FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Cogs and bolts rained a curious glittering path behind the young canine as he ran, darting between astonished bystanders.

"Move, move! Com'on I'm running late!" the young husky shouted, trying desperately to keep most of the spare parts in the box he was carrying.

The milling walkers on the street, however, just cursed and shook their fists at him as he roughly brushed past, "Watch yourself or I'll have your head, pup!" one particularly jostled traveler shouted at the runner.

But Jim didn't have time for apologies, he barely had time to breathe as he failed to stop a set of metal springs from spilling over the edge of the box. "You'll have to wait your turn if I don't get this stuff to the Professor soon," the boy muttered to himself as he continued his frantic pace.

Jim swore at his luck as the throngs of bystanders only increased in number. The long cobbled streets of Cabalton were always abuzz with activity at this hour, especially along the market district that our young runner was trying to navigate. A large steam locomotive finally forced Jim to take a breather as it rushed across his path. The pumping hydraulics of the train screamed as it blazed by, ruffling the black and white fur of his face and stinging his blue eyes. The good-looking but round-shouldered husky panted as he shifted his weight nervously from paw to paw, silently urging the train to move faster.

"These Pyrosteam models aren't all their cracked up to be," he thought angrily as car after car flicked across his vision. He was only a couple blocks away from his destination, but it might as well have been miles as he heard the chimes of the noontime bells.

"Damn, damn, damn," he cursed, as the last car of the train rushed off to his left. The gates blocking the track lifted and he was off again, sprinting to his goal where surely a stern lecture awaited him. He finally reached the Professor's workshop, and Jim took a moment to straighten his waistcoat and put on a look of abashed dignity.

With just a moment's extra pause, he rapped lightly on the door and pulled the latch, "Afternoon, Professor," he called out, "I've got those spare bits from the market."

As Jim entered the workshop, he was greeted by the familiar clicking and whirring chimes of various machinery littered around the large room. Despite the space, the workshop always seemed crowded with various inventions and books littered on tables and shelves. The boy looked around, trying to locate his mentor through all the shining brass pipes and valves.

"Professor?" he called again, edging past an old steel boiler with the box of spare parts proffered ahead of him like a peace offering.

A crash followed by grumbling oaths sounded from the back work area, a rough sheet of canvas failing to dull the clinking scrapes of metal coming from the other side. Jim worked his way in and pulled aside the curtain, ducking reflexively as a wing-nut flew past his ear, "Busy, Professor?" He called out conversationally.

The grizzled old hound dog was bent over a bin of loose machinery, parts flying hither and thither as the Professor rummaged about for what he was looking for. Finally hearing Jim's greeting, the old hound spun with unexpected agility, brandishing a spanner at him like a saber. He impatiently swung aside the secondary lens covering the left glass of his spectacles.

"You're late AGAIN, Jim!" the Professor emphasized the word with an irritated growl, "I said I needed those parts before noon..." the old dog fumbled for his pocketwatch, yanking it out and opening it with sharp motions that defied his age, "and it's nearly a quarter past, my persistently tardy apprentice!"

Jim looked down, trying to appear ashamed, "I'm sorry, sir. I got held up by a train."

The Professor narrowed his redish, wrinkled eyes and retorted, "you got 'held up' canoodling with that baker girl again, as likely as not! If you had come straight here like I asked, you would have beaten that train by an hour and I could be finished already."

Jim blushed slightly but tried to hide it by slumping his narrow shoulders, "I wouldn't be so sure, sir," he mumbled, hopeful that what he said next would deflect some of the Professor's anger, "that train went on for miles, one of those new Pyrosteamers by the look of it."

The Professor's eyes blazed at the name of the train, "Pyrosteam! I thought I told you never to mention that pitiful wash of a title in my presence!" The hound moved towards Jim, limping slightly from an old injury that didn't seemed to hinder him from the occasional age-defying spryness. The Professor brushed past him, still fuming like a boiling kettle, "Clumsy, rusted buckets hauling people about with all the ingenuity of a pushcart!"

"Couldn't agree more, sir," Jim added as the old hound's anger was happily shifted to a new source. The young apprentice pulled the box of parts back up to his chest and followed the Professor who had ducked under the curtain leading into the front room. The Professor continued to sputter insults as he collected various parts from shelves and cabinets, tossing them roughly into the box Jim was carrying just behind him.

"Foolish, warmongering excuses for inventors," the hound grumbled, his tirade petering out, "they can't think laterally at all, only plink away refining what they already understand."

Jim nodded, but he thought to himself that for all the old Professor's blustering, Pyrosteam was rapidly becoming the leading source of energy for their city. Of course, he would never point this out to the Professor, and instead continued to follow in silence as the aged inventor made his way back to the work area.

The hound sat at a table covered in bins holding various tools, and Jim set the box down next to them while he went to grab a nearby stool. Once he returned and took a seat next to his mentor, Jim saw he was already assembling some strange clockwork device with a practiced, steady hand.

