High Level
At a remote post office in Alberta, Hazel Lamm helps out a mailplane pilot. And herself.
At a remote post office in Alberta, Hazel Lamm helps out a mailplane pilot. And herself.
It's been a while since I've written a story like this, which is sort of I guess like "Appalachian Spring" maybe. I wanted to write about clouded leopards, and I wanted to write about flying, so here's a story about that. She's not even a pilot, this time :P I'm branching out! This is set in the same alternate history dieselpunk setting as "How High the Moon," "Straighten Up and Fly Right," etcetera although you don't really have to know that much about it. I hope. Thanks to Spudz and to Samikatz for proofreading and Cloudie Consultancy Services.
Released under the Creative Commons BY-NC-SA license. Share, modify, and redistribute--as long as it's attributed and noncommercial, anything goes.
"High Level," by Rob Baird
The afternoon mailplane--it was, after all, regular service--was scheduled in at 1:35; at 1:30 she was already scrambling up the observation tower, just in case. This, too, was regularly scheduled: if she waited until 1:31, her father would be close enough to warn her off.
Hazel kept a pair of binoculars at the top of the tower, but as usual her ears picked up the drumbeat of engines before her eyes did. The clouded leopard's thick-ringed tail began to lash. They were coming in from the north, and the westerly wind was high and steady. She guessed at a bearing, and raised the binoculars to her eyes.
There--over the horizon, right in the center of her vision--was a little black dot. Her father referred to the mailplane as a Lockheed Electra. It was not: anyone could tell that it was a T8P. Of course, they used the same engines--and the outpost did see Electras from the south, on occasion! But still. She kept it in her sights until she could see the two pilots clearly, and then watched the rest of the approach unaided.
The 1:35 Southbound Airmail Service made one circuit over the field, dropped its flaps, and drifted to the ground easy as a leaf, nary a bounce when it hit the hard dirt. They taxied over towards the station keeper's hut, where fresh coffee and a hot meal would be waiting for them. Her father was good about that.
She put the binoculars away, crouched at the railing, and dropped the seven meters from the top of the observation tower to the roof of the hangar it stood on. And then, scrambling to the edge closest to the keeper's hut, she jumped the five meters from the hangar to the ground. Her landing wasn't quite so easy. But she was used to it; didn't even get any dirt on her overalls.
The plane's two crew had disembarked, and would pass her on their way to the hut. The senior pilot was a wolf--him, she'd seen before. Wing Commander Otis Parke: older, a Great War veteran, and generally unimpressed with the girl's antics. The other man was new; he looked like a grey-furred collie, with eyes nowhere near stern enough for his uniform or his companion. "No parachute?" he asked her, teasingly.
"Not with these winds," she answered. "Welcome to--"
"High Level," her father interrupted. "Welcome to High Level, lieutenant. I'm Daniel Lamm; I see you've already encountered my daughter, Hazel."
"Always a character," the wolf rumbled. "You'll get used to it, Warren."
"Yes, sir."
She followed them into the hut--it was out of the wind, at least. At twenty-three years old, her father still frowned on her drinking coffee, but her mother--anticipating that Hazel would invite herself in--had put on a pot of tea, as well. "It's lovely to see you again, Mr. Parke," she said; his coffee was already out. "And you..."
"Lieutenant William Warren, ma'am."
"June. Coffee or tea, Mr. Warren?"
"Will's fine. And, uh. Tea," he said. "If that's no trouble?" His accent was a little odd--not Canadian, for sure, nor American, and not quite British, either. June, Hazel knew, would ask; she could be nosy like that, and the man's politeness made an impression on the elder leopardess.
For example, she made sure that her warm smile hid her teeth. "None at all. How was the flying, you two?"
"Uneventful. We left slightly delayed but didn't have any difficulty making it up. Weather report from Fort Simpson, sir, and parts north." Commander Parke handed the note to her father, who handed him one back. "Pleasant enough, I see. Alberta's been kind to us. Shouldn't have any trouble making the return trip, either."
"You'll need fuel?"
"Yes. A full tank, this time--they wanted the supplies at the fort reserved for our fighters."
June Lamm paused, the teapot tilted but not quite pouring into what would be Hazel's cup. She met her daughter's eyes, saw the conflict playing out in them... and leveled the pot. "On it," Hazel said, grabbing her heavier coat from the rack and slipping back outside.
She enjoyed the conversation: a chance to learn what was going on in the north, particularly any bits of information about the conflict in the Alaska Territories. Her father didn't like her asking questions, but he'd given up on asking her to leave. All the same, he frowned more heavily on her volunteering to help with the mail station's aircraft duties.
And so the chance to see an airplane up close won out.
Territorial Air Mail Outpost High Level didn't service aircraft. They had a hangar large enough for most planes, if they needed shelter, and plenty of tools on the workbench, but those were intended for RCAF use. Her father was a businessman, not an engineer. He ran the outpost because the government paid for him to do so--paid for him to keep the pilots in coffee and sandwiches and stew, to give them a place to sleep, to keep up the lighted beacons and the radio transmitter...
And to refuel the planes, which anyone could do. Hazel could do it.
The Barkley-Grow T8P was ten centimeters shorter than an Electra Junior, and its fifteen-and-half meter wingspan was just over 40 centimeters wider. The twin tails were ever so slightly more rounded, the nose ever so slightly blunter. She couldn't understand how her father so regularly confused them, particularly since the Air Force had ordered a hundred T8Ps and they rarely saw Electras since America began interdicting trade from the California Republic...
The worst part, though, was how he was so skeptical about her knowledge. She rolled her grey-green eyes, opened the fuel door, and slipped the nozzle in. The pump began to chug, and as the numbers on the dial clicked up she circled the plane carefully, inspecting it. They'd used the same plane for the previous six months, when it was all but new, and it seemed to have survived the Alberta winter in good condition.
