Encante

by Aiyana Jackson

  Encante

  Aiyana Jackson

  A Fifteen Solars Novella

  © Aiyana Jackson 2013

  The author asserts her moral right to be identified as the creator of this work.

  Characters within this work are fictional, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Aädenian Ink

  www.aadenianink.com

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  To Sammy, for whom this was originally written, and who is, I know, eagerly awaiting the sequel; patience, dear one, it won’t be long now.

  Chapter One

  My worst fear is that I shall one day shift to another world and find it gone, sucked into some singularity, lost to a strangelet, or shattered by the rain of a million asteroids. Perhaps it would only take one—a rogue planet that for reasons beyond reason collided with another. We knew so little about the stars, how could we ever say with certainty that the worlds to which we travelled would still be there upon our arrival? That was, I suppose, the reason for the carapace—if one did step through into nothing, the carapace would activate. An invisible, translucent second skin, it preserved your air, giving you a little time to reactivate your damned compass and get home. And yet, I know this is not how portals are supposed to work. The Kabbalah takes no chances when hopping from one world to the next: they can see, as if looking through a window, exactly where they will appear on the other side.

  The rebellion has precious few portals in their possession, all cobbled together from mismatched pieces of kit and barely functional parts. Since I joined I had become a man of many luxuries, courtesy of my benefactor, yet we still did not have the luxury of true portals; we still did not have the luxury of time. On my worst nights, I dreamed of losing my compass, of drifting in space, slowly suffocating as I watched a transient star devouring its childling planets.

  One might wonder why I continued to hop from one world to the next, never knowing where I would materialise or what would await me. I liked to say it was for the adventure, for the cause, for the future, even for Cecelie, but the truth was far simpler: since joining the rebellion my worst nightmares had changed. And I far preferred the new to the old.

  When it came to it, the carapace worked exactly as had been intended; however, I was to see no stars, no nebulas or magnetars. No comets. As the shell closed around me, I saw only one thing: darkness.

  As the world around me coalesced, I was shocked to realise I was not in space, not in an endless open void, but under a considerable body of water. My first, panicked instinct was to swim for the surface, but I was spinning slowly with the currents; even if the surface had been above me when I arrived, I no longer had any concept of ‘up’. The panic began to spread. Then I recalled my compass, and looked down fearfully at my hand, convinced my nightmare had finally come to pass. It sat innocuously in my palm, wondering what I was so worried about, and I chuckled nervously within my safe little bubble.

  I set the coordinates to home, struggling due to the shaking of my hands, and was about to activate it when a tentacle snapped closed around my wrist, jerking my arm around at an unnatural angle. I’m not ashamed to say I screamed; I believe any man in that situation would have, and I think no less of myself for having done so. I flailed like a madman, dragged away to the asylum trying to shake himself free of the men who would incarcerate him forever. But I soon realised the tentacle was doing nothing more than tugging insistently at me in a manner that reminded me so much of a small, curious child, I was momentarily disarmed.

  I turned as best I could, and suppressed another scream as I saw a bundle of slithery limbs. Yet, as I calmed, I realised that while it looked much like the kraken legends of old, this creature was far, far smaller. Its puckered, curling arms unfurled, and I was astonished to catch a glimpse of a young woman beneath. Struggling wildly, I reached for her, presuming she too had been captured by the creature; it was only then that I saw they were one and the same. The tentacles that had given me such a fright grew from her head in place of hair. She looked up at me from beneath them, and I had a flash of amethystine eyes before she reached out with a pair of very human arms. Her skin was pale and bare, even across her breasts, which rose with a rhythmic motion, as if breathing like a normal woman.

  Any thought of returning home, or even attempting to reach the surface, fled.

  I was utterly entranced.

  She swam backwards, beckoning. Her delicate figure merged below her waistline into the most elaborate tail I’d ever seen. Unthinking, I moved to follow her. With the carapace around me, I stepped awkwardly through the depths of her ocean. She swam slowly, the tips of her tentacles and tail often flitting about me as she moved. One tentacle still held fast to my wrist, though the gossamer shield surrounding me prevented it from actually touching my skin. Once she was certain I followed, she turned to face away from me, giving me a better look at her tail which, I now realised, was the source of the dim light that was enabling me to see. I trod on after her, my curiosity piqued beyond any rational point of caution, and I marvelled as I realised there was nothing natural about this light, or in fact her tail in general. It appeared to be mechanical, jointed like a lobster, with thick metal segments and complex inner workings, visible as she moved. Now that I listened for it, I could hear the sound of it moving, metal against metal, as cogs turned in place.

  This had only just crossed my mind when an unhealthy grinding sound distracted me from my thoughts. I frowned, wondering if there was something wrong with the girl, and it was in fact she who needed my assistance, when a sudden change in the pressure surrounding me drew my attention back to the compass still clutched in my hand. I realised too late that the noise was emanating from me, not her, and I was the one in sudden need of help. My fingers had barely reached to fumble with the mechanism to reactivate it, when the bubble about me flickered, almost imperceptibly. Without time to set coordinates for home, I moved to activate it as it was, praying I landed somewhere safe. I was, however, unable to get that far, or even so much as scream again, before the carapace failed completely and I was lost to the watery deeps.

