Sir Drew dug his fingers into the flesh of my forearm, jolting me back to reality. I had no time to lose myself. He knew Madame Magdala well enough to realize the consequences of losing me to a trance.
The sight of a slight young man with eyes wild and unfocused, old-fashioned flowing dark locks, a silk shirt open at the collar with lavish sleeves, a loose black cloak with three caplets around the shoulders, high riding boots splattered with mud, would have dragged me out of the vision just as easily. He was dressed in a style of nearly twenty years ago, more romantic than practical.
Precisely the fashion favoured by Lord Bryon
I think I groaned. Couldn’t these idiots at least keep up with the times?
The interloper carried a flintlock pistol in one hand and a clay pot, stoppered with cork and a braided wick, in the other. I’d seen those vessels before. It would be filled with gunpowder and sharp bits of metal. Lord Byron had favoured them for making loud noises and wide craters.
The painted clay looked vaguely Greek. A poor imitation. Of course it looked Greek. The disillusioned young men who worshiped Byron and his poetry had to imitate all of his preferences and his vices.
“Give me the girl!” the interloper demanded, waving his gun toward every young lady in the crowd.
Princess Victoria screamed. Her mother screamed louder and more shrilly. A bevy of men hastened to stand between their future queen and the madman, Lord William among them.
My girl alone and unprotected in her shimmering dress.
The madman zeroed in on her. In five long steps he closed the distance and held the gun to her temple.
“No.” I tried to scream but no sound emerged. Electricity created the glowing after images. The electricity relied on the flow of sparks jumping from one bead to the next. The Byron imitator could use those sparks to ignite his jug of Greek death.
A new screech pierced the air. Lady Bryon. I knew that scream of old. More strident and attention-gathering than the screams of the princess, or her mother. Lady Byron fainted, amid more yelling and chaos from her Furies.
They were of no consequence in this business. I stalked toward Miss Ada with determination, my eyes burning with hatred and fear.
The gun turned on me.
“You! You caused the death of my lord!” Single-minded bastard.
“You destroyed the machine that would have kept him alive!”
I didn’t care, as long as he kept the weapon trained on me and away from my girl. But he had his gun arm wrapped around her neck, tightening in a crushing reflex. The other arm still cradled the little clay pot, the more dangerous weapon. Why hadn’t the dress shocked him the moment he touched Ada? Too much cloth in that flowing sleeve. It blocked the mild electrical jolt. And—and he seemed to have built up the soles of his boots with rubber!
He knew. He knew of my design before coming tonight. How? My gaze flitted briefly toward Sir Drew.
Around me I sensed movement at the edges of the room.
The madman looked only at me. “We need this woman to save my lord, before his soul withers to nothing!”
“His soul was a withered mass of ugliness long before he died,” I snarled.
“He was a genius. His poetry lifted so many to the heavens. He saved my soul,” the man countered.
Sir Drew and Lord William edged closer.
“His actions damaged more people,” I said. As long as I could keep him talking, we could close in on him.
“Don’t come any closer, or I will blow you all to perdition!”
I paused.
So did Sir Drew.
But Lord William, bless his brave heart and gallant soul, had moved to the man’s off side, obscured from his view by Miss Ada’s elaborate gauze turban and bobbing feathers.
Never had the fashion looked less ridiculous than at that moment.
“I’m taking the girl. She’s the only one who can rebuild the machine.” The wild-eyed fanatic urged his captive forward. I saw Miss Ada dig in her heels.
“She can’t do it without me, and I refuse ever to allow such a machine to be built again,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Then I’ll take you both. I’ll do whatever I have to in order to revive Lord Byron.” He pushed again, his arm tightening around Ada’s throat while the gun pointed right between my eyes.
Something stirred in Ada’s eyes. Gone the blind panic of a moment ago. Gone the meekness hammered into her by her mother. What emerged was the strong woman whom I had provided with skills to defend herself.
She stomped on her captor’s foot with her soft shoes. The thin soles with only an inch of heel barely caught the man’s attention. But an elbow to his gut arrested it.
