Waistcoats & Weaponry

by Gail Carriger

  “Looks like.”

  “I guess the Picklemen decided we know too much,” said Dimity. Rather calm, Sophronia thought proudly, under the circumstances.

  “Or your darling Lord Mersey ratted us out,” said Sidheag.

  “Not my darling anything, Sidheag.” Sophronia was abruptly tired of that game. And she didn’t like the way Soap’s shoulders hunched at Sidheag’s words.

  “If they know we’re Mademoiselle Geraldine’s girls and not Bunson’s boys…” Sidheag stressed her point. Bunson’s boys on the loose larking up to Scotland were one thing. Bunson’s boys were dangerous with exotic inventions but could be depended upon to come ’round to the Pickleman agenda eventually. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s girls, on the other hand, were dangerous with information and couldn’t be depended upon by anyone but their patrons.

  That was the moment when Sophronia realized their safest course of action would have been to return to school. The Picklemen would never make a direct move against Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, for that would only get intelligencers investigating. Plus, they couldn’t afford to make an outright enemy of Lady Linette.

  The dirigible following them had a propeller spinning at high speed. It had also caught a stiff breeze and was gaining on them.

  Nevertheless, a train was faster than most dirigibles, except those new high-flyers out of France. They could tell even at a distance that this was an older model, of the kind Queen Victoria once employed in the Royal Float Force, heavy and heavily armed.

  They had only one choice.

  “I guess we try to outrun it,” said Soap. “All hands to the boilers!”

  By this point in the journey, most of the girls had given Dusty a hand with the boilers, breaking whenever he needed a rest. As a result, they had all developed some rudimentary shoveling savvy. They also had arms screaming from the unexpected activity. Sophronia had thought, before this journey, that she was rather fit. She was, after all, prone to climbing around airships and swinging from hurlies. But stoking was a whole different beast. It was awfully hard work, and explained Soap’s delightful muscles. There were only two shovels on the train, so they took turns going as fast as they could, working their way through what coal was left in the tender at an alarming rate. One girl, inside the tender, scooped it forward into range, then the stoker shoved it as fast as possible into the boiler.

  The train screamed at the top of its pitch, engine taxed almost beyond capacity.

  “Any more and we won’t make those turns,” Dusty cautioned Soap, who nodded his agreement.

  The girls kept shoveling.

  “We don’t want to blow her, and we don’t want to lose the rails!” yelled Soap.

  So they had to relax their efforts, even though Dimity reported that the dirigible, while not gaining on them, was keeping pace.

  It was a challenging afternoon. Mademoiselle Geraldine’s prepared its young ladies for unusual situations, but it did not prepare them for heavy labor. The very idea! Even as intelligencers, actually working was not expected of women of standing. Now that Sophronia, Dimity, and Sidheag were acting drudges, they didn’t even have time to stop for tea. Not that there was any tea.

  As the sun began to set and the moon rose, now on the waning side of full, they realized the tender was empty.

  It wasn’t a surprise, they knew it was coming, but now they had to face reality.

  They fed the boiler more slowly, eking out the last of the reserves that Bumbersnoot hadn’t consumed, drawing out the inevitable.

  “The flywaymen are gaining on us,” reported Dimity.

  An hour or so later, “They’re on our tail now.”

  Half an hour after that, “Cannons are up.”

  And then, “Can’t see them anymore, they must be right on top of us.”

  A boom sounded.

  “They’re firing!” said Dimity.

  “Yes, dear. We can hear that,” said Sophronia.

  Nothing happened; the train continued to clatter along. The cannonball must have missed. There was a long pause while the dirigible reloaded. Soap gave the engine all the throttle they had, but the boiler was cooling regardless.

  Another boom sounded.

  This time Dimity didn’t report the occurrence. But the train did shake dramatically. It shuddered and then began to squeal as if the brake were being applied.

  Soap said, “We’re dragging something against the line. One of the back carriages might be off the tracks. It could derail the rest of us if we aren’t careful.” He let the train slow further.

