Hot and Steamy

by Jean Rabe

  In a show of strength for both myself and any who might be watching, I put a backpack over my shoulder and with my walking cane under my arm, hobbled off toward the ship. Kendo needed to finish negotiation for his horse Thistle, then would bring the rest of our belongings.

  Captain Tatianna was talking with one of the local elders at the ramp, but nodded as I approached.

  “Welcome aboard,” she said.

  I pointed up at the foreign words. “Captain Tatianna, could you share with me the meaning of those words; I do not understand the language.”

  Her smile lit up her face. It caught me a bit off guard, but I welcomed it. “Young one, the three largest words read, ‘Return, Reclaim, Remain.’” She then spoke the words in her language as the elder nodded. “It is a long story. From what I hear, you are from across the great sea.”

  She offered to take my backpack. Accepting the offer, I followed her up the wooden ramp. Questions flooded my mind, none of which I had the courage to ask. She directed me up a spiral staircase that seemed to reach to the very top of the ship. We paused on one of the landings.

  “You can store your belongings in your room here. Kendo will stay with the crew down this hall. Shysie, if there is anything you need, you can ask anyone. Every member of my crew speaks English.” With a parting smile, she left me alone in my room, deep inside a strange warship.

  It wasn’t more than a heartbeat later that I heard a muffled explosion, followed closely by a tremor radiating through the walls and floor. Then another came quickly after the first, followed by a loud bell ringing from above. Tucking my walking cane under my arm, I made my way to the door. I heard people shouting in a strange language and feet pounding up the spiral stairs. Dare I open the door or wait here? The floor shifted strongly. We were taking to the air.

  “Kendo!” I struggled to maintain my balance and fumbled with the door latch.

  “Stay inside!” a man on the other side hollered. Then his feet thundered away up the stairs.

  With the ship rocking so hard to port there was no doubt we were in the air. What was happening? Another explosion, much closer it sounded, ripped through the air. The concussive force sent me reeling back.

  Time was a blur and was filled with shouts, explosions, and most of all fear. My chest was tight with it, my stomach rising up into my throat. A part of me was angry that no one had come to check on me, and yet I’d been told to stay put. Another part was happy they’d left me alone.

  Finally—perhaps an hour or more later—I worked up the courage to head out of the room and down the stairs. A man pushed past me heading up. He spoke not a word. Limping down to the observation deck, I saw the rolling hills fly by. We were a few hundred feet in the air. To me it felt too close to the ground with a ship this size. Inching toward the window, I looked around for a village or any sign of civilization.

  There was none. Just trees and hills passing by. It was entrancing, and I started to relax.

  The familiar voice of the captain snapped me out of a brief trance. “A few of the crew said you were cursed and wanted me to toss you out. A blonde airship albatross or such, they said.” She added a smile, but I was not amused.

  I stood as straight and tall as my one good leg would allow and looked her in the eyes, “How long before we return to the village?”

  Her expression gave me the answer I feared was coming next, “Sorry, little one, we will not be going back to the village.” Turning away and staring out the large observation deck windows, she added, “We should outrun the three U.S. airships chasing us by nightfall. We will then rise and turn southeast and should be well above them after midnight. If there is no sign of them by late tomorrow we will plan to make dock near Gulfport. From there you can take a train anywhere you wish.”

  The taste of bile came fast. There was no point arguing with her.

  As darkness descended, I headed to my room to sulk. This was a sign I had no place in the New World. Maybe returning home to the farm and my family would be best. I could book passage on a train to the coast where I could catch a steamer to Europe.

  The bells sounded as we approached the Gulfport landing. Men below grabbed the ropes as we rotated to point into the wind. The landing was rough.

  My legs were feeling stronger, but the cane still helped as I limped down the ramp and toward the low, flat-roofed station building. It was a sea of bright gaudy clothes and parasols. My beaded white shirt, leather vest, and matching layered leather skirt was not the typical Gulfport fashion, it would seem.

  Kendo wouldn’t know where I ended up.