"Do you know why that damnable committee rejected my engine design in favor of those hellfire machines?" The Professor grumbled quietly as he moved the magnifying lens back in place on his glasses.

Jim thought carefully, trying to work out a way to speak his mind without directing the hound's anger back onto himself, "Erm, well, I thought your design was brilliant, but the committee said Pyrosteam was more efficient?"

The Professor snorted derisively, but fortunately didn't restart his tantrum, "That's just what they said to sound unbiased, my boy. Defense contracts, it was all about defense contracts."

"I don't understand, sir?" His mentor had never spoken about this before, usually preferring to just hurl insults at his most recent competitors.

"Listen, lad, I know I'm getting old and crotchety, but I'm not a gibbering windbag just yet. Pyrosteam isn't used in locomotives alone, my apprentice. The first application was for those confounded firearms they developed a while back," the Professor worked as he talked, sliding cogs onto axles and soldering them in place, "the Pyrosteam crystals presented a unique way to superheat air, which could only be done in massive machines before. The military developments were inevitable."

"But what does that have to do with your engine, Professor?" Jim asked, his curiosity growing.

"The political sway obtained by supplying our country's army with new weapons is no small matter. Add to that the people's desire to stick with what they know and everybody's stuck trying to make things hotter, faster. It's like vertical integration, my boy," the hound adjusted the work lamp with an irritated motion, "Their mighty power source is just a new way to boil water, and since everybody knows how that works they say it's amazing. But it's still just a load of hot water."

"I think I understand, but what can we do about it?" Jim asked, still unsure if he was following the Professor's logic.

"Nothing we can do, my young apprentice," the hound sighed and as he set down his tools, and for a moment, he looked as old as his years, "Machines follow perfectly predictable patterns. But politics are only predictable so far as they are defined by greed. Even though my engine required less energy overall and was therefore that much safer, the Pyrosteam engines don't force people to adjust their perspective and they bear the same name as their fancy guns. But we'll see who get's the last laugh once I'm done with this," the Professor pointed a screwdriver defiantly at the mass of gears in front of him.

"Yes, sir," Jim said quietly, and began to hand tools to the busy inventor as they were asked for.

After an hour or so of work, the Professor gave a satisfied grunt and pushed away from the work table. Jim, who had been leaning with his elbow on the workspace and chin in his paw, started out of his daydream and looked down at what the Professor had created.

"What is it, sir?" Jim asked as he peered intently at the device, it seemed to be a small motor of some kind, about the size of a cantaloupe but with gears and wires covering the outside of it haphazardly.

"My prototype for what I'm going to call the Guilty Gear System," the Professor said, grabbing a pen and scratching at his open journal, "I've been assembling the parts separately ever since that engine was regected. All those repair jobs this week meant I hadn't the chance to put it together."

"'Guilty Gear,' sir?" Jim asked with his brow furrowed.

"That's right, my boy. It's a system that uses a unique, elastic alloy that I recently acquired a sample of," the Professor pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his graying muzzle, "It causes exerted energy to be thrown back into the system at a slow rate, but without decreasing the output. It means an even smaller power source than my previous models can be used to provide the same energy as a larger system."

"Amazing, sir, but shouldn't that be physically impossible?" Jim asked, gently picking up the device to inspect it more closely. The lightness of the device surprised him.

"Nothing is impossible, my narrow-minded apprentice," the Professor chuckled as he clapped a paw on the shoulder of his young charge, "but creating the base alloy does require tremendous amounts of energy. I received it at no small cost to myself, I can assure you."

"Well what did you need all those spare parts from the market for then?" Jim asked, but the old hound was already hobbling toward the door that led to the outside, at the back of the workshop.

"I wasn't exactly sure of what sizes I needed for some of the connection points," the hound called back as he grabbed a cane resting near the doorframe, "And I thought a walk might clear some of those cobwebs out of your head. Now bring that device and do be careful; we're installing it on the flier."

Jim's ears jittered excitedly at the mention of the flier, and he carefully supported the device with both paws as he carried it after the Professor, his upturned tail wagging anxiously in his wake.

The back of the shop was as cluttered as the inside, with half-finished machines sitting somberly under tarps and scrap metal gathered in overflowing barrels. But one machine stood apart from the others in a large open space, about the size of a carriage and covered with another large tarpaulin. The Professor couldn't smother a proud look as he pulled the covering off to reveal their pet project.

The flying machine glittered in the sunlight, two sets of folded, bat-like wings fluttering gently in the breeze. The inventor quickly stepped up into the frame that roughly resembled a small skiff, enhanced by the large mast near the meridian of the machine that supported the various flying apparatus with gossamer wires.

Jim quickly joined the Professor, handing him the Guilty Gear device, "You know, Professor, I'm not sure if I much like the name 'Guilty Gear.' It sounds so negative."