Well. Mostly. The underside was dinged here and there from errant pebbles, as were the propellers--no doubt they required constant oversight. She opened the engine covers, checked closely, and then wrote it all dutifully in the station's logbook. The two pilots, and her father, were making their way over when she was finished.
Otis climbed inside, pushing boxes of mail to the open door for Lieutenant Warren and her father to lower them onto a waiting wagon. Daniel had another box ready to load up, sorted by the local postmaster; the mailplane was headed back to Fort Simpson for the last flight of the day.
When it was done, Hazel held out the logbook. "I put in two hundred liters of fuel."
"Thank you," Commander Parke said.
"And you should have them inspect the starboard engine when you land. It's losing oil."
The wolf handed the log back, and gave her a weary stare. "Is it, indeed?"
"More than the other one, yes, sir. Looking at the exhaust, I don't think it's being burnt... a leak somewhere, I expect. If you wanted to delay your departure until tomorrow, we should probably inspect it now to be on the safe side. I wasn't able to find one in the--"
"Thank you," Parke told her curtly. "But the Royal Air Force has actual mechanics who've signed off on it. I don't believe we'll be needing your... diagnostics."
Lieutenant Warren cleared his throat. "The RPMs were a bit--"
A stony glare cut him off, too. "Don't encourage her. We'll be off, Mr. Lamm. We appreciate your service, as always."
Hazel didn't want to have the argument that would follow with her father, where he accused her of overstepping her bounds and the leopardess shot back that she was an actual mechanic, or at least what passed for one in High Level. She went to the observation tower, instead, and watched the mailplane depart.
Life had been a little better in Calgary. With so many men called up for service, they'd had to let her take a few hours at the airfield, and then a few more, until it practically counted as an apprenticeship. Like Daniel Lamm, the airmen had doubts--at first. But she'd shown them! And then she'd left, because her father had been asked to run the High Level outpost and June didn't think the two of them could manage on their own.
Just for a little while, she promised. Until things settle down.
And then the California Republic seceded, and the Electras stopped coming. And all through the winter the rumors built that Alaska would be next. That hadn't happened--yet--but the airmail service kept becoming more and more important. High Level, the first field beyond any railroad terminus, was strategically important. Critical, even.
So she was told.
Cold, eventually, drove the clouded leopard back indoors--she climbed down the ladder the normal way, this time. The postmaster's car had pulled up; he and Daniel were inside, sorting letters. Sipping hot tea, she leafed through the government's repair handbook for the Wasp Junior--the engines on the T8P, and the Electra, and some of the Air Force's Avro Ansons.
The handbooks lived in the hangar, and she borrowed them regularly, no matter what Daniel thought about it. It was interesting to see the diagrams, the intricate ways the parts fit together--to hear the rumble of a radial engine and know there was no magic at all in its operation. Like...
Hazel strained her ears. "There's no other plane scheduled, is there?"
Her father didn't even look up from the mail. "No."
But she was hearing the sound of one. "Best make some more coffee, then." She put on her coat, and went back outside to the observation tower. Seen through her binoculars, waning sunlight caught the bare metal of a twin-tailed, twin-engined light plane that was definitely not a Lockheed Electra any more than it had been two hours before.
Although... She could tell by the noise that it was not, actually, a twin-engined aircraft, either, even before the windmilling propeller made that obvious. The T8P's starboard engine did not appear to be functioning. She caught no sound from it at all when they circled around, and wobbled earthwards to a somewhat less graceful stop than their earlier encounter.
Hazel hopped down to the hangar roof, and then once more to the ground. This time, Will Warren was the first out of the plane--his commanding officer was still occupied in the cockpit. She straightened herself up. "Welcome to High Level."
Will laughed ruefully, and nodded to her father when he emerged from the hut. "G'day again.Ran into some engine trouble about forty minutes north, and..."
"Bad trouble?"
The dog grinned. "Started losing oil pressure, if you can believe it. I suggested we have the mechanics at Fort Simpson check the engine." His good-natured smile had widened, but her father showed no sign that he appreciated the humor. "Kept getting worse, so we figured it would be best to turn back."
Otis Parke stalked heavily over. "We'll need to send a message to the regional headquarters."
The postmaster had joined them: "And what of the mail?"
Her father--obstinate as she sometimes found him--was definitely a problem-solver, and the territorial air mail had offered plenty of problems to solve. "The cargo flight from Fort McMurray stops next the day after tomorrow. Or we could take it down to the railhead at Peace River by truck. It's a three- or four-hour drive."
"They've been flying the mail from McMurray in a Super Universal," Hazel pointed out. "So there's not much spare capacity, not until they can get their Anson back in service."
Much as Parke didn't seem to like it, there also wasn't a lot he could do to argue. The wolf sighed heavily. "You have a truck here?"
"My truck, yes."
"Can we tow the plane into the hangar before you leave?"
This time it was her father's turn to sigh, but he agreed, and while Otis sent his telegrams off Daniel and William parked the plane safely out of the weather. Commander Parke had an answer by then: they would drive to Peace River, ideally before nightfall. If it was possible to find a mechanic, and the mechanic felt like coming back with them to High Level, they could repair the mailplane--otherwise, the railroad would figure out what to do with the mail.
'They,' since it was Daniel's truck, meant the senior Lamm and Otis Parke. June went to get the guest quarters ready--'bare room with a cot' stretched the definition of the term, but the outpost was expected to provide for the mail service's pilots. "Stay out of trouble," her father warned. "Don't you think for a moment I don't know what you're going to get up to..."
Lieutenant Warren flicked his ear at the sound of the truck's door closing, and watched the two rumble off, with the postmaster's car behind them. "Was I included in that, miss?"
"Yes."
"Does he think..." He coughed. "What does he think?"
Hazel didn't think Warren could've been much older than she herself was. That gave her the authority to pat his paw, and gesture with her thumb for the dog to follow her as she started walking. "He thinks I'm going to do something improper without his supervision."