He doubled over, coughing, carrying Miss Ada with him.
The gun exploded.
I felt a whoosh of air past my ear before I heard the flash of gunpowder.
Cautious guests threw themselves to the floor, arms over their vulnerable heads.
Every detail jumped into perfect clarity.
Sir Drew and Lord William rushed forward.
The electricity in the glass necklace sparked repeatedly in random directions. One bit of fire landed on the wick.
With visions of the entire house burning to cinders flashing before my eyes, I lunged for the clay pot.
Sir Drew grabbed the necklace, breaking the filaments that bound them together as well as the leaping chain of sparks.
Lord William wrenched the gun away from the madman.
The sizzling wick had nearly reached the lip of the pot. Too close for me to grab.
But I had my trusty hat pin. I stabbed the wick and flicked it free as the flamelet tried to sink into the pot. Angrily I ground the spark to ash beneath my heel.
Only then did I breathe.
“It’s not fair!” wailed the young man. Suddenly he looked very young and vulnerable, with one arm held high against his back by Sir Drew. “It’s not fair that she should live and the poet king cannot. We have to find a way to restore him to a body. The world dies more each day without his genius.” He lapsed into pitiful sobs.
I had no pity for him or his kind. “While I live, I will fight every one of you fanatics to the death, to prevent the insanity of Lord Byron from returning,” I hissed quietly to him.
My girl was safe, shuddering with huge sobs. She reached for me instinctively.
Lady Byron had beaten me in the race to hold her daughter upright.
Sir Drew and Lord William wrestled the wild-eyed poet to the ground.
As if in slow motion, other gentlemen joined them in restraining him. Heavily built men in house livery appeared to turn him over to the authorities.
I had no choice but to follow Lady Byron, her Furies, and my Miss Ada. Lord William and Sir Drew remained behind.
<<>>
“No one is to be admitted, Yates!” Lady Byron informed the butler as the doorbell rang for the fifth time the next morning. I was surprised she’d left her bed. Probably sensing that the world would come to her today in search of gossip about the night before, she’d thrown herself upon the lounge in the second parlour with a damp cloth over her eyes. The Furies remained above stairs.
Miss Ada’s adventures were forgotten, except for a few bruises on her throat where the glass beads had pressed tightly before Drew broke the strand. She was now immersed in some new mathematical challenge or scientific paper.
But I had been watching the street for one particular caller. I yanked the door wide before he could ring the bell. “Welcome Lord William.”
“I’ve come to return Miss Ada’s necklace.” He held out the strand of beads all jumbled together, some still on their string, others not. The pendant bead still had a bit of copper wire protruding from the bottom of one ray of the starburst.
“Thank you, my lord,” Miss Ada said from the stairway. She descended gracefully, despite a furious Mrs. Carr protesting behind her. She embodied the reason we called Lady Bryon’s companions Furies. They were rarely less t
han furious in the presence of a man.
“Yates, please bring tea to the front parlour,” I ordered as I herded the young people that direction.
“What is the meaning of this?” Lady Byron demanded. She charged into the hallway with tendrils of hair dangling free of her coiffure, her gauze turban slightly askew, and her mouth pinched.
I’d have a headache too if I’d consumed two bottles of wine and three snifters of brandy to “calm my nerves,” after the events at the musicale. Nothing like a short shot of whiskey to do the job without the morning after problems.
“My Lady,” I said softly, mindful of the low murmurs in the room behind me. I leaned against the closed doors to make certain my girl and her swain had at least a few moments of privacy. “There are rumours from Kensington Palace that Lord William finds high favour with the Duchess of Kent, and Princess Victoria.” I couldn’t add that I knew an earl’s coronet was in the man’s future. I knew that from my visions, but Princess Victoria did not yet know she would grant the title when she assumed the throne. “Would you rather be lady in waiting to the queen’s mother, or to the queen herself? If Lord William courts your daughter as ardently as he fought for her life last night.…” I let the assumption linger in the air between us.
