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As boardings went, this one was boring. Not a single shot fired and every damn crewmember threw down their weapons.
I secured them to the remaining struts with rough hemp ropes, (making sure I confiscated all their blades) not yet sure if I wanted to release them when I blew the hull.
Carefully I led the way to the bridge, confident that my crew would do their job in liberating the prisoners. I didn’t trust anyone to take down the Hawke but me.
“Ah, Trudé, my love, my only love. I knew that fate would bring us together again,” he proclaimed with arms open wide, ready to embrace me. Or drive a knife into my back. “You look magnificent, my dear.” He surveyed me with lustful hope in his eye.
I blinked in the watery dimness as waves slapped the portholes, unsure of what I saw. One eye. An ocular-monoculux, in the place where his right eye should be, clicked and whirred as he shifted focus from my bust line to the men behind me, all of us heavily armed.
“Is that any way to greet your long lost husband?” His right arm jerked as it folded down to his side and gripped the sawed-off shotgun on his hip.
The gibbering fear he had induced in me at one time roiled in my gut turning into hate and disgust. “You aren’t man enough for me,” I said. At the same time I noticed his mechanical arm, I realized he wore a heavy canister strapped to his back.
Long hoses draped away from the contraption like giant squid tentacles to plug into a steam outlet in the interior bulkhead. Steam powered that false eye and mechanical arm. Steam chained him to that outlet and those hoses. That gave me an idea.
His articulated fingers closed around the gun grip, the trigger finger already curling into place.
No time to speculate, or distract him.
I stomped on the steamhose with my boot heel, releasing another of my hidden blades from my heel. A hot hiss followed the knife severing the hose.
Hawke turned to face me, each movement a calculated jerk. What he lacked in smoothness he made up for in speed. He already held the shotgun level with my heart. My crew backed away, spreading out, less likely to get caught in the scatter shot.
“Is that any way to treat your long lost husband?” Hawke snarled.
“How much steam do you have left?” I retorted, pointing to the hot mist shooting from the hose rather than into his body. I prayed that his artificial joints would lock up fast.
“More than enough, my dear.” He threw his head back and laughed.
I heard a scurry of movement below decks moving upward. The prisoners, I hoped.
I stomped on the second hose and a new leak burst out.
“Safeguards. I have safeguards,” Hawke said. His left hand reached behind him and yanked the hose out of the base of the canister. “Reserves.” He held the shotgun steady. His finger jerked once, closer to contact with the trigger.
But the canisters continued to hiss. He hadn’t unscrewed the hose ends, only yanked them free. The valves hadn’t fully closed.
“You’re alone, Hawke. Your crew surrendered without a fight. How much steam do you have? Enough to kill every last one of us?” My gaze flitted right and left seeking a weakness.
Weakness? Not bloody likely.
“You never did have much in the way of moral restraint,” I said taking a more casual stance. My hands opened at my sides in a gesture of vulnerability. “But you would never stoop to running slaves while you worked with me.” I let my contempt drip with each word.
“Times change, Trudé. Circumstances change. Now I want you and your crew to get out of my way. You’ve left my vessel somewhat less than airworthy. So now that you’ve transferred my cargo to the Swan, which should have been my ship as part of the marriage settlement, I’ll relieve you of command. You may take the Hawke to port. If you can get it that far.” He gestured with his shotgun for us to back away from the hatch.
“You’ve become a slave, Hawke. A slave to the machines that keep you moving and alive.”
“And are you not a slave to your machines? Your ship, your guns, your dragons?” His mouth quirked up on one side in half a smile, the left side, not the side with the artificial eye and arm.
“My machines are tools. I work with them, I understand them, and I can fix most of them if they break. Technology should be a partnership to enhance our lives, not dominate it.”
“You have your definitions. I have mine,” Hawke sneered.
“What happened?” I asked, stalling rather than concerned for his welfare. I had cared for him at one time. Emphasis on the past tense. “Run into a jealous husband who’s meaner than you?” I stood firm.
