons Nathanial could not quite fathom, he found the support and camaraderie from Stevenson very comforting. They had reached the door, however, and so any further conversation was immediately curtailed. Stevenson rapped his knuckles on the door and waited. With a click, the door opened. Directly in line of sight stood Captain Folkard, hands behind his back, looking directly at Nathanial.

Beside him Stevenson snapped to attention. “Ordinary Seaman Stevenson reporting Professor Stone to the bridge as ordered, sir!”

Folkard nodded once. “Thank you, Ordinary Seaman. Dismissed,