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(from La fievre du Steampunk)
Links to the beginning of this story:
From “The Burning Sky”
I didn’t see anything broken where wings might be as I observed its tortured progress over a tumbled stone wall that bordered farmland.
“It might be easier to roll your way home, dingus.”
It came to a standstill, sank down on its haunches, and emitted another oppressed sigh.
“Shall I carry you?”
I half-expected it to raise its arms, or legs, like a babe. Or shoot me with a well-aimed bullet from the tiny port hole in its round belly as I approached it. I made up my mind to take it up from the road, if it would let me, and bring it back to the Penelope, perhaps put it in the trunk until I could stop for camp. I’d give it an oil bath and a proper looking over in order to discover either the owner or its purpose.