"Is he right?"
She paused at the door of the hangar, turning to look at him. For the first time, she noticed that Warren didn't have a tail. It made his intentions slightly harder to judge--or it would've, had his fuzzy ears not been perked and were a quirky grin not on his muzzle. "Yes, of course he's right. Are you going to do anything to stop me?"
He had followed her in to the hangar, and watched as she pulled the door closed, unbuttoned her coat, and hung it up. "That all depends! What are you... oh!"
Hazel understood where the dog's thoughts had been, or were trying to go. It didn't really bother her--Warren looked good in his uniform and she supposed he'd probably look good out of it, too--but it wasn't what she'd meant, and it wasn't what her father had meant. And, when she clambered up onto the wing, Will finally realized that.
He pushed the cart of tools over without being prompted, when she nodded in its direction. Then, as she began unfastening the engine's cover, he disappeared from view beneath it. "There's, uh... there's a couple drops of oil on the ground already."
"I'm not too surprised."
"Me--ugh. I--" She heard a yelp, and the wing jarred beneath her. Will backed out and rose, rubbing the back of his head. He held up his other paw, the finger slick and stained. "Plenty inside the cowling, too."
The clouded leopard leaned forward, staring down at him and making sure she had his attention properly before flashing a grin. "Somebody should've warned you you had an oil leak."
"In fairness--nice teeth--the local expert thought we could make it back to Fort Simpson."
"In fairness--thank you--she actually told you to stay here, to be safe." She curled her lip to widen the grin, showing even more of her sharp fangs, and then winked. "Glad you made it back, though."
"A full load of fuel didn't help. Commander Parke was considering trying to ditch in one of the lakes. Don't envy that, this time of year. Back home it's starting to cool off, but I never thought 'cool off' meant 'never get above freezing.' Thank the Lord we're not flying in open cockpits anymore..."
"True. Where's home?"
"I didn't mean 'home,' I guess. Brisbane is where I grew up, but the King decided I'd be better off somewhere cold."
"Brisbane... Australia? Goodness." She got the engine open, and made a face. "Well, you know what? The good news is, you don't have an oil leak anymore."
"Do we have any oil?"
"That's the bad news. Can you..." There would be no good way of dealing with it; she settled for the least bad one. "Can you hand me some rags? Bottom shelf of the cart, I think. And a bottle of kerosene." William disappeared from view; she heard rattling, and a moment later the rags appeared over the edge of the wing, followed thereafter by the cleaning fluid.
She sighed, and got to work mopping up as much of the damage as she could. Not all of the mess was fresh oil; some of it was grime from regular operations, in unfriendly conditions. The radial had been put to hard use. It took half an hour before she'd made enough progress that the leopard could finally make an educated guess as to what had happened.
"You shut the engine down before it... seized or anything, right?"
"Hope so."
"Well... we can check the pistons, but I think they should be fine. It's coming from the rear of the engine. Could be the packing in the scavenge pump is worn. Or a seal, maybe." There was no immediate reply. "Tell the mechanics to start there."
She ended up crouched on the wing, leaning over to see what he was getting up to. William had a few rags of his own, and had been hard at work on the underside of the engine. She could tell: his sleeves seemed to have picked up as much of the oil and grease as the rags. "If they find one down there. Otherwise, maybe we're on our own."
"Maybe. Your uniform is... uh..."
"You're one to talk." He stuck out his tongue, and she realized her father had had no idea how dangerous the Australian shepherd truly was. "I guess you've got the clothes for it, though."
"I suppose we can try to get you cleaned up by the time Commander Parke is back." June would not relish the thought of trying to get the oil out. Hazel did not relish the thought of listening to her mother grumbling over it. "What? What's that look?"
"Nothing." She narrowed her eyes, and the shepherd's ears flattened momentarily. "You're just... cute, is all. You seem to be really into these engines. Your tail is, uh..."
Her tail was swaying, essentially unbidden. She searched the dog's face for any sign of what he really meant. Cute, she'd heard that before, although never when she was in grease-stained overalls. She'd definitely never had her tail commented on following someone saying she was "really into" engines, unless it was sarcasm and she'd reflexively ignored it...
Will coughed to clear his throat. "Sorry. Forget I said anything. We--"
The door opening saved him. June poked her head in, and sucked in a sharp breath. "Dear Lord. Hazel, girl, what did you do to him?"
"Did it to myself, ma'am," he explained, as the younger Lamm realized her mother had walked in on her daughter in a predatory crouch at the edge of the plane's wing next to an exposed engine, and the airman's neat uniform covered in oil. "I asked if she'd be willing to help me get a handle on the problem before the mechanic gets here."
"No, you didn't. It was her idea," June said, and came close enough to carefully inspect the man's uniform. "Very chivalrous of you to try and save her honor, though."
"I... suppose, ma'am."
"Dinner's ready. These... these, I'm going to have to burn."
Will ate dinner wearing only his undershirt, which put the marbled grey of his arms on proper display. Except for his paws, he'd managed to keep his fur clean. Maybe, June muttered, you can teach her something. Hazel's mother did not go so far as to encourage her, but in the woman's sensibilities the young leopardess perceived that June had once been nearly as uncontrollable.
She also told them what they already'd guessed: Parke and Daniel Lamm were spending the night in the south rather than chancing the drive at night. According to their latest telegram, the promised mechanic had been found but would not arrive until the next day. "I suppose you should get some rest. Not you--I need some help with that uniform."
By which her mother meant that leaving them alone in a hangar was one thing. Leaving the two alone in the guest quarters was another entirely. She did as she was asked, while Will made himself scarce. "All we did," Hazel said, as her mother began running the water in the washroom, "was clean the engine."
"I know."
"Didn't even really touch anything except remove the coverings. Father would let me do that."
"Under duress." She met her daughter's expression with a knowing stare. "And what is that? You look like a flapper. How do you think you are going to get a man that way?"
