Of Steel and Steam

by Pauline Creeden et al.

  He held no illusions as to his own chances. The Aeresian army did not acknowledge the conventions of modern warfare; they saw the Patherainian army as heretics, and beneath common courtesy. They did not believe in the proper treatment of prisoners, but sought to force conversion through pain and suffering. His position as an officer spared him such a fate, for the Aeresians made a great spectacle of executing any and all officers.

  He sent another dozen missives out on the last airship yesterday to every general he knew the name of, and begged for reinforcements.

  With them, he sent his final letter to his wife and daughters. He tried to keep thoughts of them from intruding on his preparations, but he failed in the attempt. The melody of his wife's voice sang through his memory and mingled with the laughter of his girls. He instructed them to vacate the house in Ialkan'thor and return to county Covan to the south. When the enemy broke through Sharil's Forde, they needed only a week's march to arrive in Ialkan'thor. Hopefully, the lands of their families sat far enough away from the conflict to ensure the war never affected them. Aside from the loss of their father, that is. Meriel is still young and beautiful, he thought, and sure to remarry before too long. He left her enough of an annuity to see her and the girls housed in comfort. Valerie and Lexi were too young to remember him, so his absence from their lives would not be detrimental.

  The rationalization did little to alleviate the melancholy he clothed himself in. He hoped to watch his girls grow up. Now, there existed no place for such a hope. His path diverged from theirs the moment the Aeresian forces entered the pass.

  He concerned himself with holding Sharil's Forde for as long as possible, and to die a good death.

  The enemy force was just too large for the small battalion of the 101st to hold against, and Lyle knew they had yet to see the full might of the enemy. They engaged with the vanguard so far, a force designed to weaken and tire the defenders. The haze of dust further up the river gave testament to the numbers heading their way. They had three hours, maybe four at best, before the assault began in earnest.

  And, with each offensive, the ammunition for the men and the cannon dwindled. If the smaller raids continued unabated, they would be reduced to fighting off the enemy cannon and rifle with swords and halberds.

  "I'm finished." Robert's voice echoed through the empty command center. Lyle turned from the viewing window and put his ennui away. He still had work to do.

  Robert laid a crate of cycling chamber cartridges on the side table, drew one out, and tossed it over.

  Robert watched Lyle examine the cartridge, not surprised when he said nothing. To him it looked almost exactly the same as any other ammunition magazine. Aside from the Zenzil marked on the top of each one, they were identical.

  "There are two hundred and thirty-eight soldiers remaining of the 101st. This is counting you, your command staff, and me," Robert said. He removed his pistol from his holster and ejected the cartridge. "There are enough here for each of us, both pistol and rifle. I've also modified enough for each mounted cycling cannon we have."

  He took a cartridge from the crate and slipped it into his weapon. After sliding it home in its holster, he repeated the process with the other.

  "Ok," Lyle said. "How are they different?"

  Robert motioned for Lyle's pistol and loaded it with the new ammunition.

  "You don't have to reload." Robert handed the pistol back to him, grip first. "The chamber spins after it fires, and recharges. We don't have to worry about ammunition anymore. Better than that, the blast will get stronger with each discharge. I've already sent the crates down to the cannon."

  "And you're sure they'll work?"

  "You have my word," Robert said.

  Lyle nodded and held his weapon aloft.

  "Then we might just survive this after all, my friend."

  Captain Solara Stockbridge opened her eyes and gazed upon the familiar sight of her stateroom's cabin. It took a moment for her thoughts to firm and solidify around her current location.

  She was back.

  She was home.

  Stockbridge threw off her blanket and leapt from the bed. She felt revitalized. She felt... fantastic. She stretched her arms above her head, and twisted from side to side. When was the last time she woke up feeling this good? Grabbing her clothes from the wardrobe bolted to the wall, she hummed a little tune. Where had she heard that one, she wondered?

  She paused in the act of dressing, with her head poking through the opening of her blouse.

  The Fae.