The old hound's brow furrowed, but his voice was calm when he replied, "Nonsense. The device uses wasted energy from the past to affect its present output. I thought the name was quite fitting."

Jim nodded, but still didn't completely agree. All this business of coming up with a flashy name for a new invention seemed a little beneath the Professor's wise years. But, Jim didn't have long to ponder as his mentor began requesting tools and parts.

"We're going to connect it at the primary gearbox so I'll need my adjustable spanner and a good set of pliers. All the energy from the generator will have to pass through the device, and any resistance coming back on it will also increase its effect. There's going to be a lot of energy riding on this little box, so you might as well grab the welder while you're in there. Don't take too long, I've already finished the housing for it and only need to adjust it a little; I didn't think it would be quite so small when I was finished, but don't complain about a free lunch, as they say."

Jim had long since gone back into the shop, but he could still vaguely hear the old hound's ramblings and knew the Professor would yell clearly if he actually needed something else. The young canine was buzzing with excitement at the thought of improving the flier. They had made several successful test runs before, but the fuel that powered the machine meant they could only hover briefly before setting down again, unable to get enough upward thrust to start truly flying. Even so, Jim had never felt so elated as he watched the ground fall away slightly, the whistling beat of the machine's wings making it seem like it was going hundreds of miles per hour, as opposed to just bobbing gently a few feet off the earth. Not even his amorous kissing sessions with the pretty baker girl compared to it, although by only a marginal amount. But if what the Professor had said was true, which it frequently was, it meant that they would have extra thrust, perhaps enough to safely start climbing to a respectable height without fear of not having enough power at a critical moment. Jim was still learning the equations for calculating mechanical efficiency on the scale of the flying machine, but he felt like they were already incredibly close to breaking away from the confines of gravity.

The Professor's mood seemed to have improved dramatically, as the hound was still grumbling animatedly while he worked once Jim returned with the tools in hand, "--couldn't think of it at the time, but it doesn't matter now. With this, they'll be begging me for development contracts. And won't they be cross when I throw back whatever offer they make and go into private manufacture--"

"I have the tools, sir," Jim said, trying to keep a straight face at the hound's coarse mumbling.

"Eh? Ah yes, hold that there while I tighten this..."

Hours passed quickly as the pair threw themselves into their work, and dusk was swiftly closing over them by the time the Professor blinked blearily at the setting sun and grunted, "Where've the hours gone then? We missed teatime and it's already passed suppertime at that!"

Jim's stomach rumbled in agreement, "I'll have to remind you of this the next time I'm late," he said with a grin.

The Professor frowned, but his tired old eyes sparkled a bit as he repremanded the smirking husky, "Of course you'll never get the opportunity since you're going to show up on time from now on. In any case, you did good work today. Let's go into town and celebrate the flier with a good meal at that restaurant I like, the...ah, what was the damn name of that place again?"

"The Wooden Parrot, sir," Jim replied as he wiped grease from his paws with a rag, "but isn't it bad luck to celebrate if we haven't tested it yet?"

"Bah, nonsense. This old nose of mine can smell a loose screw on a motor carriage, and I haven't caught a whiff of trouble from that flying machine. Let me remind you that youth is a fair weather friend, but I've--"

"--got wisdom and wiles at your side," Jim finished with a weary smile as he went to get the Professor's cane and jacket.

"That's right," growled the inventor, "good to see something's managed to settle into that head of yours."

Jim breathed in the crisp evening air as he walked slowly to keep pace with the Professor's limping stride. The windows of the tall shops and apartments rising around them seemed like the eyes of waking sleepers as occupants flicked on lights against the encroaching dark. It filled the street with a warm yellow glow as the stars twinkled merrily above. It felt like the perfect night for flying, Jim thought to himself as they reached the restaurant, eager to tuck into a well deserved meal...

Satisfied from their supper in a way that only hard work brings, the Professor and his apprentice stepped out of the restaurant and into the dimly lit street.

"Be back at the shop bright and early," the old hound said as he casually filled a weathered, clay pipe.

"Of course, Professor," Jim said with a sigh.

"I mean it, now," the Professor intoned as he deftly struck a match.

"Honestly, sir, I'm as anxious as you are to actually get that thing into the open air. If you wanted, we could keep working and test it tonight," the husky added hopefully, his tail swishing at the thought.

The old inventor took a long drag on his pipe and regarded his apprentice with a heavy-lidded gaze, "Not tonight, my boy. I'm still an old man who needs his rest," his expression hardened slightly, "I recommend you get some as well. I don't need you stumbling in exhausted from some late-night rendezvous."

Jim gave a light sigh and turned slowly toward his journey back to his apartment, "Wouldn't dream of it, sir. Good night."

"Hmm, I'm sure. Good night, lad," the Professor returned as he started on his way in the opposite direction, his cane tapping lightly on the stones of the sidewalk.