June's own hair was done in neat waves, which she'd adopted in cosmopolitan Calgary and kept up even on the frontier. A short mane was less likely to get caught in spinning machinery, and much easier to comb. "I don't think he's for the getting."
"I think you're not paying enough attention. And if you were, and you wanted to... what then, hmm? You think it's that simple? Just remove his coverings and rub some oily rags on him?" For her mother, it was a shockingly forward statement. "I wish I knew if you ever were going to settle down."
Bit by bit, the grease on Will's uniform was yielding to detergent and determination. "Not while you and ba are running the mail stop by yourself. For 'a little while'..."
"I meant it. He wants to stay, now, but... we could get help. The government will offer a stipend for a salary. You don't have to stay, you just... ought to know where you'd go."
Initially, she was going to bed. Between the two of them, they got the lieutenant's uniform more or less presentable with another half an hour's work, and by that point she had no idea where he was--the light in the guest room was off. She figured her thoughts might keep her up: on her back, staring at the ceiling, turning her mother's thoughts over and over in her head...
But a day of excitement had pretty much done the trick. It was morning again before she knew it, and she caught the smell of breakfast cooking. She threw a skirt and overshirt on to be something like presentable and hurried off to help her mother finish preparing the meal. The plates hadn't been on the table for more than five minutes, though, when June's ear twitched and excused herself hurriedly at the sound of their radio announcing an incoming signal.
Will cocked his head. "Is something the matter, do you think?"
"Probably not. A special message, I'd expect, rather than one of the regular reports. My father's on his way north again already, maybe?"
"Maybe!"
As Hazel expected, June returned with a note in her paw. "There's a telegram from Fort Simpson for... well, I suppose it would be you, wouldn't it?" She handed it to the lieutenant, who unfolded it and read quickly. "Do you know what that means?"
"Yes. He must mean Lieutenant Stoker. I was his relief." Seeing her expression, Lieutenant Warren handed the telegram over for Hazel to read, too. "Charles Vought has been up at Fort Simpson treating him."
TO HIGH LEVEL ADVISE LOCATION MAILPLANE DR V NEEDS TO FLY S TO HOSPITAL IMMEDIATE PRIORITY REPLY AT ONCE FROM SIMPSON.
Her mother took the note back. "Why would Dr. Vought need the mailplane? He's a flying doctor--he comes through here all the time. He has his own."
"Some of their planes have been grounded for maintenance; some for fuel. That's why we're flying circuits from there to here, instead of going on to McMurray or further south. Did you hear anything from your husband or my CO?"
"Nothing after they said they were going to the rail depot an hour ago. I'll ring the police and have them brought to the telegram office. The mechanic is coming from Calgary, though."
"By train, probably," Hazel said; they wouldn't have wanted to waste the aviation fuel for a single man. As it was, the mail was only a day behind. "Commander Parke and my father won't be back until this evening."
"Or tomorrow." Warren frowned, and tapped his claws against the table. "You think it's the oil pump, right? Can we take a look?"
She felt her mother staring at her, flicked her ears back, and looked towards the lieutenant instead. "Of course, Mr. Warren, if you want to."
"If we can get the plane running..."
Hazel looked at June, who kept staring. "If you can? Then what?"
"Then we should, ma'am. In my opinion."
Her eyes narrowed, until Hazel wondered what she was really supposed to be getting from June's glare. "Sounds like a direct order to me, then, doesn't it?"
Lieutenant Warren took a plate of still-hot sausage and the pot of tea her mother offered, and they headed back to the hangar. "What's your plan, miss?" He tried to get the door for her, but his paws were occupied.
And she wasn't really the type. Hazel held it open for him, instead. "Get the scavenge pump off and see. Do you know how to use a grinder?"
"I... think so?"
"Then..." She guided him to one of the benches along the wall; her quarry was in the third drawer she tried. "I don't think we have any exact replacement rings, but this will work. The dimensions you'll need are in the manual's appendix."
She set the repair guide down, too, and leafed through it until she found the right table. "Alright. You can get the pump apart yourself?"
"Mmhm. Turn around, please?"
"What? Oh? Oh!" Hazel had grabbed a fresh pair of overalls, and when he gestured towards her skirt the dog finally understood; he turned around, and put a paw over his eyes. "Sorry, miss."
"Hazel. Don't be, Mr. Warren."
"Will." If he'd had a tail, she thought, he would've been wagging it. Boys. He wasn't as embarrassed as he let on. Then again, neither was she; the leopard girl slipped off her pumps, and the flowery skirt her mother had sewn for her. The latter she folded carefully, sliding it into a free drawer where no oil or metal shavings could get to it.
Then she pulled the overalls on, quickly, and buttoned them up. "I don't think we have any in your size, I'm afraid. But I'll try to keep you mostly clean, Will, don't worry..."
Most of the oil had already drained from the engine. Disassembling the oil pump--she'd reread the repair manual enough that it was all but committed to memory--didn't take too long. Just some effort; she was halfway done when she heard one of the hangar's tools powering on, and the sound of metal on metal.
Trying to turn the shaft hadn't been as easy as she'd hoped, and Hazel feared the pump's gears might've been damaged. Fortunately, when she could actually examine them, they seemed fine. The packing, though, was worn to the point of uselessness--as she'd expected--and the seal ring was slightly, though noticeably, warped.
"How's this?" Will was holding a new one out for her.
She took it, and tried seating it in the pump casing. "Not bad!"
"Good as you could do?"
Damn it. She liked the way he grinned. Hazel did have a tail, and it gave a curling twitch. "Not bad," she repeated, and set the ring aside. "I think someone overtightened the pump. It's... well, it's at least the problem, but the rest of the engine should be okay."
"So we can put it back together?"
"We can put it back together." She cleaned the metal parts, repacked the pump, and fitted the seal--which was, if not as good as she could have made it, very precisely ground. Probably it is as good. Don't be obstinate.