  Chapter Two

  A hand clamped across my nose and mouth so securely I instinctively fought it. The grip tightened, as if seeking to suffocate me, yet I felt my lungs filling with something akin to air, despite the salted water stinging my still-open eyes. Her skin felt downy, her hand almost silken against my face, and somehow dry where we touched. I had expected it to be slippery, like an eel, yet as her tentacled hair coiled around my face, tickling at my neck and shoulders, I realised that even her fishier aspects were smooth.

  There was a slight webbing between her fingers and down the edges of her palm; I felt them suction to my own skin, somehow forming a pocket of breathable air between her hand and my mouth. The salt of the ocean ate at my eyes as I stared into her face, and she stared back with those astoundingly violet eyes, apparently reassuring herself that I was, indeed, breathing. Her other hand gripped my arm, and suddenly I was being propelled along by her remarkable tail. I felt a slight vibration emanating from where her legs should have been.

  We moved faster than I thought possible, and while my vision was obscured by her thickset barbels, I felt little apprehension as we sped forwards through this strange ocean. The girl—such as she was—seemed to exude serenity. Even so, I was completely within her power, and perhaps a rational man would have been terrified of such vulnerability. I, however, was neither rational nor terrified, perhaps due to the adventurous streak wh
ich lead me to join the rebellion in the first place, or perhaps on account of the ‘madness’ my dear CC accused me of so regularly.

  What would she think, I wondered, if she could see me now, accosted by some siren of the deep, willingly tranquil in her arms as she drew me on to an unknown fate?

  The world around me suddenly felt different, as if something had shifted. I struggled to look around, and while my vision was still obscured, there was a different feel to the water than there had been moments before. It seemed lighter somehow, both in the weight of it about me and in the eerie emerald glow it had taken on. A moment later, I recognised a true light source overhead, not sunlight, but a harsh, solid light that hurt my eyes far more than the salt. I squinted away from it just as we breached the surface. Her hand gently retracted, and I found myself breathing normally. The girl released me and dissapeared behind my back. I trod water a moment, disorientated at having surfaced, the weight of my sodden frock coat dragging me down so that I couldn’t quite keep my head above the surface. I gulped in more than a few mouthfuls before turning, flailing slightly, searching for something to keep me afloat.

  We were in a pool, enclosed within a large, domed room of hammered metal. Riveted door frames were visible at several points around me, one of them closed with a dogging lever.

  The girl was resting, clinging to a metal ledge, a walkway of some kind, floating on the surface of the water. A faint sound emanated from her. Never the best of swimmers, I kicked for the ledge myself and clung to its edge as the soft clicking sound she was making increased in tenor and tempo.

  “Don’t get yer dander up, wench.” A gruff voice, from somewhere I couldn’t see. “We’re livin’ in banyan days in this pit. It’s bad enough I got’er get yer into the damned thing, ‘ithout puttin’ up with yer gum roarin’ at me to get yer out again already.”

  I blinked in confusion, trying to fathom his meaning.

  A pair of heavy boots hit the other end of the platform, bouncing it beneath my fingers. I jumped at the impact, swallowing water and coughing it out again. The boots turned abruptly at the sound of my spluttering, heavily worn, tawny leather, charging towards me as the voice I’d heard cursed loudly. Angry spurs adorned the back of the boots just above their short, square heels. I wondered idly what use spurs were beneath the ocean, as I continued to cough.

  “Vee,” he growled, “what in the ‘ell ‘ave you dredged up?”

  “My apologies, sir,” I managed, hoisting myself onto the platform as he approached. “I’m a traveller, and found myself rather unexpectedly in your ocean. This, erm”—I glanced at my rescuer—“lady, was kind enough to save me and . . .”

  The man produced a boxlock pistol from his pocket and levelled it at my head; I promptly shut my mouth.

  Chapter Three

  “You ‘old it there, sir,”—the man mocked me with the inflection—“while I fathom what this damn buor’s gone an’ landed me with.”

  He groped around himself, evidently searching for more than the pistol, as I took in the filth on his skin, bare from shoulders to wrists, and the patched fabric of his meagre clothing—a simple homespun vest and breeches. His free hand, clad in the same oiled leather as his boots and equally worn, finally tugged something from the short apron he wore. It was a box, apparently mechanical in nature.

  “Ned,” he snarled into it, and I took that to mean it was a radio of some description. “Blow the Cap’in, we gorra stowaway. He’d better get down ‘ere before I do down on ‘im.”

  “Sir, I can assure you, there’s no need for the gun. I’ve no ill intentions.” The barrel of the boxlock jammed into my left shoulder and the man’s face inched closer to my own. His breath reeked of coca, and I immediately took him for a bolear addict, both from the smell and the tell-tale lump beneath his lip. His top lip sported bacca-pipes that curled back towards his nostrils, which were almost as hairy as the moustache.

  “You stay down,” the lips informed me, “an’ wait for the Cap’in.”