  The Fae are real.

  She sat down on the edge of her bed, and let the memories of her time beneath the stars wash over her. The Summerlands were every bit as wonderful as the stories said, but even they paled in comparison to what she experienced. Food more delicious than any she had ever eaten. Wine, beer, and even whiskey consumed in amounts she only dreamed of imbibing. Dancing for hours beneath the steady rhythm of the bodhrans, fiddles and pipes. The tune played through her memory and filled her ears. It slipped between her nerves, and her stomach knotted with longing. To walk beneath those trees again, to feel the music thrill her very being with a warmth even Warren's arms lacked...

  Stockbridge sighed and shook her head.

  What the bloody hells was she doing?

  She thrust her arms into the sleeves and padded about in search of her boots. Her wet weather boots sat in the back of the wardrobe, but she could not find her everyday pair. She was unable to locate the jerkin for her uniform, or her weapons belt. Where the feck were her clothes?

  The question made her pause again, and she glanced at her wrists. Not the slightest of marks blemished her skin, but there should be. Her hand rose to her face and touched the flesh by her right eye. She pulled open the wardrobe and examined her face in the full-length mirror attached to the door. Nothing.

  She remembered hanging from her wrists. She remembered the whipping, the laughter, the leering, the groping. Pulling open the neck of her shirt gave the lie to her memory. Her breasts were unmarked, just like the rest of her.

  The shadows took her. Not shadows, she corrected herself. Ogun Den. The Aeresian crown must have hired them to secure her. That explained the absence of her clothing. They were still aboard the enemy ship. They stripped her naked and tortured her. The Cape York. Their flagship. The pride of their fleet. She wanted to bring it down when she escaped, give them a way to remember her.

  How did she get here?

  A soft knock sounded on her door, and she barked out a curt, "Come."

  Aeronaut Hajeck peeked around the door, and her face lit with a smile when she saw her before the mirror.

  "Captain," she said, and closed the door behind her. "It's so good to see you up and about."

  Stockbridge glared at her, as if to blame for the holes in her memory.

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "You've been unconscious for two days, Ma'am," Hajeck said. "Since they brought you back."

  "Who?" Stockbridge snapped. "Who brought me back?"

  "The crew of the Albatross, Ma'am," she said. "Lindstrom, Vilaster, and McCarthy. Well, not all of them. Lieutenant Raen'dalle and Boatswain Whelan remained at the Citadel, as per your orders."

  Raen'dalle.

  Stockbridge remembered Raen'dalle and Whelan charging down the ladder, weapons at the ready. The sound of Zephyr machine guns. They rescued her. How in the hells they accomplished that, she did not know. The gaps in her memory beckoned. How did she heal so completely? Why did she yearn for the Fae?

  "Lieutenant Beckett was none too happy with them, I'll tell you," Hajeck selected a pair of stockings from the wardrobe, handed them over, and proceeded to brush out a pair of trousers. "Not about your rescue, Ma'am. Of course not that. But the way they went about it. The Lieutenant overrode his authority after he refused the mission. And then he chose not to return with you."

  "Beckett refused to rescue me?" Stockbridge did not believe she heard the woman correctly. She accepted the clothin
g and put the articles on.

  "The Dreadnaut was in a bad way from the attack, Ma'am," Hajeck said. "She still is. We've been working around the clock to repair the damage and rebuild the isolator. He didn't think it was possible."

  "But Raen'dalle did." She snatched the trousers from the aeronaut's hand.

  "Yes, Ma'am." Hajeck found a well-worn uniform jacket, and brushed off the lint and dust from disuse. "All he asked for was a squad of Zephyrs and Lieutenant Beckett's permission."

  "Where's Beckett now?"

  "On the bridge, Ma'am." Hajeck held open the coat for the Captain to step into. "Shall I braid your hair, Ma'am?"

  "No thank you." Stockbridge pulled on her boots, and started for the door. She paused when she grasped the handle. "You must be very proud, and you have every reason to be. It seems you chose your partner very well."

