The Electric Rifle

Steampunk-ish flash fiction that I wrote mainly to experiment with a female main.

It wasn’t as though I’d never seen an electric rifle. They weren’t as common as powder guns, but a few shops in town got them in on occasion. Now that I think back, it’s surprising how many passed through such a small town in England. As a young girl, my access to gun shops was more open than one might expect. My dad being who he is, I was afforded opportunities that other girls my age wouldn’t dream of having.

Me? Oh, well, that’s a story. Let’s start with who my father is and you’ll understand better. General Cunningham of the Royal Air Force commands the largest fleet of hydrogen airships and fighting planes west of Germany. He was famous even before I was born. Then, in 1895, he was a highly successful balloonist and Lieutenant in the RAF. He’d been credited with taking over ten German balloons in the short conflict that broke out over trading rights with Africa.

Balloon fighting was ungainly and awkward. Hot-air craft, though entertaining, are not maneuverable by any stretch of imagination. Combat from a reinforced basket under a fabric sphere consists largely of luck. The first to punch a hole large enough in the enemy’s balloon or kill the pilot wins. It was almost unheard of for an airman to destroy ten balloons without being shot down. So, my dad was justifiably well-known and well-paid.

Now, sixteen years later, James Robert Cunningham is General of the Royal Air Force and father to a rather privileged fifteen year old girl. I wasn’t ever spoiled, just never subjected to need. My father was always a tough one for discipline and I got away with nothing growing up. Perhaps because my mother disappeared after I was born dad always cracked down on me. I was more a son to him than a daughter. Granted, I’ve never been too interested in girlish pursuits. Dresses frustrate me, make-up seems pointless, and I’ve never paid attention to my figure. Not that I’ve really needed to.

As an athletic girl I always kept in good condition. In fact, thanks to my gender I was always one step ahead of the boys. I was faster, stronger, and had more endurance. Not to mention I had the means to learn more than other children. The library in our home was full and varied. Reading was my primary opportunity for learning, public school not being too successful at the time. Soon, the boys began to catch up.

Once adolescence began, muscles filled in and hardened. The boys started beating me in sports. I hated it. I pushed myself harder than I ever had. I forced myself to match them through dedication and natural talent but still I struggled to keep up. Luckily, the classroom was one place that growth spurts didn’t help. My father was still a wealthy military man, so I had no limit to my learning outside of school.

The problem I ran into was my love of weapons and aircraft. I begged my father to let me to join the Air Force. Of course, he turned me down with a stern admonition. No woman would ever join the Royal armed forces, much less the prized Air Force. Sure, I was free to balloon in our private collection of old hot-air bags. Those were outdated by now, more maneuverable aeroplanes and zeppelins having replaced them. I had even been allowed to pilot a small airship my father built himself. Nothing compelled me like the heady rush of looking down, dizzy, over the distant ground. That never changed the fact that I longed to pilot something bigger.

When I was fourteen I managed to convince father that I should have a rifle of my own. It was a powder rifle. Standard, clunky, and boring, it didn’t thrill me for long. The only delight the firearm brought me was the fact that I could outshoot any boy in town. Still, I wanted an electric rifle. Those were rare and I had never fired one.

See, electric rifles are highly expensive and hard to come by. Even the military only uses a minimal amount. They are powered by a battery that gives off a charge. The charge, in turn, sets off the bullet’s hydrogen gas in order to fire. It’s really not so different from the spark plug of a motorcar, only it runs off electricity, not petrol. In any event, the rifles aren’t often seen in London, much less this little town. So, when I found the electric rifle thrust into my hands I was shocked. Pun not intended.

War broke out over Europe in June of 1909 and finally reached the mainland of Great Britain six months later. The Germans invaded. Everything the government feared for nearly two years came to us here in April 1911. At first, the roar of zeppelin engines brought on a familiar feeling of happiness. My first thought was that my father was home early from his campaign in southern France. Then, we heard the rumbling explosions of bombardment and knew the truth. They’d broken through the air blockade over the channel.

After our town was half flattened in the bombings our planes and airships forced the huge zeppelins away. The black iron crosses faded into the distance on the horizon. Now, the troops that had been unleashed from the German balloons were running havoc in the streets. We hardly had any soldiers in town. When the young private forced an expensive electric rifle in my hands it was somewhat to be predicted.

It was only because I’d recently had my hair cut short that I resembled a boy. Not to mention my baggy shirt hid the proof of my femininity. I wasn’t gifted in the chest region anyway. In any case, I found myself holding the weapon I’d longed to use while in the torturous position of being too terrified to use it.

Only when the man who gave me the rifle was cut down by a screaming German was I motivated to action. Lifting the rifle I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Cursing myself for a bollocks I pulled out the safety rubber that kept the electricity from flowing. The Kraut hadn’t seen me yet and I took aim.

Electric rifles have odd sights. They’re a sort of sphere with a hole through the middle. I looked through it at the German soldier running down the street and squeezed the trigger once more. A strange buzzing noise emanated from the gun and the bullet burst from the barrel with a strange “ploomp” sound after the crack of the hydrogen flaring. I was astonished to see the Kraut throw his arms up and fall over. I had just shot a man.

I stood frozen in horror for only a second. Another German screamed in that guttural language. I’d been discovered. Ducking and rolling, I dove for cover. Bullets threw up puffs of dust behind me, inches from my ankles. I twirled around, pulled back the recharger, jumped up over the broken brick wall and triggered the magnificent rifle for the third time. I missed this time, but only just. The soldier ducked behind a fence on the other side of the street and fired off several rounds that made their pounding ricochets off the bricks in front of me.

From my knees I pulled the recharge again and a whir started. I knew I’d have to wait for about five seconds for it to charge. This rifle was, it seemed, used several times before it was pressed into my unproved hands. Bullets continued to pound into the wall. Finally, the whirring stopped and the German ceased fire. I knew from some instinct that the enemy was reloading his rifle.

I stood and took aim over the wall opposite me. The kraut peered over the wall. His eyes widened but he had no time to react. My bullet took him between the eyes. Then, just as quickly as it started it ended. Several soldiers ran past me toward fallen comrades. A captain walked over to me.

“Crack shot my lad! You shoot better than most of my men,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. Cripes I must really look like a boy.

“Thanks sir,” I said, lowering my voice.

The officer grinned and tousled my hair, “If you ever decide to join the army, son, tell them Captain Angstrom recommended you.”

All I could do was nod. Sure, my boy voice is convincing, but I didn’t want to risk much conversation. Especially after the adrenaline of the fever pitched skirmish began to fade. He walked away towards his own men, a smile still on his face.

So, I got to fire my first electric rifle in true combat. Not only did I use it, I killed twice. The feeling was foreign. I don’t know if I liked it. A rush of power came with it, but with sickening horror accompanying. Regardless, I resolved, if the enemy comes to my town again: I will kill again.