“Shark, actually. The hot air balloon you gave me sprang a leak off the shore of Australia. Great whites were circling there. I killed one by shoving my knife down his throat. The bugger tore my arm to shreds in the process.”
“And the eye?”
“Infection I picked up in some rat infested flop house in Shanghai.” He shrugged as if he’d lost nothing. “Actually, I didn’t really lose anything, except some money paid to the Chinese gadget makers and magicians.” That uncanny eye whirred and stretched out telescopically. He looked a little pale, sweating copiously across his brow and under his arms.
The signs of pain. Or opium withdrawal. Another form of slavery.
“What are you looking for, Hawke? Can that thing see through my clothes to locate all my weapons?”
“Only one I want. The Yuenite crystal.”
“Won’t do you any good without the Gonne.” It slipped from my hand with a clatter, bouncing and skidding across the tilted deck.
Forbes, my useful lieutenant who anticipated my thoughts like good first officer should, lifted his foot over it. “I get my boots made by the same cobbler she does,” he said. “Now, let’s see, there is one spot, right here at the base of the barrel were the steam is converted to light . . .”
“Go ahead. I don’t really need the Gonne. I just need the crystal.” Hawke’s eye made another slow and painful adjustment, bringing his focus back to me.
“Ah, you have truly become a slave to your machines; you need to constantly make them better, channeling all of you cunning, ruthlessness, and money into them. Running slaves, murdering innocent farmers, condemning children to brothels means nothing to you. You don’t know it yet, but your slave master is a machine instead of a warlord.”
“And you aren’t?” he barked back at me. His trigger finger seemed frozen in place. I hoped his steam reserves waned.
“You think fixing a Yuenite crystal to the eye will make it as good as a real eye?”
Forbes had inched around until he stood outside Hawke’s peripheral vision. We had Hawke trapped. But he still held a lethal weapon aimed at my heart at nearly point blank range.
“The crystal won’t help you, Hawke. It will only demand more power. All your steam will go to feeding it, and not moving your arm, or any other part of you that you’ve sacrificed to your master, the machine. Tell me, can you separate from the canisters at all? Can you walk about and lead a normal life without them? No. You are chained to your machine more so than any slave in a Warlord’s army is chained to his bunk each night. You sold yourself to a machine.”
“Give me the crystal, Trudé. I need the crystal.” Each word came out in an individual expulsion, as if he used all his remaining energy to speak.
I lifted my eyebrows to Forbes in a silent signal. He slid a machete out of the sheath on his back, soundlessly. In one swift, arcing movement he severed the straps that held the canisters to Hawke’s back.
Hawke whirled to confront Forbes, pressing the shotgun into my crewman’s chest.
Forbes froze in place, holding the machete out to his side.
“You, you, y . . . can’t . . . do . . .” Hawke stammered, his voice winding down with each breath.
“I just did,” Forbes said blandly. Using the flat of his blade he flicked the shotgun out of Hawke’s hand.
The mechanical fingers convulsed, trying to press a trigger that was no
longer there. Hawke’s jaw flapped but no words came out.
He’d surrendered more than his eye and arm to the machine. His very lifeforce had been replaced. He should have died months ago.
Maybe he had. All that was left of the handsome adventurer was the machine.
The sounds of retreating feet had stopped.
“It’s time to reunite Mr. Seaforth with his parents and sisters. “Liberate the crew and scuttle this damn boat. She won’t run slaves again. Never again.”
“What about . . . ?” Forbes gestured with the machete.
“A captain goes down with his ship.”
“Will you?”
“If I have to. But don’t force the issue even if I do make you first officer. The White Swan is a demanding partner. If you don’t keep a firm hand on her, she’ll try to take over your life, become your owner.”
We both spent a long silent moment of regret staring at what was left of Hawke, opening and closing his mouth without speaking, fingers still trying to pull a trigger that was not there.
I felt no regret. My Hawke was already dead. But not my Swan.