  Sophronia said, “We’ll have to decouple them. Only solution. Should have thought of it sooner; dragging less weight, we would have used less coal.”

  “Too late now,” said Soap.

  “Never!” said Sophronia, readying her hurlie.

  “You can’t go out there,” objected Dimity. “They’re shooting cannons at us!”

  “One cannon, and it takes them time to reload, not to mention recover the height of the airship and reseat the recoil guard. I have ten minutes.” Before she’d finished her explanation, Sophronia leapt and grabbed the top of the doorjamb, swinging to climb up onto the cab roof. She might have been more graceful had they not been moving fast. As it was, she bumped her shin.

  “Sophronia,” reprimanded Dimity at the top of her voice, “you’re too impetuous. You’ll get yourself killed!”

  It was a lot easier to run along the top of the carriages and jump from one to the next when she was moving in the opposite direction to the train. As soon as she’d crossed the freight carriages, she saw the problem. The second-to-last carriage, the one in front of the coach that held the airdinghy, had detached partly from the transmitter’s carriage. The airdinghy was tilted oddly, because half of the coach below had been blown away.

  Sophronia crouched on the roof of the transmitter to evaluate the situation. Then, trying not to worry over the danger, she hooked the grapple part of her hurlie into the top edge of the freight carriage and lowered herself down the side. Partly standing on the coupler base, and partly dangling from one arm, she examined the coupler at her feet. Bent double, she was grateful she’d chosen to leave off her stays.

  One of the holding pegs had fallen out, and its broken chain was dragging on the track. The coupler was linked only halfway as a result. The drag on the line that Soap had described must be coming from farther back, probably that last coach.

  Sophronia worked to free the second peg, to lose the dead weight of those last two passenger carriages. It was wedged tight as a new glove. It didn’t help that she had only one hand to apply to the task, her other being occupied holding her steady, dangling from the hurlie. She also had no way to brace herself. She banged at the peg with the heel of her hand. Nothing.

  She pulled out a vial of perfume oil and tried adding that, to grease it loose.

  Still nothing, and now her hand was slippery.

  She swung about and kicked at the peg hard. All that seemed to do was bruise her foot. Her various weapons weren’t going to work. She needed brute force and she hadn’t anything about her person.

  It wasn’t in her nature to give up. She climbed up the freight carriage and ran as quickly as she could back along the top of the train.

  Time had run out.

  Behind her came cannon fire. She flattened herself to the top of the carriage.

  The train shook and she heard the ghastly noise of metal and wood rending asunder. The train slowed to a crawl.

  Sophronia looked behind and saw that the last carriage was now a mess of wood and plush interiors dragging behind. Their poor little airdinghy, which had served them so well and proudly, was part of the wreckage.

  Queen Victoria’s old military floaters were able to take the weight of only four cannonballs. It was one of the reasons they’d been discontinued. That meant the flywaymen behind them only had one more shot.

  Sophronia had just enough time while they reloaded to do what needed to be done.

  She j
umped to her feet and dashed on, ending on the roof of the cab.

  She stuck her head down over the edge into the engine room.

  “Soap, I need you!”

  “I’m a little busy right now, miss.”

  “Miss?” said Dusty, confused by the gender switch.

  “I’ll explain later,” reassured Sidheag.

  “Let Sidheag drive,” said Sophronia to Soap.

  “I’m helping Dusty!” protested Sidheag.

  “Then let Dimity drive. This will only take a moment.”

  Dimity’s face went owl-like in awe at her new responsibility. Nevertheless, she gamely stepped forward. Soap reluctantly relinquished his position.

  “Just keep this gauge here at that mark, see? And this one between those two lines? Got it, miss?”

  “I think so, Mr. Soap.”

  “Another miss?” objected Dusty.

  “You can’t tell me that one surprises you?” protested Sidheag.

  “Are you a miss, too?” Dusty was still gamely shoveling.

