Storming: A Dieselpunk Adventure by K.M. Weiland

hand on a support wire, and waved down at the boy.
    Hitch’s heart jumped into his throat. “Get down!”
    She couldn’t hear him, of course, and he couldn’t reach her from here. So he waved his free hand, until finally she glanced back at him.
    Her eyes twinkled. She knew she’d done exactly what she shouldn’t have.
    Consarn the girl.
    She ducked back into the cockpit, and he yawed the plane a smidge to the right, enough to give her a push and tumble her into the seat. She was a gutsy little thing, he had to give her that much.
    Once she was sitting again, facing forward, he let himself grin, just a bit.
    They left the boy far behind and swooped in low over the airfield. From the back where he sat, Hitch couldn’t see the ground ahead, but he lined up the landing as best he could. The plane glided in to about six feet off the ground, as nice and easy as you could want. He brought the nose up and flared, then settled the whole thing with a bump-hop, then another. He finally brought the wheels to the ground to stay, let the tailskid drop, and killed the engine. The propeller’s noise died.
    He slapped the turtleback between the two cockpits. “Are you crazy?”
    Jael stood up. Her cheeks were flushed from the wind, and her hair was coming out from the front of her kerchief. “That was... What is your word for it? Polet ! Like Schturming , but not same. Different.”
    “Passengers stay in the cockpit, you hear me?”
    Earl came running over. “What in blue blazes? Where’d you get that thing? You’ve seen Livingstone? He let you fly his plane? That’s got to be a good sign!”
    “Yeah, well, about that...”
    Earl drew up short. “What now? Or wait, don’t tell me: You stole the plane.”
    “Yep.”
    “ What ?”
    Hitch glanced over his shoulder.
    Even now, a big cloud of dust chased the fleet of automobiles up the road to the field’s entrance.
    He hoisted himself up and swung his legs over the edge of the cockpit. “Look, it’s not all that bad.”
    “You stole Livingstone’s plane! How is that not bad? Tell me how that’s not bad!”
    Hitch’s feet thumped against the ground. “You’re right, it’s bad.”
    Earl leaned his head back and groaned. “You did this without having any kind of a plan?”
    “Of course I had a plan. It just might not be, on reflection, a very good one. I had to save this girl, see.”
    “What girl?” Earl whipped his head around to look at Jael standing in the front cockpit. “I knew there was a girl!”
    “It’s the girl from last night.”
    Earl didn’t look convinced.
    “She saw somebody in town, got scared—and then I had this thought.”
    “You should never have thoughts.”
    “We needed to make a splash with Livingstone—get his attention, right? So what if I was to do him a favor? You remember the man. What’s the one thing in this world he loves better than flying?” He pointed toward the motorcars streaming in. “You cannot buy this kind of publicity.”
    “This is the kind of publicity that lands you right in the pokey!”
    The cars careened to a stop a few yards off. Rick drove the first one, with Lilla waving gaily from the back.
    Livingstone piled out of the front passenger seat. He smashed his Stetson back onto his head and gave his black string tie a tweak.
    Hitch hooked his thumbs into his suspenders, trying to keep his posture both relaxed and confident.
    “Well, well, well.” Livingstone’s words were calm enough, softened by the hint of a Georgia accent. The high pitch at the end of each word was the only tip-off he was peeved. “If it isn’t Hitch Hitchcock. I do believe I haven’t seen you since Nashville. When was that, ’17, ’18?” His nostrils flared, and he grinned wolfishly, the careful trim of his Vandyke beard curving around his mouth.
    Hitch pasted on a grin that was just as wide. He came forward to shake Livingstone’s hand. “You ol’ bushwhacker. Took you long enough to get yourself out here.” He gestured