Introduction: Shadow Dancer
And here I present the first Steampunk story I wrote. It appeared in Shadow Conspiracy, edited by Phyllis Irene Radford and Laura Anne Gilman from Book View Café. This is a shared world anthology that began with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and continued with mathematical genius Ada Lovelace (the only legitimate daughter of Lord Byron) and her business partner Charles Babbage. How would they have changed the world if they’d succeeded in building the analytical engine? Madame Magdala sauntered into the brainstorming sessions and refused to leave. The character of Emma has her own story in the original anthology. The British spellings are deliberate.
Shadow Dancer
Irene Radford
April 1843
“Who may I say is calling?” the black-clad butler demanded. He tried looking down his long nose at me, but he underestimated my height and his gaze affixed instead to my décolletage. Pink tinged his cheeks. A human servant. How delightfully old-fashioned.
I did not approve of the new mode of employing soulless automata or Promethean constructs—creatures pieced together from multiple corpses and shocked back into animation.
The butler’s eyes remained lowered, as if studying the intricate pattern of the deep fichu of white Buckinghamshire point ground lace—the hexagonal background made it a point ground lace—that disguised just how low my crimson gown draped. The lace alone probably cost two months of his salary.
“You may inform Lord Reginald and Rebecca Lady Reedstone that Madame Magdala has answered their summons.” I brushed past him before he could block my path to the interior of this tidy manor. I admired the clean mortar in the brickwork in a style dating from the time of the James the First. A modest home ten miles north of London for a man who wielded tremendous power and wealth in the dirigible industry.
I sniffed delicately. The scent of desiccated roses and lilies atop the staleness of a long-closed house told me much. I could delay a few moments for more observation. I paused before the stippled mirror embedded in the hall tree. No, not stippled, dusty. Needing a better look, I untied my deep-brimmed bonnet and veil that matched my gown perfectly and thrust them into the butler’s hands. Then I smoothed my blonde coiffure, letting my gaze flit about while facing the mirror. What I thought were traces of cobweb turned out to be black threads caught in the frame.
The mirror gave me reflected glimpses of the parlour. A well executed family portrait in oils jumped to my attention. It showed Lord Reginald and his wife nearing their fifties, judging by the age lines around their eyes and the traces of grey in their hair. Between them sat a small boy child of about five. Black crepe draped the painting.
Now I knew why the fifth Baron of Reedstone had sent his private carriage for me, and agreed to my rather exorbitant fee.
“You may show me to your master and mistress,” I commanded the butler.
He sniffed in disdain as he proceeded me up the broad staircase that curved around the west wall of the majestic hall.
We proceeded up the staircase at a ponderous rate, thick Turkey carpet absorbing every nuance of sound from my sturdy boots. The butler took an awkward step toward the wall. The riser squeaked beneath his weight. His next step jogged toward the railing. Another squeak.
“If the sound of the carriage on the gravel drive and my ringing of the bell did not alert Lord Reginald and Lady Reedstone to my arrival, your game of musical stairs is redundant,” I pointed out.
“We have our rituals. You have yours.”
“Agreed.”
“Automata find the squeak most irritating,” he unbent enough to explain. “Sometimes the monsters are hard to detect. Their reaction to the squeaking stairs exposes them every time, and out they go.”
“I understand.” I hid a small smile. I had a whistle built into the steam engine that powered the card files of my research library at the Book View Café for much the same purpose. Also, Promethean constructs found the bright gas lights scattered around the cafe most uncomfortable.
I had little prejudice against the unnatural servants. But I liked knowing who I dealt with, in case certain of my dead enemies had managed to transfer their souls into an immortal body or complex machine.
The butler announced me to his master and mistress in a small but cosy parlour overlooking the walled kitchen garden at the back of the house. A coal fire in the corner hearth spread too much warmth on this damp early summer morning. Rainy days brought welcome relief from baking temperatures but retained some warmth, unlike the summer of ’16 during which summer did not come at all. We went from winter to autumn again to winter.
I blame the weather for the horrors that began that cold and rainy year.