  I approached a busy train station. All the trains heading west were full, according to the notices. From overheard conversations I discovered that some folks had been waiting for a ride west for more than a week. The only open tickets were eastbound. It was just the New World’s way of saying: “Sheila go home.”

  I didn’t spot anyone I recognized among the crowd, not even the captain. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

  So with a heavy heart and the last of my coin, I purchased a New York ticket and a loaf of bread. I had my belongings in storage in New York.

  The month-long boat ride from New York made multiple stops before reaching Rome. The long voyage should have dulled the pain of missing Kendo, but all it did was birth a thousand regrets. Why hadn’t I searched for him? Had I run away from him instead?

  The train station at the docks in Rome brought back memories. Two years before I’d come here looking for a steamer to the New World . . . a grand adventure awaited. Now I was going home. I was sad, but it would be good to see my family.

  “Kendo, forgive me,” I wrote on the steamy window next to my seat. Taking out my journal, I started a letter to him that I knew I would never mail.

  Dear Kendo,

  Not a day passes that I do not think of you. Your smile, your silly ways, brought more joy to my heart than you can imagine. My choice to go home wasn’t an easy one. I now know it was a foolish one. My leg has healed completely. I no longer need the cane, but I keep it with me as a remembrance of the village. My arm is as good as new thanks to you.

  You saved me.

  There are no words to thank you. I pray that one day we can be together again. I would like that very much. You still need to show me Texas; you promised.

  Love Eternal,

  Sheila, Your Shysie

  I fell asleep, hoping to dream of being in Kendo’s arms once again. The whistle sounded sometime later and I jumped up collecting my things. I’d sent word to my family, hoping they would meet me at the train station. If not, it was going to be a long walk. Pulling at my beaded shirt, making sure it was properly tucked into my leather skirt, I headed for the door. Greeting my father in my Indian apparel might help me talk about Kendo and my hope of one day returning to Texas. My father would not take this well.

  Stepping off the metal stairs, I spotted my father’s imposing form in the distance. His massive build, his short blonde hair and matching beard left him unmistakable. As I made my way toward him the crowd thinned. There was a shorter man with a wide-brimmed black hat standing next to my father, too short to be one of my brothers.

  It was my heart and not my eyes that made the connection.

  I felt unsteady, but walked closer. My eyes darted from my father’s broad smile to the man with his face hidden by the shadow of his hat. My father made the first move and rushed toward me, lifting me high into the air. Still clinging to my bags I gave him a big hug on my way down.

  Before I could speak, act, or even think straight, my father spoke. “Sheila, you wouldn’t believe the story this man has told me.”

  Tears flooded out as Kendo looked up with his loving smile. “Shysie, you are a hard person to find! It is fortunate you talked so much about your father’s farm, and equally fortunate I found a fast steamer and an airship.”

  I rushed into Kendo’s arms, burying my face in his shoulder, “Kendo, how? Why?”

  I could feel father’s hand pat
ting me lightly on the back. “Little Sheila, it is good to have you home. We missed you dearly, but I must say I feel we have missed you less than this young man has.”

  Smiling at Kendo, I mouthed, “I love you.”

  Kendo looked from me to my father. “Shysie, this may have worked out for the best. Texas can wait. There was something I needed to ask your father.” Tears welling in the corners of his eyes, he dropped to one knee. “Sheila Ann Marie VonShelton, will you marry me?”

  Glancing quickly at my smiling father and back to Kendo, I blurted out: “Yes. Yes!”

  Pulling Kendo back to his feet I hugged him close and whispered into ear, “You don’t know what you are in for.”

  He whispered back, “Together we will find out.”

  I playfully bit his ear, “Don’t ever call me by my full name again!”

  His reply: “I love you, too.”