The lady bit her lip. Twice, she took a step toward the front parlour and retreated, before summoning her companion into the second parlour.
<<>>
Two months later I stood on the threshold of my new café, welcoming my friends to inspect it. The old sign had been replaced by my new one only this morning. Proudly I turned the key in the lock and entered. It was late in the afternoon. The previous owners—my new employees—lingered while they cleared and cleaned at the end of a busy day.
I already planned changes. Big and small: move this table, replace the magazine rack with a larger book case, and most certainly update the windows to allow more light inside. Then I’d slowly move my things into the flat above stairs. I couldn’t leave Miss Ada until she married Lord William, later in the summer. Oh, yes, that betrothal had happened within days of his returning her glass necklace.
The happy couple gave up looking longingly into each other’s eyes long enough to follow me inside. Sir Drew lingered behind, frowning at the sign in full disapproval. Mr. Charles Babbage stumbled in after them. He surveyed the space.
“This is where you want your machine?” he asked, a little disapprovingly.
I said, “The space is too limited except for the operation console. That will be here, in the centre of the café, in full view of the patrons. The rest can fill the cellars.” I waved my hands expansively.
“This will take time,” Miss Ada added. She too walked the space available. “How many books do you intend to store?”
“As many as we can acquire. Periodicals and newspapers from all over the world as well. The new dirigibles can bring them from Hong Kong, New Delhi, and New York, as well as Paris, Athens, and Cape Town.” I smiled in satisfaction, already envisioning rows and rows and rows of books.
“Why do you need up-to-date information from all over the world?” Lord William asked. He trailed behind his lady-love, more interested in her than my plans.
“Need I remind you of a wild-eyed poet the night of the musicale?”
All of my co-conspirators froze in place.
“He did not act alone. There are others. We must look for patterns; watch the movements of those who seek to shift souls into and out of bodies, natural or mechanical. We must never allow Lord Byron’s followers to succeed.”
Miss Ada nodded agreement.
“So you need my Analytical Engine to find and retrieve books and pamphlets and such, based on key data entered. Hmm.…” Mr. Babbage stroked his chin in deep thought. Not much mattered to him but the designing of his new invention.
“You don’t have to do this,” Sir Drew hissed in my ear. “Please, let me take care of you.”
“Until you find someone younger and prettier, or your wife rises from her sick bed.” I shook off his restraining hand. Much as I loved him, I wasn’t certain how much I could trust him.
Just then I noticed two figures walking past my café, the tall fur trader—who had lost a lot of his limp—and Miss Aemelie Griffin. Arm in arm, they paused to read the closed sign on the door. They looked so very disappointed that I couldn’t help but open the door for them.
“Welcome to Madame Magdala’s Book View Café. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” I asked, the eastern European accent falling lightly from my lips. “And perhaps a bit of pastry. Or something to read?”
Introduction: Pirate Queen of French Prairie
Turning away from Madame Magdala to her sister Trudé again. I’m a history geek. I freely admit it. Steampunk glories in taking recorded incidents and tweaking them just a bit, adding gadgets and new sensibilities; but only so far as the outcome is the same we read about in history books. The story of the independent settlers of French Prairie is an important milestone in Oregon history. Mountain man Joe Meek really did call for the divide. Three Hudson’s Bay Company loyalists did cross the divide at the last minute. The vote truly was 52-50. As a native Oregonian, I felt it important to pass along my version of this story.
Pirate Queen of French Prairie
Irene Radford
Spring 1843
Cannon blasts exploded amidships. Splinters sprayed upward. My galleon-class dirigible dropped a thousand feet into the dawn mist as five ballonets in the envelope lost gas. The deck met my face with force and malice aforethought.
I shook my head to clear it of the reverberations. Then I crawled upward, clinging to whatever brass I could use as a handhold.
“Loose the dragons,” I called into the speaking tube, trying to maintain my calm despite the desperation of our situation.