“Lord Reginald, Lady Reedstone.” I curtsied to the proper depth, not bowing my head, a little deeper than I would for an acquaintance of equal status, not as deep as I would for a duke or earl. These people had titles. I had dignity and a reputation.
I used that little impertinence to scan the room and my hosts in one quick glance. More somber black in their clothing. Heavy swaths of sombre cloth draped the bowed form of a hair wreath, lovely flowers made from locks cut from the recently deceased. Round and hearty in their portrait, both the lord and his lady now looked drawn, reduced in health, energy, and size.
“Madame Magdala, please sit.” Lady Reedstone gestured toward a wing back chair adjacent to and matching her own. Lord Reginald perched upon a lyre-back straight chair across from her.
“Will you take tea?” the lady asked. Her be-ringed hand fluttered around the pot on a tray table before her.
“I prefer coffee if you have it. But tea will do.” I settled my skirts and petticoats around me, feeling like a brightly plumed bird in this shadowed house.
The butler appeared at my elbow, placing a silver pot on the tray. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee wafted pleasantly upward. “Thank you, Simon,” Lord Reginald dismissed him. “When we engaged you, we researched your preferences, Madame.”
I nodded appreciation.
When the door clicked shut, Lady Reedstone rounded on me. “We need to know—”
“You wish to know if you will bear another child to replace the one who has died,” I completed for her.
She reared back, gasping in astonishment, hand over her heart. The pulse below her ear beat visibly, rapidly.
“You asked for a Seeress,” I said on a light shrug, as if discerning people’s secrets was a special talent rather than keen observation and awareness of patterns. “I would not be worth my fees if I didn’t know why you asked me here.”
“Please, Madame Magdala. We need to know. We have no other child. My title and lands are entailed to the male line. I would like to keep my businesses away from the next heir. My wife has not many childbearing years left,” Lord Reginald said.
“And what will happen to your honours and your estate if you die with
out an heir?” I poured my own coffee, adding rich cream and turbinado sugar. My gaze went to the slight whirlpool I created with the spoon. I had to keep the vortex moving until I determined the right time to peer into the liquid, and sometimes beyond.
“My younger brother’s son will inherit both,” Lord Reginald explained. “His debts will eat up most of the assets overnight. His dissipations and his greedy friends will take the rest. I have worked hard to keep our ancient heritage proud and debt free. My heart breaks at the thought of that young man destroying it.”
“Little Reggie was the delight of our life. A surprise, at our age, a wonderful miracle that we hoped would continue the pride and dignity of our family,” Lady Reedstone sighed. “Alas, he succumbed to the whooping cough just three months ago.”
Most people in their situation wanted me to consult the ghost of the recently departed for comfort and reassurance that he no longer suffered. It was something I had never legitimately done, but faked often enough to the satisfaction of the clients.
“Let us see if the veils of time will thin for me.” I projected my voice so that it echoed a bit and took on a lower timbre. The accent of the Gypsy King father I claimed slid over the top of my neutral tones.
With a deep breath I closed my eyes for concentration. At the same moment I ceased my vigorous stirring of the coffee and removed the spoon from the cup. After a count of ten I opened my eyes and peered deeply into the liquid vortex, expecting to see no more than light brown coffee swirling inside fragile bone china.
Darkness persisted around the edges of my vision. The whirlpool expanded from rim to rim, seemingly growing beyond the cup. But it did not spill. It drew me in, forcing me to look deeper and deeper, to bring my soul forth and pour it into the whorls that distorted time and place, here and there, now and then.
“Not now,” I moaned. I couldn’t afford a genuine vision now. My visions rarely told me what I asked to see, and always came at the most inopportune times.
A sliver of silver pierced the centre of the whirlpool, pushing aside the spiral with angry extensions. It drew my focus with sharp intensity. Jerkily that bit of silver lengthened to fit across the entire cup, spinning faster and faster. As it stretched it grew limbs and filled out. A filmy gown floated around the figure. She leaped and pirouetted about in fierce and symbolic dance. Each step grew faster and more angry. I sensed violence building, ready to explode in catastrophe.
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