Will followed her directions when asked to bring the cart with the hangar's own oil pump over, although he otherwise stayed out of the way, watching her work. When she was finished bolting the scavenge pump in place--the gears turned freely now, which was a good sign--she stepped back, and dusted her paws. "Ready?"
"Let's hope, huh?"
She hooked up the external oil pump, and started it running, pressurizing the engine's oil system. Will read off the gauge measurements while she looked to see if there were any new signs of leaks. A bit of oil beaded at the external fitting, but that was all; she grabbed a rag, and wiped it clean, and heard the dog burst into laughter.
"Eh? What?"
"Sorry, I--did you--uh. The rag. Did you..."
Without thinking, she'd stretched out to grasp it with one of her dextrous feet, rather than taking the time to bend over. "Yes? So?" His chuckle was good-natured. She snagged another one, and tossed it at the shepherd, who just barely dodged the oil-soaked fabric. "What's the pressure?"
"Fifty pounds, just like you asked."
She let it run until oil began to overflow from the sump; that, at least, was by design. There were no other leaks, and when Will spun the engine's propeller it turned cleanly. All told, the job hadn't taken more than two hours: it was still early morning, plenty of time for him to make it up to the fort.
"It won't be a problem, right? No other flights in?"
"None today. But what do you mean?" She was on the wing, refitting the last of the engine's metal covering, and had to look awkwardly over her shoulder at the dog. "What won't be a problem?"
"Leaving your mum alone at the mail station for a bit, until we can get back."
"What?"
"You're coming with me, right? I need a copilot." His ear lifted. "Oh, you're coming with me. I saw the way your tail just wagged."
"It doesn't wag! I'm a cat!"
"You're my copilot. I'll go find June. Make it another 'direct order.'"
Hazel didn't fly often, although she had done so. Sometimes, the pilots at Calgary had seen it as a favor, or a way to impress her. Will, no doubt, saw it the same way, intended the same thing, and this meant...
It means you're going to Fort Simpson. Well. Yes. It meant that her mother had been right about the man, and she would have to be on her guard... and... and, well, truthfully the clouded leopard wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be. If she managed to draw out some comment about how cute her pink nose was, it would at least be sincere...
"That didn't take as much convincing as I thought," Lieutenant Warren reported back. He ducked beneath the wing, tidying up the rags and bits of packing she'd left behind, and then waited for her at the leading edge. "You need anything from here?"
"No... no, I don't think so?"
"Change of clothes?"
"We won't be gone very long, right?"
"Right..."
"So we'll make do." He held out his paw for Hazel to take; her own had streaks of grease on it. He shrugged, and helped her down from the wing. Even still, as promised, she did what she could with a clean rag before joining him in the mailplane, latching the door behind her and taking the free seat in the cockpit.
"Something tells me you already know the checklists by heart..."
"No, actually." She heard a hum from the fuel pump when he switched it on and, as the pressure came up, he primed the other engine--the one they'd just disassembled. He held the starter for the left engine in until it finally roared to life; started the right engine pump.
"Well, then something tells me you're a quick study." He tested the controls and, satisfied, gestured to the engine starter. "Do the honors?"
It was true that she did know the ideal numbers for the Wasp Junior; knew the signs that the fuel pump was doing its job. She did as he'd done, watching the propeller spin jerkily, and the chirp of the radial catching a few times. Coughing. And then, at last, an equally throaty roar.
"Keep an eye on it," the dog cautioned, and ran up the power. The T8P taxied easily from the hangar out to the runway, and when he was finished aligning the plane he looked over at her, waggling his thumb questioningly. She held hers up, and he grinned. "Then let's go."
They were unladen, with only two passengers and no cargo, and the previous day's flight had consumed some of the full load of fuel she'd left them with. Will didn't need the full length of the runway--might not, in fact, have even needed the plane's flaps.
They rose smoothly, and while Hazel kept a close eye on the gauges for their right engine, she saw no sign at all of trouble. Trimmed at two thousand meters, the pilot throttled back; his head swiveled along the horizon. "Beautiful, though. Nice weather."
Indeed, the skies were mostly clear, and what clouds there were put northern Alberta on all the best of its stark display. "It doesn't feel as cold from up here, either," she said, although there was still plenty of snow on the ground, and the lakes were fringed with ice.
"Still very glad we didn't have to ditch. Hey." He raised his voice, and she looked over to see the shepherd smile warmly. "Thanks for your help, Hazel. We were lucky to land somewhere with a good mechanic."
"Just... I'm just doing what I can."
"And that was plenty, wasn't it? You're a natural. Did you--have you ever thought about joining the auxiliaries?"
"I was, for a while. Until we moved up to High Level. Now, I'm not sure..."
"You'll figure it out," Will promised.
Her certainty that she knew what he was after waxed and waned. The few times she'd been in a cockpit before, the pilot had invited her to try the controls--watching her like she was a novel pet, offering encouragement. Will did not. On the first leg of the journey, until they could intercept the fort's radio beacon, he said very little at all after you'll figure it out.
Focused on his work, and then--leaning forward to check the instrument panel--the navigation system. "There, that's good."
"A signal?"
"Mm-hm. We're in range of the fort, now."
"Should you call them?"
He shrugged. "Can try, but they don't always man the VHF. Only when there's a scheduled plane and--oh." He put his paw over his ear, pressing the radio headset closer. "Copy that, this is Charlie 2-2-Sugar. We're on the 1-2-0 radial, probably... 4-0 minutes out. Understood. Understood." His free ear twitched, and she saw his eyebrows go up. "Uh. Understood. Y... yes, copy that. I guess it would be so. Half, at least. Uh, roger. Straight in and we'll land right away, 2-2-Sugar."
His brow was still furrowed. She waited until the paw dropped from his ear. "We're landing at Fort Simpson, right?"
"Yes. Just not going back. Dr. Vought will fly his patient and another medic south to Edmonton immediately. Pushing this bird's range, though. No mail, no passengers."