  I was forced to sit, as he wedged the barrel further into my shoulder joint. Beside me, still in the water, the girl shifted, and I almost thought I caught the sound of her trying to speak. If she were attempting to however, it was in a way I was unable to fathom, although it seemed evident the man with the pistol understood her just fine.

  I remained at his feet, shivering ever more violently in my sodden clothes, as we awaited the arrival of his captain. I distracted myself from the gun by taking in the warren of interconnected staging attached to my own platform, and a large belvedere set a little off-centre in the room. Beneath all, the luminous water silently undulated. The ocean looked alien within this vessel, far different to that which I’d seen on arrival; the jade waters were riddled with plants, which cast odd shadows and reflections. Schools of small silver fish swam in formation, and I caught the occasional flash of something larger and more colourful. I wondered which world I was on, and prayed it was not Sinfin; two nightmares coming to pass in one day would be more than I could handle. The home world of the Kabbalah was the only world I had never previously stayed on longer than it took to ascertain to which world I had come.

  Almost, I asked him where I was, but the pressure of the pistol’s barrel was already burning into my shoulder joint and, staring up at this man, I had no trouble believing he would blow that joint out if I gave him any trouble. It wouldn’t kill me, it would just hurt like hell, and quite likely render that arm crippled for the rest of my life. What would CC think of me then? It was one thing to endure my absences at the behest of her father, it was another to be seen in public with someone so . . . malformed.

  At length, more boots sounded on the floating walkways, and several people emerged from the far side of the belvedere. The man leading the group I took to be the captain due to the elaborately feathered tricorn gracing his head, his general demeanour, and his cleanly aspect. Behind him followed a smaller man with a neat monocle and a scorch of red hair, who wobbled slightly in his passage towards us, supported by a cane of such bespoke design I immediately took him to be someone of import, or at least wealth.

  To my surprise, the third individual was a woman. She dressed much like the captain, in a calf-length frock coat over a double-breasted vest and trousers. She wore a lace obsidian blouse beneath, in place of the captain’s regular white shirt, and where his suit was a deep royal blue, tailored for a man, her own was a dark russet of crushed velvet, and had been shaped for curves, clinging tightly to her figure. She wore no hat, only an auburn scarf binding her black curls gypsy-style, knotted on the side of her head and falling within the mane of ebony hair. Her feet were bare. For a moment I thought her the strangest woman I’d ever seen, until I recalled the tentacle-haired girl still clinging to the side of the platform.

  “Garrett.” The captain eyed me curiously but clearly addressed my captor. “Where did he come from?”

  “Showed up with the damn dollymop, Cap’in, straight out the water.”

  “How can that be?” The captain glanced at the girl. “Vee, where did you find him?” The girl tilted her head towards the him, her slightly webbed fingers struggling to cling to the platform.

  “Gods!” The woman stepped forwards and knelt by my feet. Now that she was closer, I saw she was far younger than I’d imagined, certainly younger than I.

  “Franklin Garrett,” she snarled, “have you taken leave of what small sense you have? Get her out immediately! Have you had her hanging here in it this whole time?”

  “I ‘ad more pressin’—”

  “Well you don’t anymore,” she snapped. “Uncle, he’s telling the truth, Vee brought him in; she found him just beyond the bow, he would have drowned had she left him.” I stared at the woman, wondering how she could know this. The only possible explanation was that the girl, Vee, was indeed talking in some manner, and this woman understood her.

  “Are there more?” the captain demanded.

  “No, Uncle, just this one.”

  The c
aptain nodded at the man they called Garrett, and the boxlock was lowered. Garrett bent and hauled the girl from the water, laying her out on her side. She collapsed, exhausted, as the black-haired beauty fussed around her, and Garrett set to removing the tail which was, indeed, mechanical. I was astonished to see it disengage itself from the girl and retract into a much smaller size. I’d never seen the like—and I’d seem some spectacular things in my time with Cane.

  “You seem surprised, sir.”

  I glanced up as the captain addressed me. “I confess I am; I’d not thought her to have legs beneath that tail.”

  Garrett made a sound not unlike that the girl herself had made, and another figure joined us on the platform. My eyes lingered on the man loping towards us, equally as naked as Vee, equally as strange. His hair was more seaweed than tentacles, brown and curling. The distinct aroma of fish and brine clung to his opalescent skin. He bent to the tail that had been removed from Vee’s legs and, between them, he and Garrett hauled it away. Given how heavy it obviously was, I wondered how she had managed to swim in it.

  “Is she well?” I enquired, crouching to check on my rescuer. A cane impeded me, stabbing the platform between us and blocking me crossways. I followed it up to its owner, the tidy little monocled man with the fierce red hair.

  “You’re the one who shall be answering questions, stowaway.” He lowered his cane and proceeded to fan me, patting at my dripping clothing, presumably in search of concealed weaponry.

  “I’m no stowaway, sir,” I told him. “I happened upon your ship by chance.” I glanced more closely at the riveted walls. “We are aboard a submersible, are we not?” I grinned stupidly. “Forgive me, but we’ve nothing like this at home, it’s quite splendid.”

  “Home?” the captain demanded.

  “Yes, sir, I wasn’t born of this world.”

  “Kabbalah,” the monocle man growled, and levelled a pistol of his own at me.