  HER FAITH IS FIXT

  Robert E. Vardeman

  Robert E Vardeman has written more than eighty science fiction, fantasy, and mystery novels. He recently completed the novelization of the Sony PlayStation game God of War 2. He has had short stories in the previous Jean Rabe & Martin Greenberg anthologies Terribly Twisted Tales, Timeshares and Steampunk’d (with another steampunk story, “The Transmogrification Ray”). Vardeman’s collected short stories can be found in Stories from Desert Bob’s Reptile Ranch, with original stories published in e-format. He currently lives in Albuquerque, NM with two cats, Isotope and X-ray. One out of three of them enjoy the high-tech hobby of geocaching. For more info, check out www.CenotaphRoad.com.

  For him she plays, to him she sings

  Of early faith and plighted vows;

  She knows but matters of the house,

  And he, he knows a thousand things.

  Her faith is fixt and cannot move,

  She darkly feels him great and wise,

  She dwells on him with faithful eyes,

  “I cannot understand; I love.”

  In Memoriam A.H.H.—Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  David Somerset elbowed aside two counts and a baron to stand at the edge of the dance floor. He could not take his eyes off her slender form, her trim waist and flaring hips, her surging bosoms billowing up from the bodice of the expensive ball gown so whitely, so enticingly. She floated like a feather on a summer breeze, whirling about in the arms of some British lord. Somerset hardly noted her partner was fourth in line to the British throne.

  All that mattered was the woman, how she moved so delicately with a precise dance step. He agilely dodged the spinning couples in their expensive finery as they waltzed with gusto, turned slightly to the side and thrust his hip between the young duke and the vision of loveliness.

  “My dance, I think. Sorry to have been delayed,” he said, staring into her bright blue eyes. She was the perfect height. Her button nose twitched, at first with irritation at his boldness and then a knowing smile curled her lips.

  “He is right, Duke Richard. Thank you for taking his place.”

  “I say, old chap,” the duke said, puffing up so hard that the medals on his chest rattled. “You can’t do this. She’s Lady Kendall and I—”

  “I’m bewitched.” Somerset slid his arm around her waist and pulled her close. Too close to be seemly, and he did not care, but Lady Kendall did. She stiffened one arm and held him at bay. Her movement was subtle, as befitting a woman aware of her social standing.

  “I know you,” the duke cried. “You’re that explorer fellow Somerset. The one who was in Africa.”

  “Yes, I was there, but left Allan to his hunt,” Somerset said. His feet moved of their own accord. Lady Kendall matched his whirling step perfectly. Leaving the duke lost and sputtering in the mass of the dancers, Somerset turned his full attention to the woman in his arms. He felt the heat from her body, and her scent caused his nostrils to flare. Pearls glistened in her perfectly coiffed midnight black hair, in daring contrast to her sky blue dress that—almost—matched her eyes.

  “You are a bold fellow,” she said. “I suppose that is necessary for a soldier of fortune.”

  “Adventurer,” Somerset corrected. “Lady Kendall, I have just returned from the Dark Continent and immense danger hunting for lost treasure, but nothing I faced there caused my heart to beat as furiously as your beauty.” He contrived to move her hand to his chest. Her fingers pressed lightly into his tuxedo jacket, then returned to his shoulder.

  “Mr. Somerset—”

  “David, please, my lady, call me David.”

  “Then you must call me Mathilda,” she said as they spun on the floor at dizzying speed.

  For Somerset, the world receded and the orchestra might have been playing without strings on their instruments. Mathilda was all there was in his world, and her voice commanded his head and heart.

  “Mathilda, the instant I saw you I was smitten by your beauty.”

  “Don’t become too smitten, David,” she said. They spun again. “Do you see the man in the wheelchair?”

  Somerset took in the indicated man with a quick glance.

  “He is a genius,” she said in a level voice. “He designed the Thunderchild and oversaw its construction.”

  “It was destroyed by the fighting machines,” Somerset said. “I heard about it while still in Africa. I tried to return to fight the invaders, but leaving the Dark Continent proved more difficult than I thought. My zeppelin was disabled for long weeks due to gearing problems.”

  “Charles could help you with that. He not only designed the Thunderchild, but was given permission to examine the destroyed fighting machines. He has learned a great deal from them.”