"What about us?"
"They'll put us up in the doctor's quarters. Be cozier than the barracks, I bet, eh? Bet he sleeps in a real bed, even. God, that'll be..." Will looked over, and blinked. "Nice for you, miss. I'll, uh. Take the floor. Sorry, I forgot."
"Let's... see what it's like when we land," she offered. Perhaps there would be something more comfortable than the floor. And the pilot could use the rest more than her, anyway, and...
"Can you hold us on the beam?"
"What?"
He tapped the radio navigation panel. "If this is going to Vought, and he's taking it down to Edmonton without either of us, I want everything we did written up in the log. But, uh. Some of it's coded, so... classified, like. For a few minutes?"
"Oh." Cautiously, she took the plane's control yoke. "Alright."
He undid his harness, and made his way aft; she had to add a bit of pressure to keep them level. The mailplane stayed mostly trimmed, though. He probably wouldn't complain if he had to sleep on the floor.
Conversely, Hazel wouldn't complain if they had to share a bed. He'd be warm, and... it would be different. It wasn't that men had never interested her, despite what her mother thought, only that they had generally been less interesting than engines.
Definitely, engines justified the mess they made by holding her attention for a longer period of time. Will was proving to be something different. More enticing. The radio needle had drifted, ever so slightly; gently as she dared, Hazel turned the yoke, and the needle crept back into place.
One of her coworkers in Calgary, a pine marten and a bit of an outsider himself, had made himself an early friend of hers. And eventually it developed further, and eventually she'd wound up staying past curfew in his barracks, when the other men at the plant were off drinking.
The first time was awkward for the both of them. The ones after that were less so, but never enough to make her understand the pleasure he took in it--certainly not his apparent need. It might not even have been the most memorable part of their friendship.
Another adjustment to their course. Drifting, she suspected. With the wind and all. The engines aren't the only things moving her; have to keep that in mind.
Will settled back into the pilot's seat, and gave her shoulder a pat. "Thanks. Looks like we're still pretty well on-course."
"Do you know when Dr. Vought might be back?"
"No. The message didn't say." He adjusted the trim--nothing she could feel, but the altimeter began unwinding. "I suppose he won't actually be treating Lieutenant Stoker, just getting him to someone who can. Tomorrow?"
"Back to the regular mail flight, then."
"Probably, yeah."
"You ought to take the bed. Be rested. Right?"
"We don't even know if it's a nice bed," Will pointed out.
But it was. Fort Simpson had grown up from its trading-station roots; the airstrip had two runways, both of them paved, and the hangars were far larger than the ones at High Level. The doctor's quarters were a neat bungalow, furnished properly, and the well-made bed looked sumptuous.
And there would have been room for two people.
In her overalls, and with her jacket thrown on over them, nobody questioned the clouded leopard or where she was going with Lieutenant Warren. The only one to question it, she suspected, was Hazel herself. She'd hung her coat up, and now she was looking at the bed, and she felt Will coming up behind her.
There was only one obvious way to square that circle, and that would be mastering her own indecision by taking the first step. "Look, ah..."
"Look?" he asked. "At?"
"We could share the bed. If you didn't mind."
Shorter than the Australian shepherd, and close as they were, she had to tilt her head back to observe him. When he hesitated, she took a more literal first step, until they were nearly touching. "I don't mind," he finally said. She felt his paw on her back, resting on the thick denim of her overalls in the lightest possible touch. One of her own traced his side...
Her intent had been for the gesture to be thoughtful, but Will pulled her in close, and his other arm circled her. It was a proper, tight embrace, and it pushed their muzzles dangerously near to one another. The dog spared her the need to do everything herself, like she had with the engine--he was the one to bring his lips to hers.
The kiss was proper, too. Better than the boys in Calgary, that was for sure. Embracing the shepherd, she was significantly more excited than she'd been, for that matter. Beneath that thick fur his body felt reassuringly strong. Confident, despite the boyish wagging of what should've been a tail and amounted to a wiggling of his hips. His voice was a low playfully whispered growl. "Those fangs..."
"What--" about them? As she started to open her mouth, he kissed her again, and his tongue worked between her lips. Found hers. Found those fangs, too, and his taste was her first moment of recognition that she was already returning the attention.
And that she was purring. The young pilot--she'd known him for all of, what, a day?--had his muzzle locked to hers, and she was purring for him. He was holding her even more snugly, as his breath became uneven, and she was purring for him. He had her against the wall of the bedroom, his arms keeping her from being crushed to it, and--
"Wait."
Practicalities. "For?"
"These." She tugged the strap of her overalls. It might've been a northern outpost, and 'nicest room at the fort' wouldn't have done much for visiting royalty, but the walls were still white, and her clothes were nothing of the sort. They hadn't even been changed since the hangar, where she'd left her skirt behind.
"Oh." He relaxed his hold, without letting her go all the way. "Maybe you should take them off."
"Maybe I should." She tilted her head, and without too much searching found a spot of grease on the sleeve of his own uniform. They'd just barely managed to avoid grinding it against the wall of the room. "I guess it could go, too. Not quite as bad as yours..."
"Me first, then. Just for... for the sake of cleanliness."
He stepped back, and gave her a wink. "Right, for that."
"You'll look away, right?"
"Will I?"
She undid one of the overall's buttons, and watched his expression. The dog did not look away. He didn't look away when she undid the other one, either, and with a slight shimmy the garment slid untidily downwards, catching briefly at her hips. "Apparently not," she teased. "What about my modesty?"
"I'm... not sure you need it," the dog answered. Hazel still had a shirt on, but beneath the overalls she'd worn only her loose-fitting French knickers. No matter. She pushed the denim down the rest of the way, and stepped from it, all but feeling his eyes on her slate-furred legs. "Definitely not. You definitely don't need it."