When my spine was straight and my feet firmly planted, I released an undulating battle cry, challenging my crew to renew the fight with vigour.
“Aye, aye, Captain!” Forbes, my first mate, slid down the pole toward the cannon deck before he’d finished his salute. I heard him chant the call to battle all the way to the gun deck.
God, I wished I could fly with my pilots. But I, Trudé Romanz, captained the White Swan. I needed to direct our battle from the bridge. I needed to take out that tricky International Secure Shipping Lanes Police battlewagon. The captain was supposed to protect independent shippers as well as Hudson’s Bay fleets. He wasn’t supposed to lure independents like my White Swan into close-quarter combat by masquerading as a lumbering Hudson’s Bay Company cargo bateau.
I should have known. The mistake was mine and mine alone. Company bateaux never flew alone. They always clustered together in flocks of nine or more. If one dropped out of formation when the boilers failed, or the envelope burst, or any of the myriad things that can go wrong with a dirigible, they sank to the Pacific Ocean below and rode the waves until they fixed the problem and they could fly away with the next convey.
Now I had to pay the price with a damaged ship—and delay my true mission.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the White Swan, caressing her wood and brass fittings beside the wheel. Then I grabbed the wheel and spun it to starboard, presenting the port side to the enemy and thus giving the pilots a clear exit to starboard.
“Dragons away!” Jimmy Seaforth, my navigator and helmsman, called. His own ululation followed the harriers into battle.
I dropped a magnifying lens over my goggles and watched as the snub-nosed dragons shot forth from the hull, expelled by compressed steam.
Light and manoeuvrable, the dragons had limited range. Each one packed a full-sized pulse cannon above the cockpit.
As each of the small aeros cleared the hull, the crew moved bigger ship’s cannons into now empty ports.
A few seconds. We needed just a few more seconds for the cannons to recharge. Wisps of steam drifted from the enemy’s hull. I counted on the inefficiency of their regulation boilers. A few more seconds . . . .
“Fire all cannons!” I cried.
The dragons loosed bolts of pure light, strafing the enemy envelope. The fixed Gonnes followed with a barrage of fire to the aft hull where the boilers were.
The ship exploded in a shower of brass fittings, hemlock splinters, and boiling water.
I needed to make every shot count before my dragons had to return fire or lose altitude. I slipped a purple crystal from the thong about my neck. Misty morning light from the ports glinted off its facets. Before the inner light of the Yuenon crystal matrix could enthral me, I rammed it into a special slot on the Captain’s Gonne racked beside the wheel. The moment the crystal was seated, the weapon began to vibrate with building energy.
Jimmy dropped the glass on the forward port. I rested my Gonne on the sill and took aim. When the crystal began to whine, I pulled the trigger.
A straight line of purple energy pierced the enemy’s envelope. I dragged the line of fire horizontally, obliterating as many ballonets full of lighter–than-air gas as I could.
The enemy dropped and dropped fast. Any crew left alive would probably black out before they hit water. Five thousand feet is a long way to fall.
The dragons added their own blue pulses to my shot to the vulnerable underbelly.
Holes appeared in the enemy’s hull. Steam gushed out, followed by hungry flames.
The ship was doomed.
“Recall the dragons. Damage report?”
“We’ll have to drop altitude and lay into port soon, Captain. Gertie is split and Mabel’s lines are leaking,” Engineer Markos grumbled back up the speaking tube. I almost felt his tears as he commiserated with his precious boilers. We all had pet names for favourite bits of machinery. The White Swan was our home, our friend, and our livelihood. She had her quirks, like any ship. But she was ours, even if she sometimes had a mind of her own.
<<>>
“Express-class dirigible approaching from the east northeast, Captain Romanz, Ma’am. Looks like she’s flying at seven thousand feet,” Forbes barked from his station at the wide bow port. He kept his spyglass up and trained upon his target. A fresh bandage circled his brow from a long gash he’d received from flying shrapnel in the battle. He’d have an interesting scar and a story to tell the ladies when we made port.
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