  "Your pardon, Ma'am," Hajeck said. "I have no partner. I don't know what you mean."

  Stockbridge smiled. In light of recent events, she wanted to overlook the Lieutenant's shortcomings, even if the two of them insisted on their little act of subterfuge.

  "I am aware of your romantic involvement with Lieutenant Raen'dalle," Stockbridge said. "And I will not impose on either of you to give it over."

  Hajeck issued a small chuckle.

  "I have no romantic involvements onboard ship, Ma'am, and most especially not with the Lieutenant," she said. Her chin lifted a degree, as if on the cusp of becoming indignant.

  Stockbridge turned from the door. Raen'dalle earned some leniency, but this strumpet had not. If she intended to plead her innocence, Stockbridge planned on showing her the errors of her ways. She stepped closer to the woman and glared down at her.

  "On several occasions, the Lieutenant was observed exiting your quarters, often in the middle of the night," she said. "What explanation for these visits would you give other than a clandestine liaison?"

  "He told you we were romantically involved?" Hajeck moved back a step, a competent showing of surprise on her countenance.

  "He refused to discuss the matter at all."

  "As well he should," Hajeck said. "He gave his word, after all."

  "Men always do." Stockbridge turned back for the door. "But they rarely keep their word after the deed is done."

  "He offered me counsel," Hajeck said to Stockbridge's back. "I have always regretted leaving the order, and I have... I have..."

  Stockbridge faced the door and waited, surprised by the revelation.

  "You have what?"

  Silence met her question, and she faced the woman again. Hajeck gazed at the floor, and her hands twisted at her waist.

  "I have an entourage," she said, her voice small and weak.

  "Explain yourself," Stockbridge said. "What was your caste?"

  "Demort, Ma'am," Hajeck said. "I trained to be a black mage."

  "I trained for the red." Stockbridge swiveled the chair around and sat. Like everything else in her stateroom, the desk and chair were bolted to the floor. She waved toward the bed, inviting the aeronaut to sit. "I am sketchy about the particulars of the other castes, and have never heard the term."

  Hajeck sat on the edge of the mattress, her back straight and rigid.

  "An entourage is a spirit which is bound to me," she said. "Mine is named Eloise, one of the elder servants from the Toulouse chapterhouse. I tended her in her final moments. She begged me not to let her be harvested, and I held her fast. Now, she is bound to me, and I hear her all the time."

  "Even now?"

  "Yes, Ma'am," Hajeck flicked her gaze to her right with a quick, furtive glance, and looked back at the deck. "She's speaking to me now, as always. She is constantly giving her opinion on everything in the room, even yourself."

  Stockbridge laughed and leaned forward.

  "And what is she saying about me?"

  "You are very beautiful," Hajeck said, her eyes unfocused as if translating someone else's speech, "though she thinks you should smile more and scowl less. She loves your red hair, and thinks you must have Extipana in your blood. Not too far back, either, she says. A parent, or grandparent, perhaps. Now she's going on about the Extipana community in the forests outside of Toulouse, and how they were not good for much, unless you want your stables cleaned. She says they're hard workers and -"

  "That is enough." Stockbridge held out her hand to halt the narrative. "She does seem to have a lot to say. What bearing does this have on your relationship with Raen'dalle?"

  Now her secret was out, Hajeck drew a deep breath and looked up.

  "She never stops talking," she said. "There are moments I feel I am losing my mind. I cannot sleep for her constant chatter. The Lieutenant has an entourage too. His is a black mage, and it is a sinister presence at that. But it never bothers him."

  "This was the counsel he gave you?" Stockbridge said. "On how to silence your entourage?"

  Hajeck nodded.

  "What did he tell you?"

  "He showed me meditational techniques," Hajeck said. "How to focus my mind and let the words wash over me without taking note of them."

  "And did it work?"

  "Yes, Ma'am," she said. "For a bit."

  "Explain."

