Turner loved the people of Yarnsford - he loved them dearly - but the close-knit community sandwiched between a mountain and the sea could feel unbearably claustrophobic at times.

Almost the entire populace worked the mines, be it as labourers, surveyors, locomotive operators, mining foremen (what Turner's father was), mining engineers (what Turner's father reckoned he was) and many others. The industry was literally the bedrock of Yarnsford and social heart of the entire town. Everyone  knew each other's children, their pets, the homes they lived in, even the outfits they favoured for certain seasons.

Barely into his teens, Turner yearned for a respite from the all-too familiar shores of his home. He wanted experiences both exciting and unpredictable, to visit far off places with unpronounceable names and meeting people who didn't ask him why he was wearing his summer ensemble when it was still early spring.

However, at the moment, being part of such a familiar township didn't seem like quite such a disadvantage. It was unusual for strangers to be seen in such an out of the way town as Yarnsford. It wasn't as if people passed through on their way to somewhere else. The township was as far from any major city as you could get without going out to sea, and nobody visited the old mining town for its less than beguiling scenery.

"Take 'em both into the kitchen," Travis urged. "I'll speak to 'em. Just keep yourselves quiet." He waited until the others had retreated into the kitchen before opening the door. There were two men outside, clad in identical prim suits of grey. They tipped their black bowler hats, bland smiles on their faces.

"Good morning to you, sir," said one. He had a narrow face with piercing, almond-shaped eyes and a pencil-thin moustache, giving him an uncanny resemblance to a weasel. "I'm Agent Watts from the Global Commission. This is my partner, Agent—"

"Listen, gents," Travis interjected, "no offence, but I dun want any part of any business that's not any of mine."

Agent Watts gave a smile that failed to reach his cold eyes.

"We promise not to take up too much of your time." He snapped his fingers and his companion, a squat fellow with several chins wearing a suit that barely contained his bulk, awkwardly unbuttoned his jacket, slid out a picture, and held it up for Travis to see.

"Have you seen this girl?"

Travis barely glanced at the wilting photo.

"Never laid eyes on the lass."

"Her health and welfare are of great concern to us," Agent Watts said, as if Travis hadn't spoken.

"And why would that be?"

"Let's just say that any information regarding her whereabouts would not only be appreciated but thoroughly rewarded."

Travis was silent.

"Do you have a son, sir?"

Travis stiffened. Behind him, in the kitchen, Penelope, Turner, and Dorothea exchanged glances.

The agent nudged the grubby pair of work shoes Turner had left outside the front door with his foot. "Hardly large enough for a man of your stature, but perhaps for a boy..." He stood there a long moment, expecting Travis to speak. Travis remained stubbornly silent. The agent blinked away his irritation.

"We have reason to believe the girl we seek may have been on the beach sometime last night, and a pair of shoes almost identical to these was found on the beach, not far from where evidence indicates she'd been. We would very much like to have a word with your son, if we could."

Travis shrugged.

"He does odd jobs all around town. Can't keep track of him half the time."

"Are you alone at home this morning?" Watts inquired politely. Travis threw him a suspicious look.

"Just me and the wife. That all, gents? You satisfied?"

"I think it would be best if we were to continue this conversation inside."

"You already interrupted my breakfast," Travis growled. "I see no reason to have you imposin' on me an' my wife. I tol' you already – we don't know the lass."

"Just you and your wife, you say?" Agent Watts inquired, sliding one foot through the door jamb and peering over Travis's formidable bulk. "Curious that you would have four places set at the table." He leaned forward until their faces were merely a hand's breadth apart.

"You ain't steppin' one foot into this house!" Travis retorted. "We're expectin' company."

"It would appear they've already arrived," Watts said, eying the four half-eaten breakfasts. "I would appreciate you introducing us." He leaned back and casually opened his coat to reveal the brass and sandalwood grip of a holstered gun. "Or must I insist?"

The anger in Travis's face faded. His shoulders slumped in resignation.

"I'll go fetch what you're lookin' for. Wait here. Won't be a tick, gents."

The two agents exchanged satisfied glances and Watts stepped back out of the doorway. Travis closed the door, turned, and walked straight down to his workshop. When he reappeared at the top of the stairs, he was carrying something sizeable in his large hands.