  “Did he build his wheelchair using the alien technology?” As he swung about Somerset caught sight of the man rolling away without obvious motive power in the wheelchair.

  “Oh, no, that is his design.”

  Somerset looked hard at her. “How is it you mention him when all I wish to hear is your sweet voice telling me you think of me as I do you?”

  “Charles is Lord Kendall.”

  “Your . . . brother?” Somerset felt a coldness build in his belly. Mathilda’s face remained impassive, but there could be no other explanation than that coming from her bow-shaped lips.

  “My husband. Charles and I were married some months before the invasion.”

  “You deserve more,” Somerset blurted. It was an outrageous utterance, but he did not apologize for it. He believed it with all his heart.

  “I know nothing more,” Mathilda said simply.

  “Was he in that contraption when you . . . when you married him?”

  “All my life he has been so afflicted,” she said.

  The music stopped and so did Somerset’s heart.

  “Are you happy with him?” His words rang out across a now silent ballroom.

  “He is my husband.” She curtsied and walked away, regal and unaware of the eyes following her.

  Somerset started to follow but a hand pressed into his chest, holding him back.

  “You are impertinent, sir,” said a mustachioed colonel. “Lady Kendall is not available for your trifling.”

  “This is none of your business.”

  “It is, sir. I am devoted to Lord Kendall. Without his scientific acumen, we would have fallen to the damned aliens.”

  “Germs did them in,” Somerset said, distracted. He watched as Mathilda reached out to put her hand on Charles Kendall’s shoulder. The man maneuvered his wheelchair and surged away, leaving her forlorn to simply stare after him. How he ignored her! How he mistreated her! And how could they possibly be married if the nuptials were not properly consummated?

  “Lord Kendall turned their own devices against them and saved my entire regiment from destruction before they succumbed to God’s will.”

  Somerset felt a sting of conscience. He should have returned to defend his country, in spite of the mechanical problems he had experienced. If only he had quit Allan’s expedition sooner! Let him hunt for his chi
mera on his own. Somerset had doubts King Solomon’s mines would ever be discovered, let alone by Allan.

  “What can you tell me of Lady Kendall?”

  “That you should not distress her—nor speak to her again. Do so at your own risk.” The colonel puffed up his chest to show the Victoria Cross testifying to his bravery.

  “I have no quarrel with you, Colonel,” Somerset said.

  “Think twice about attempting anything foolish. Lord Kendall has installed devices both new and diabolical derived from those bloody foreigners’ technology on the grounds of this estate. No place in all of England is better defended against intruders.”

  “He has a precious jewel to guard,” Somerset said, watching as Mathilda disappeared, dejectedly trailing after her husband.

  The colonel harumphed, made a point of pushing past Somerset, and then went to a cluster of other military officers. All glared at Somerset, but he was oblivious. The more he learned of the lovely woman, the more he felt for her. What life could she possibly have being sequestered behind a defensive ring of weaponry with a husband who ignored her and could not possibly tend to her womanly appetites?

  He wended his way through the dancers as they began a new step, one of which Somerset was unfamiliar. It would not have been good to attempt dancing with Mathilda to this tune since he would have stepped on her dainty slippers. He stopped at the narrow corridor leading away from the ballroom. Servants glided here and there with silent efficiency, bringing trays of food from the kitchen to replenish that devoured by the hungry horde of revelers. Somerset stopped one, who looked at him with dull eyes.

  “Lady Kendall, where did she go?”

  The servant silently pointed to a door set flush with the wall. Somerset might otherwise have missed it in his hurry to once more speak with the object of his amorous interest.

  “Thank you,” he said, but the servant had already turned and stalked away, his gait slightly askew. Somerset wondered if Lord Kendall hired veterans and this was a war injury. He pushed the notion aside as he pressed his fingers against the indicated door and slid it open. Quickly entering the dim corridor beyond, he found a ramp leading into the bowels of the mansion. Tiny rubber marks showed where Lord Kendall had taken turns in the ramp too fast as he descended.