  "Eloise does not like to be ignored," Hajeck said. "It frightened her greatly, and she took to screaming. It was worse than screaming. It was the caterwauling of the dead. She forgot who she was, where she was, even that she was dead. She woke me from sleep so often like that, I had no choice but to call him for aid."

  "Was he able to stop her?"

  "Yes, Ma'am." Hajeck smiled at the memory. "He spoke to her, calmed her. Got her to remember her life, to tell him stories. He even offered to take her from me."

  "That is possible?"

  "It is," Hajeck said, "but it is not easy."

  "Why didn't you let him?"

  "Because I've known Eloise for years," she said. "She worked in the laundry, and always had a kind word for me. She comforted me when the training became too much for me to bear. That's why I kept her from the harvest. She's my friend."

  "So what now?" Stockbridge said. "She still seems to prattle."

  "Yes, Ma'am," Hajeck said. "But I speak to her now. Tell her how my day went, share my thoughts with her. She's much happier now."

  "Is that how you knew to tend my clothing?"

  Hajeck blushed and lowered her gaze.

  "Yes, Ma'am," she said. "She is very knowledgeable about garment care and sewing. All I need do is listen to her advice. She told me just before how to fix the seam in your shoulder. I'm afraid it will pop soon."

  Stockbridge sat back, pursed her lips and studied the young aeronaut. Perhaps she passed judgment too quickly. And Raen'dalle too. The insufferable man let her convince herself his motives were rakish, when they were anything but. She felt a fool, too blinded by her own assumptions and jaded by her experiences to see things for the truth.

  She stood, and took the aeronaut's hands.

  "I ask your pardon for my ridiculous assumptions," she said, and tsked when the younger woman tried to speak. "And I thank you for clarifying the matter for me. Please, do not feel embarrassed with your affliction. We all carry the scars of our training. If you need an ear to listen, my door is open."

  "Thank you, Ma'am," Hajeck said. "That is too generous. I wouldn't want to impose."

  "You won't," Stockbridge said. "I am starting to think I have need of a valet. It has been years since I have had an assistant, or someone to confide in myself. I think you are perfect for the position. You do have a tremendous store of knowledge in that area, after all."

  Aeronaut Hajeck beamed at the suggestion.

  "Now," Stockbridge continued, "as my new assistant, you will accompany me to the bridge where I will make it official. I need a few words with my first officer. We still have a war to conduct."

  The officers of the citadel gathered in the command center for a briefing about the new ammunition. A haggard and weary lot, the toll of their ordeal showed in thei
r attire. All of the men, usually clean shaven with immaculate uniforms, now showed several days growth of beards. Sweat stains marred the whiteness of their shirts, and the grit of gunpowder created indelible streaks across their jackets. Many wore bandages, dirty and in need of changing.

  Several, Whelan noticed, were missing.

  "What is our current troop status?" Lyle said from his position at the head of the terrain table.

  "Thirty five percent, Sir," one of the officers, sergeant Harding said. His tone spoke to his weariness and his opinion of their prospects."

  Lyle sighed. He was freshly shaven, and his uniform well appointed. His appearance did bolster some of the men, for he looked as a commanding officer should. Whelan suggested he wash up prior to the meeting, and was glad Robert's friend accepted it.

  This one showed promise, as well, Whelan reflected. Or was it simply Robert's influence making itself felt? The lad did have a way with people. It might be his blood making itself known, but then again, it might be something else entirely. Something he had not seen in a very long time. All the more reason to keep the boy alive. History turns on ones such as him.

  "One hundred and forty men is barely enough to man the lines," another officer, Taylor said. "Sir, have you given any more thought to surrender?"

  Lyle waved off the suggestion.

  "There will be no surrender," he said. "We must hold the Forde."

  "We cannot," sergeant Masters said. "We don't have the manpower, even with the new munitions."

  "We can level the keep," the second in command, Lieutenant Perritt said. "Fill the foundations with powder and cycling chambers. Blow the place on our way out the door."