  But Soap had swung himself out and climbed up on the roof next to Sophronia. They had other things to repair than Dusty’s sensibilities.

  “This better be important, miss.”

  “Come on! They only have one more shot.”

  “How you figure that?”

  “With airships, weight is weight, they can’t have redesigned it that much. That’s an old model. It can only carry as much as it did in the old days.”

  “If you say so.”

  Sophronia was already running, crouched low, along the roofs of the carriages back toward the problem coupler. Soap followed gamely. They reached the edge of the freight carriage unscathed. Soap was not quite so sure-footed as Sophronia, but then she was beginning to feel that this was her native environment, running over the roofs of a moving train.

  She pointed to the problem below. “There, can you work that last peg loose?”

  Soap hung over the edge. “I’ll do my best.”

  Sophronia handed him the hurlie and he lowered himself down.

  He dropped farther than she had, bracing one foot precariously against each of the tiny bars at the ends of the carriages, straddling the coupler. It was a good thing they were moving slowly. He wrapped both hands about the peg and tried to shift it, twisting back and forth, tugging. The muscles of his back and shoulders strained. It was a dangerous position. If he was successful and the back carriage separated, he would fall off the end.

  The peg wouldn’t budge, so he shifted to bang at it with his feet, just as Sophronia had done. Then he grabbed and wiggled it.

  Cannon fire sounded. Sophronia, crouching on top, flattened herself to the roof once more.

  Soap returned to pulling just as a massive jolt hit the train, jerking the coupler.

  He tugged, everything jumped, and the peg worked free all at once. Now lacking the safety peg, and with the back carriages dragging against the tracks, the train decoupled. The front part of the train drew away.

  Soap was forced into an uncomfortable contortion. He shifted his weight and pinwheeled forward, into the emptiness where the train had been. Sophronia lurched for the hurlie rope, grabbing on to it just in time. Her arms wrenched and she almost slid over the side, for Soap was no lightweight. She gritted her teeth and braced her chest against the transmitter edge. Front padding had some uses but it wasn’t comfortable.

  Soap swung and slammed against the back of the freight carriage. But they weren’t dragging him along the track, which was something. Sophronia strained, holding him up by pure force of will, for he really was too heavy for her.

  Soap was a dead weight. Sophronia’s arms began to shake and she wasn’t going to be able to hold him for long.

  Then his head lifted and he twisted, scrambling for some kind of purchase on the train. His feet found the remaining half of the coupler. With Sophronia’s added weight on the hurlie, he managed to stand, leaning against the back of the freight carriage.

  “Soap! Soap, are you hurt?” Sophronia’s voice sounded overly breathless and winded to her own ears.

  “Just stunned and a little bruised, miss. Don’t you worry about me.”

  “If you’re able, can I let go the hurlie? Then you can crank it in yourself?”

  “Ready, miss.”

  Sophronia let go. Soap managed to pull in on the hurlie rope so it was once more taut to the grapple over the top rail. He used the tension to climb up to the roof.

  Sophronia pounced upon him. She was not so brave as to hug him, but her hands were quick to stroke over his head, checking for injury. He’d lost his cap, and the texture of his tight, curly hair was reassuring. She could feel no stickiness of blood, although he would have a bumper of an egg on the back left side.

  “How do you feel? Are you dizzy? Did you rattle your brain?” She could not stop petting him.

  Soap submitted meekly to her ministrations. “I’m fine, miss. Not much brain to rattle. You know me, same color and toughness as old boot leather.”

  Sophronia sighed and forced herself to stop touching him.

  He caught one of her hands as she lowered them.

  “Though I do like your concern, miss.” He was looking at her with those serious dark eyes. The ones that switched twinkle for intent.

  The horror of almost losing him curdled her stomach and she felt quite ill. Sophronia also wished she could see into his eyes clearly, check the state of his pupils. Sister Mattie had warned them about derangement of the brain due to physical force.

  The train gave a start, as though sensing its newfound freedom, and picked up speed.