Travis strode back to the door and yanked it open. The bronze barrel of the cannon Travis brandished nearly hit Agent Watts in the chest. Both agents jerked backwards.

"This what you came for? 'Cause the only reason I can imagine you threatenin' me on my own doorstep is if you're itchin' for a fight." Travis glanced down at the barrel before meeting Agent Watts's eyes again.

"What is that?"

"Cannon."

"Cannon?!"

"Comes in mighty handy for blasting those pesky, hard to reach places down in the mines. Now, kindly remove yourself from my home before I blast you outta those shiny size fours."

The two agents backed away from the house and into the street. Travis closed the door and leaned against the wall, exhaling heavily.

"Travis!" Penelope cried. "What are you doing with that thing in this house?"

"It ain't what you think, Ma," Turner said, looking at his father with a rare combination of awe and respect. "It's the old drainage carrier we been keeping for spare parts."

"Some Commission agents they are, supposed to be keepin' the world all peaceful like, when they can't tell the difference between a weapon an' a useless bit of plumbing."

Penelope threw her arms about her husband and he half-heartedly protested, his cheeks pink.

Dorothea hugged Travis also, doing as well as she could with her short arms. "Thank you for what you did. For protecting me like that when you don't even know me."

"Ain't nothin', love," Travis said, waving her words away. "But I'm sure those Commission clowns will be back with reinforcements pretty darned quick. No time to waste." He turned to his son. "Turner, take her up to the mines. No one knows that maze better than you do. They'll never find her there. Head out the back way and don't either of you stop for no body or reason. Go wait by shaft twelve. When all's clear back here, I'll have someone go find ya. Now, get goin'!"

******

Dorothea slipped out the backdoor in the kitchen, behind Turner. As they stepped out onto the street, she spotted a pair of agents several houses away, going door to door. They were showing a copy of her picture. The neighbor look up from the photo, spotted her, and pointed.

"Hey!" one of them shouted. "Hold it, you two!"

"This way!" Turner grabbed Dorothea's hand and pulled her into an adjacent alley, deliberately knocking over boxes and cans of garbage behind them. On young legs quickened by adrenaline, they put considerable distance between themselves and their pursuers, only to confront more men in grey suits when they emerged at the far end. Turner dragged her this way and that. Her lungs were burning and she could hear Turner panting, followed by the shrill whistle of a train.

Turner veered right and headed towards the train tracks, where a great black engine slowly rolled by, billowing a great gush of steam out its sides and trailing a long row of carriages, empty iron carts with lamps hanging off the corners. Dorothea's legs felt as if they would give way any moment, but Turner only tightened his grip on her hand.

"C'mon," he urged. "We're almost there."

As the last carriage passed, Turner reached out and grabbed hold of the ladder fixed to its side. He pulled Dorothea forward and shoved her up onto the first rung. She scrambled aboard. He hauled himself up and collapsed on the car floor beside her, the two of them gasping for breath.

"What a lucky break that was," Turner panted. "These hopper cars bring the coal down from the mines. These empty ones will be headed right to the mines. No way they'll catch us on this."

They sat up and looked behind them towards where they'd left the men in grey suits behind. What they saw was a motorcar, sleek and topless, with brass pipes lining sides of white and grey steel and four agents inside, speeding alongside the tracks. It was rapidly closing the distance between them.

"Would you look at that," Turner said, in wonder. "An actual automobile. Don't see many of those around town."

The train began to climb a steep hill. The tempo of its chugging engine slowed with the strain. The cart slowed, also.

"They're catching up to us!"

Turner looked around in desperation.

"I have an idea," he said. He darted over to the far end of the railcar and fiddled with the next car as the motorcar drew abreast of the train. One agent climbed up on his seat, leaned out the window, and tried to grab hold of the ladder. The car bounced over a pothole and he flailed his arms, nearly tipping headfirst out of the vehicle. The driver regained control and sped up as the agent strained again to reach the ladder.

"Turner! What are you doing?"

"Hang on, I've almost got it!"

Dorothea watched in panic as the agent's fingers stretched towards the ladder. She looked around frantically but there was nothing she could use to knock him away.