Her thick tail lashed, and she could see him watching that, too, as his grin spread. She returned it with one of her own, while he went about unbuttoning his shirt, and when that was done... God, when that was done but she did want him to keep going. His pants weren't good for much, surely. Here her reflexes helped: she stepped into his embrace just as he stepped towards her and rather than presenting any kind of resistance she let the dog's momentum press the pair back and towards the bed.
He was atop her then, deliriously close. Will took the opportunity to steal another kiss. "That nose of yours," he murmured. "Is so cute."
"Yeah?" He was trying to decide how forward he could be, she knew. And she figured he wouldn't really need much help, but she accented the question by tilting her head, and curling her tail around his leg.
"Yeah." The tail, probably, had done the trick, because he flashed his teeth. "Get your shirt off."
She obeyed so quickly the movement might have been unconscious, and now there was no barrier at all when their bodies pressed together, and their muzzles clashed--fiercely, hungrily, his breathing almost immediately as ragged as her own. She could have felt all but dangerously vulnerable, the white of her plush bellyfur bare and exposed... but only if he was far enough from her to see it.
And far enough from her to see it meant abandoning the embrace. His fur was thick and soft, and she wanted to tell him that if the cold northern winters had any reason for existing at all it was as an excuse for the way she was currently cuddling him. But she sensed that if she opened her mouth she was going to produce some rather less coherent sounds, with the way his paws caressed her.
Too late. Much, much too late: he dropped his muzzle to her ear, drawing a plaintive squeak with even the gentle bite there. A soothing lap followed, and then a kiss, and then a lighter nip. At the side of her neck, now; her collar. Her shoulder. As he worked his way lower, Hazel became acutely aware of her body's contours. The dog's muzzle, as he nosed through her pelt, left a trail that bordered on electric. "You're so soft," he breathed. And before she could answer, he was at her breast, tongue dragging along her nipple--his lips closed about it, coaxing it pert and sensitive, and she began to squirm.
He left the leopard with her muzzle open to beg him for... something, she didn't even know what. Just that please was on her lips, catching the edges of her sharp fangs as a building sense of anticipation softened all the feline's edges, melted them, left her exposed for Will's attention to drift to her belly, and then to her hip.
Her legs were still pressed together, if loosely. He worked them open with a paw, and when--to her growing surprise--he kept on going, and her muscles tensed, he put his muzzle at her inner thigh and shoved firmly, at once forcing her graceful legs apart and making his intention plain.
She didn't know what to expect. He nuzzled her fur--softer even than the rest of her pelt, she knew. Glancing downwards, almost apprehensively, she saw him lift his eyes to meet hers. They danced, and his stub of a tail was wagging. And, holding her gaze, he pressed eager lips to her bare sex.
Hazel twitched, gasping. The contact was a bit of a shock. What followed was his warm tongue, lapping at her. A growl--a pleased growl--followed, and the laps lengthened and grew more insistent, until he was brushing her in a liquid-soft caress that left the leopardess panting.
This, this now, was giddily unfamiliar. Her paws batted erratically against the sheets. The dog nosed in closer, and his tongue started working ever more firmly, and--as it slipped into her, and he raised his muzzle, questing strokes zeroing in on her clit--Hazel grew aware of a pressure rising in her nerves, something more than just the delightfully gratifying ripples radiating from where he touched her.
Her fingers caught on the sheets--her claws, she realized, had extended. Summoning the focus to retract them again left her vulnerable to the hot breath spilling into her with his rapid panting, and tension that threatened to bubble over like a burner had been left on.
It kept surging closer and closer as his tongue lavished velvet attention on her, circling and drawing with ruinous effectiveness along her clit. She couldn't even purr anymore, her breath was shallow and her ears were back and she huffed with an increasing desperation.
When, at last, she managed a mewling whimper Will paused, and drew back. He watched her fight to gather her wits, and levered himself up, crawling over the tense arch of the leopardess's lithe frame. His paw worked over her side, claws furrowing her pelt, and it finally relaxed the tension from her. She sank back, and the shepherd went with her.
The paw left. She heard the sound of fabric, sliding over his luxuriant fur and then dropping softly to the floor. She felt, briefly, the heft of something warm and rigid bump her fur. "What do you say?" he asked her. His nose was so close she could smell her own scent where she'd matted the fur of his soft muzzle. And he was smiling. Irresistible. "Keep going, you think, or--"
"Please." There, she'd managed to say it aloud.
With her thighs spread, he settled between them. She gasped when he found her, and started to push--gasped again as she yielded to him, almost immediately. The way his eyes narrowed and then went unfocused as he pressed in further was painfully endearing, and she wanted to watch it happen, but...
But he was so hard. So long and thick and exquisitely hard, stretching her around him as he worked his way inside--all she could do was clutch her paws into his fur, instead, and moan with her muzzle bared to show those sharp fangs. She was purring throatily when he stopped sliding deeper because he couldn't, their hips were flush together and his body was heavy and warm atop hers.
The purring was reflexive and helpless and terribly awkward but she couldn't stop herself. And then Will tilted his head and pressed his lips back to hers in a deep kiss--the taste was different now, it was her taste, she knew... and kept purring, damn it--but when he pulled back that grin was just as wide and winning. "God, you're cute."
And if he liked it, well... Hazel chanced to nudge him further. "Just cute?" That got a playful growl, and his hips swiveling, pumping back against hers in a proper thrust that sent a wave of pleasure rippling through the clouded leopard and broke the purr for a moan she wasn't any less able to stop.
After the second thrust he didn't halt again; the dog's pace was rhythmic and fluid, and as that thick cock tugged through her folds every moment of it was so good she was torn between sheer exultation and a faint sense of anger that the marten hadn't been anything like that. All this time she could've been enjoying herself...
Of course, maybe the shepherd was special. He felt special. When he pushed in deep and filled her up it felt like one of the engines she worked on. Steady and powerful and, for those moments they were together, hers. Under her control. She wrapped her legs around him, and Will groaned and bucked faster.