  Sophronia braced Soap solicitously.

  He let her, because he knew she needed it.

  The moment Sophronia realized this, she knew she was in trouble. Because it had always been that way between her and Soap. And it was more than friendship. And she was an idiot not to have realized it sooner. What was it she had told Dimity? I want a man who stays out of my way. Soap wouldn’t ever get in her way.

  “Miss, are you well?”

  “Soap, I…”

  They heard a shouting above them and looked up to see the underside of the flywaymen’s dirigible, managing to keep pace.

  Several men were leaning over the edge, their faces pale in the dim light of evening. One of those faces was Felix’s and another was that of his father.

  The Duke of Golborne was pointing a very wicked-looking pistol at them.

  “You know what,” said Sophronia to Soap, “I think I have rather decided to hate guns.”

  “Interesting decision in your line of work,” replied Soap conversationally, letting her go and slowly turning to face this new threat.

  The duke yelled down, “Stay where you are, young lady!”

  So Felix has told him who I am. Or what I am, at the very least. Sophronia ignored the duke and stared at her erstwhile beau. Felix Mersey had the grace to look ashamed. Sophronia ought to have felt betrayed, but mostly she simply felt disappointed.

  Sophronia yelled up at the duke, “I can’t very well obey you, sir, even if I wanted to. In case it has slipped your notice, I’m not the one driving this train.”

  “Oh, I noticed. And here’s what we are going to do about it. You leave the darkie here and I’ll keep a careful eye on him while you go order the driver to stop. If you manage that in the space of ten minutes, then you will return to find him still alive. How’s that for a fair bargain?”

  He gestured casually with the pistol as he talked.

  Soap said, calm and mild-mannered, “I take your point about guns, miss.”

  Sophronia said up to the airship, “I’m disappointed, Your Grace. I thought you hired others to do your dirty work.”

  The duke was not to be distracted by taunting. “Sometimes if you want something done properly, you had best organize it yourself. You can’t distract me, young lady; my son here has told me all about your wiles and ways. I fail to see the appeal, but he assures me of your many stealthy
means of attraction. I’ve loosed your coils about him and I assure you they will have no effect on me.”

  Sophronia was slightly revolted at the idea that she would use any wiles whatsoever on someone the duke’s age. She was also angry that Felix had attributed their nascent romance to her training. Although, of course, he might be blaming her to get out of trouble with his father. But she was also a little flattered that the duke thought she was that good.

  Nevertheless, there was a gun to think about. It was now pointing, despite the dirigible bobbing and the train swaying, with a remarkably steady hand, directly at Soap’s chest.

  Sophronia looked into Soap’s face. “I’ll be quick as I can.”

  He whispered, unheard by the men floating above them, “Just make a break for it, miss. Now that we dropped the dead weight, I’m certain the train can outrun them with the last of the coal. I’ll be fine.”

  Sophronia looked over his shoulder, out into the countryside rushing past, stalling for time. She caught sight of something moving at speed across the open fields toward them. Probably attracted by the cannon fire.

  Two somethings.

  One of which had a top hat tied to his furry, lupine head.

  “Now, Miss Temminnick!” insisted the duke, pistol cocked. So he knows my name as well as my gender. Fantastic.

  Sophronia leaned in to Soap, who still wore the hurlie, which was still hooked to the top railing of the freight carriage.

  She fell against him as though to embrace him good-bye in an excess of emotion. “They only have one ship,” she whispered into his ear.

  Soap was confused but willing to participate even under the threat of an anxious gun. “Yes, miss.”

  “And there are four of us, four people who know too much.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “If we separate, they can’t chase all of us.”

  “Ah,” said Soap, following her reasoning, testing the tension in the hurlie. “Yes, I see.”

  Soap understood her. Soap would always understand.

  DEWAN EX MACHINA

  Soap was still shaky from his head bang, but he was stronger than Sophronia, and they hadn’t time to switch anyway. Thus, for purely practical reasons, he had to hold the hurlie.