"Got it!" Turner cried, holding up an iron peg triumphantly in his hand. Dorothea watched as the train in front of them broke away. The automobile shot past as their car slowed to a halt before changing direction and rolling downhill, towards the town. It picked up speed and was soon rocketing down the incline. When it reached the bottom, it levelled out.

"Are you okay?" Turner asked her, shouting over the rattling of the speeding wheels. Dorothea nodded, her face pale as they headed through town. She pointed toward several figures racing towards the train, all of them clad in grey suits, but the railcar was moving much too fast for anyone on foot to present any threat. Turner was staring behind them at the motorcar that had managed to turn around and was again in pursuit.

"Turner, look!" Dorothea urged. Up ahead in the distance was another motorcar parked on the tracks, directly in their path.

"Damn," Turner muttered. "If this thing could just go a little faster, no way that car could stop us. Hang on, Dorothea!"

Turner and Dorothea huddled in the far corner and braced themselves for the inevitable impact. Dorothea clutched the pouch around her neck in terror, unable to wrest her eyes away from the car in their path.

"C'mon," Turner kept urging, under his breath, "faster. Just a little faster."

"Faster," Dorothea echoed, her fingers clenched about the pouch, "go faster."

Faster.

"Look!" Turner pointed down to the front of the freight car. A sharp-looking, serrated piece of metal was emerging from beneath, like a bird's beak. It protruded as if eager to attack the danger that lay ahead. The train car continued to race forward, picking up speed with every turn of the wheels. The agents alongside the automobile hesitated before scrambling away in panic.

Dorothea flinched and turned her face into Turner's chest as they rammed into the automobile. The freight car shuddered and kept going. Turner whooped in delight and Dorothea lifted her head. Behind them sat the vehicle, neatly skewered in two. Her eyes widened.

"That was amazing!" Turner looked ahead and the grin on his face died. Dorothea's gaze followed his and her heart caught in her chest. Up ahead lay a nasty bend and the rail car showed no signs of slowing. They hit the turn at full speed and the velocity forced the wheels on the opposite side to lift away from the track. The train tilted sickeningly.

"No," Dorothea whispered, her right hand clutching the purse around her neck in fear. The two watched in astonishment when a metal fin sprouted from the side of the railcar and cut through the ground like a razor, tipping the cart solidly back onto the track.

The car lurched in the other direction, throwing them hard against the railing. Another fin tore into the ground, throwing up a spray of sparks as it righted the car.

"Turner, it's keeping us from falling over!"

"Here's praying it can fly too," Turner muttered, his face a deathly white, "because we're about to run out of track."

The sharp screech of metal grating on metal filled the air. Dorothea was thrown against the front of the cart, wrenched from Turner's grasp. He took an ugly knock to the crown as the car shuddered to a halt. He lay there a long moment before getting to his knees, rubbing his bruised brow gingerly.

"Are you alright?" Dorothea asked, wincing as she got to her feet. She was more shaken than hurt.

"I'm fine, really. Hard heads run in the family, my Ma says."

They climbed down from the carriage, dusted themselves off, and looked around. The train line ended just shy of a boulevard lined by shops.

The sound of pounding feet grew closer and the rumble of a car engine became audible.

"This way!" Turner cried, grabbing Dorothea's hand and steering her into the boulevard. "Down the steps, quick!"

They fled down the short flight of stairs to where a baker's shop sat just beneath ground level. Dorothea watched from the doorway, trembling, as Commission agents mobbed the boulevard and made their way over to inspect the railway cart with its odd-looking protuberances, wheels still smoking. The agents interrogated the townspeople who were gathered around. No one appeared to be looking their way. Dorothea hoped the agents would assume their quarry had fled the scene and either give up or continue their search elsewhere, giving Dorothea and Turner the chance to escape. That hope was immediately quashed when someone pointed their way. Several agents turned towards the bakery.

"Get ready to run," Turner whispered.

A shrill squeal sounded over the mining town's loudspeakers. Everyone halted and looked upwards.