Hazel rode his increasingly swift strokes with a growing certainty of that sense of ownership. A touch of her claws saw him groan again, shuddering. Raking them down his back--God!--her mind went blank for a moment, fuzzed out by pleasure as Will gasped out a snarl and shoved in hard.
No, one of them had to be in control and it definitely was no longer the shepherd. He was losing himself, hips no longer rocking steadily so much as taking the leopardess in shaky, full plunges. The dog's knot was also no longer purely theoretical. He kept getting thicker and thicker, filling her more solidly...
And as long as she was trying new things...
He opened his muzzle, and between his panting she sensed him trying to form words. Almost certainly--proper gentleman that he was--asking whether she wanted it. Whether she knew what was about to happen, like she hadn't heard plenty from the gossip at the airfield in Calgary. She bit her lip, rallied, and the next time the shepherd hilted in her, she clenched around him.
He grunted, managed an uncouth "oh, fuck," and slammed forward, pinning her to the mattress. And in the throbbing, achingly pleasurable sense of stretching fullness the squeeze accented, Hazel abruptly understood the gossip. Not the biology, that she'd always known, but the hushed giggling.
It was going to push her over the edge--really over the edge, not the teasing hints of it his tongue had promised--and soon. Oh, fuck--she might have gasped it out herself, although she hoped she had the presence of mind to--no you don't, you don't hope that at all--to be more decent--
This is completely indecent.
You need it.
If Will was able to pull out he was no longer trying. He rutted into her with short, constricted movements. She was so full of him now the leopardess could feel his pulse, throbbing along his shaft, and the knot swelling wider, wedging into her hips, his body pushing in close between her obscenely spread thighs...
Will was starting to huff and groan against her ear, his cock twitching--she was familiar with that; the marten's had done it, too, when he reached his peak--and she was growing wetter, her insides slicker by the second. But he wasn't slowing, spent--instead he was driving into her with a rough urgency, his humping putting all her attention on where that thick bulge shoved and tugged and buffeted her. "Hazel..."
"Will!" and as she yelped it, her claws fixed themselves on his hips, and her lithe body arched without conscious intent. Beyond the raw, red-hot pleasure washing over her the leopard wasn't consciously aware of much, but his name remained a certainty. His presence.
She was still lost in ecstatic frenzy when the dog stiffened to a tense halt. Not so detached as to miss the wash of hoarse breath over her ear when he snarled--not even so detached as to miss that it was trying to be her name, this time desperate and ragged. He was motionless, legs straining to push their bodies taut.
His sack, flush between them, tightened, and his knot swelled briefly alongside a pronounced jerk of his steel-hard shaft that relaxed with an eruption of heat, deep inside her. Deeper than his cock, and spreading, an unmistakeable and warm and sticky flood tangibly staking his claim on her.
He started to move again, forceful shoves to meet each strong, virile gush of shepherd cum Will pumped into her, his paws gripping her shoulders to pull her against his convulsive inward pushes. Her peak surged back as she clamped down on the tie, as if it was the breakwater those waves crashed against, and she cried out again.
His teeth were at the side of her neck, nipping warningly, trying to quiet her; instead she yowled, arms wrapped crushingly around his rocking body, and he gave up. Grunting into her fur, movements gradually slowing as he finished emptying himself...
The sense that she couldn't breathe was, at last, what finally summoned her thoughts back into usefulness. Briefly, she wondered if he might have actually killed her, but it proved to be that she couldn't draw breath because he had collapsed on her. She wriggled a bit, trying to find a more comfortable position.
Will gave a questioning grunt, and realized what was going on. He pushed himself upright, and started to roll onto his side. And between the pressure that put on his knot, and the distressing absence of his warmth atop her, she tightened her embrace. "No."
"Eh?"
"Stay."
Her voice sounded kitten-grade plaintive to the leopard, but he didn't seem to mind. He settled back atop her, and Hazel shifted until she no longer felt like she was being pressed and, better, she could enjoy the comforting weight of his body pinning her. "God," he sighed. "That was... intense."
She grinned. The shepherd chuckled tiredly, and ran the backs of his fingers over her whiskers. Briefly, his thumb brushed one of her fangs. "Still cute?" she asked.
"Better." He kissed her, and left his nosepad pressed to the soft pink of her own. "You... mm. You have gorgeous eyes. Was that--is that how you got the name?"
"No. Mum just liked it. My eyes were blue as a kitten. I think. I'm pretty sure. I don't know much about kittens."
"Well. They're gorgeous now," he promised her. His were, too; the brown one flecked like tigereye, and its counterpart the pale blue of winter morning. She hugged him, and finally consented when his arms gave out and he rolled onto his side.
His fingers ran through her pelt, tracing the boundaries of the dark patches in her fur. And as he murmured to her, told her how soft she was--as she curled her tail about him, and he snuggled in closer--Hazel figured she'd been right to think there was more to life even than just engines.
Will's shaft was still hard; the twitching had stopped, but she could still feel him stiff and hot in her if she gave the faintest of squeezes. If. When the leopard did, he drew a short breath, and pushed up against her hips, and she was seized by the recollection of that last thrust, and his warmth irresistibly filling her...
"I haven't managed to spend one good half-hour with you without you getting me messy," she realized. "Is it gonna be like that?"
"Should clean up easier," he suggested. He did not resist the implication in her question.
"We could find out."
"No kerosene," the shepherd warned. She giggled, a chuffing, helpless laugh, and again he kissed her. "I think..."
"You think?"
He paused. "I think I could fall for you."
"You know where to find me. The mail's on a regular schedule."
"Yes. But..." He trailed off, distracted by her waving tail, and chuckled. "None of this was regular. Maybe that's still alright?"
"Maybe."
"Sometimes the mess might still be engine grease," she said hesitantly. "Maybe that's alright, too?"
"Definitely."