"Attention, friends and neighbours," announced the familiar voice of Travis Hullin. "Some Commission folk are inquiring after a girl. A girl they abducted. Yes, you heard me right. They stole this girl, for no good reason, right from her home. And now they want us to help them hunt her down. Why, you ask? They're not saying.  I don't know from what stray parts  they've come, but let's show 'em how we feel about child pilfering here in Yarnsford."

The locals turned and looked at the agents suspiciously. People emerged from homes and storefronts, hemming in the tenacious grey-suited strangers. Turner chuckled, watching.

"My pa sure knows how to rile folks up, doesn't he?" He turned and took Dorothea by the hand. "The only other way to the mines from here is down by the wharf." He led her down another back road.

The salty scent of the sea grew stronger as they made their way down towards the marina. They arrived at the seaside shopping district that occupied the north-eastern end of town, and melted into the crowd. Fish and meats dominated the stalls lining the long boardwalk, while scattered throughout were merchants eagerly proffering fine fabrics, antiques, and other novelties imported from alien shores.

Dorothea halted.

"What is it?" Turner asked, looking around anxiously. "Do you see someone?"

"That ship," Dorothea said, pointing at a heavily cannoned behemoth resting alongside one of the wooden piers. It completely dwarfed the surrounding fishing trawlers. "That's the one, the one that brought me here."

Turner looked over and whistled softly. "Well, I don't see anyone about. They must all be out looking for us. But I'm not letting them take you. No way, no how"

"I'm sorry for all this trouble, Turner," Dorothea said. "I never meant it. I don't even know why..."

Turner looked at Dorothea, eye stern. "People don't ask for a lot of what happens in their lives. Things just happen. And people who don't realise that often live lives full of  regret. So don't  you regret meeting me." Turner smiled. "Because I sure don't."

Dorothea didn't know what to say, but she shared his smile.

Turner pointed to a tunnel at the far end of the wharf. "Come on, that'll take us down into the mines."

At the end of the wharf sat a long sandstone tunnel lit by a trail of electric lamps, the sides of its narrow throat lined with their brownish luminescence. Even with the lights, the far end of the tunnel was as black and barren as an empty well.

Turner and Dorothea descended the gravelly vein at a tentative pace, the crunch of their footfalls echoing. When they were halfway down the length, the string of lights suddenly went out, painting the tunnel in a black so complete it rivalled the canvas of moonless midnight.

A car engine revved to life up ahead, filling the tunnel with its thrum, and a set of headlights blinded them some twenty feet ahead. At first, they could only make out black silhouettes, their backs turned to the glare.

Turner and Dorothea turned on their heels and ran back towards the entrance, until the glare of the headlights faded. They hesitated, hands outstretched, feeling their way uncertainly along unseen walls.

Whump!

Dorothea sensed something pitch to the ground. In the silence, she made out the soft sounds of shuffling feet.

"Turner?" There was no response. "Who's there?" she demanded, her voice quivering. "Who are you?"

The string of lights flashed on, peeling away the gloom. Dorothea blinked. Turner lay on the ground at her feet, unconscious. Blood clotted his hair. She counted five agents closing in on her. One was holding a pistol by its barrel, the handle end smeared with blood – Turner's blood.

"Don't hurt him!" she cried, and threw herself on top of him. "He hasn't done anything."

The agents parted as the car materialised from the tunnel's depths and came to a stop not far behind them. The congregation parted as its one passenger stepped out, his cane tapping the ground as he approached.

"If I wanted to hide someone in a mining town," Agent Kritzinger said, "how natural a choice the mines would be. Recall the others. Advise them we'll be departing shortly."

"Yes, s-s-sir," answered the driver, a bandage pasted to his forehead. "At once, sir."

"I see you've made some new friends," Kritzinger said, tugging at the gloves on his hands, "and no less troublesome than yourself. Fortunately for you, we found you as quickly as we did or who knows how this might have turned out. Child pilferers? Clearly, we have outstayed our welcome."

"Please don't hurt them," she whimpered.

"Cooperate with us from here on, and I'll see to it no further harm will befall the people of this town." Kritzinger held out his hand. "You have my word, on this."

Dorothea looked at him, her expression filled with doubt. But she could not place Turner and his family in further danger. She accepted his hand and got to her feet, surrendering herself to Kritzinger's custody.