Lady Mechatronic and the Steampunked Pirates

by Arabella Wyatt

  "She and any of your crew who stand with you will be treated as they deserve," shouted Johnson. "And you deserve execution as treacherous dogs! But first," he added, his voice dropping low as he panted in excitement and lust, "but first, I shall taste of her. Oh yes, she shall be my sweet fruit!"

  Bennett and Flavell looked away, seeing and hearing nothing. Behind, some in the crew leered in delight, while others looked in panic or disgust at the admiral and his lackeys. Hartwell stiffened, but he held his emotions in an iron grip.

  "Repent!" cried Pastor White, shouting at the crowd in general. "All must repent!"

  "All must choose," said Hartwell in a louder voice. "All must choose to die in honour or to live like dogs."

  "I choose honour," shouted Susanna.

  "Then you'll die," leered Fleetwood, licking his reptilian lips. He, like Admiral Johnson, had lusted secretly for the captain's sister since meeting her and had dreamed of the time when he could do to her exactly as he wished. That time had now come.

  "And the rest of the crew must decide for themselves how they are to live," continued Hartwell. "But know that I hold no man in obligation, no man is to be forced down a path except by his own conscience."

  Hartwell turned and looked up at his sister, who gazed back down. Not many could bear to look at the faces of two siblings silently saying how much they loved each other as they faced certain death. Susanna nodded slightly, giving her brother the strength to do what had to be done and stood proud, waiting for her fate.

  "Then this day wears a dark mark, when justice was denied and good people slain by vanity and power," said Susanna. "Bear witness to these deeds, good people."

  "Any who stand against me will die like dogs," screamed Johnson hoarsely. "Today is the last day you will breathe God's pure air! Any who defies me, marks himself traitor and fool!" He turned to the crew. "To arms! Kill them all!"

  hapter our

  s soon as the admiral turned, Hartwell thrust upward and pushed his two captors back. They staggered away just far enough for Hartwell to draw his sword in a single, smooth movement, which ended with the tip against the terrified throat of Johnson.

  "Just remember that today your life was spared and think on it," said Hartwell quietly. "Reflect on your ways and improve them." He turned swiftly as Flavell and Bennett drew their swords and faced them down. Neither seemed eager to try to land the first blow and both timidly stabbed at Hartwell, who parried easily. Drawing bolder, Bennett leapt forward, but again, Hartwell easily deflected his stab.

  Hartwell's thoughts centred on his sister. He regretted bringing her out to sea, for surely he had signed her death warrant in doing so, but the death of their aunt, their last surviving relative, combined with Susanna's reluctance to be parted from him, had conspired against them. Hartwell looked up and a chill engulfed him—Fleetwood was running straight toward Susanna, obscene desire stamped on his face. Savagely disabling Flavell before running Bennett through, Hartwell pounded along the ship, determined to reach Susanna first.

  Fortunately, Susanna was well aware of Fleetwood's approach. She pulled a short length of heavy netting from the side of the vessel and swung it at Fleetwood's head. The netting enveloped him and he tripped and fell heavily, injuring himself. Susanna rushed over to him, grabbed his sword and swung it at the next man who tried to grab her, slashing his face open. He fell with a howl as Susanna wielded the sword with surprising skill.

  Around them, a small insurrection was breaking out. The majority of the crew supported Johnson and his plans for a private slave trade, emphasising the forward-planning Johnson had put in motion. The few rebels, including Fitch, Sporrit, O'Rourke and Tench, were those who had served with Hartwell before and shared his values, but the small band of mutineers was hopelessly outnumbered.

  As the fighting continued, Madrigal made his way to the side of the ship closest to his own vessel, pausing here and there to help the rebels in their battle. He tore his red waistcoat from his body and waved it up and down. Immediately, the ancient galleon swung about, her huge sails catching the minimal breeze and began to bear down on the Pride of Plymouth.

  "Men!" screamed Johnson. "Execute that crew of damn black devils!"

  The assembled sailors scattered, some running to the cannons while others grabbed their rifles. A fusillade of artillery flew out, striking the side of Madrigal's ship, piercing the sails and felling most of the small crew. The cannons boomed and caused further damage, blowing gaping holes in the upper parts of the galleon.

  "No!" screamed Madrigal in anguish as he saw his friends and followers killed, shot down with no chance of survival. His ship carried upward of seventy cannons, but the crew was hardly large enough to sail the vessel and the cannons stood untended.

  Hartwell swung his blade and killed another of his former crew as the man lunged at him, but as he fell, so another took his place. Susanna was flailing at another man who was threatening her, O'Rourke was pinned down by three burly sailors, Sporrit was trapped against one of the masts, while Fitch and Tench were pinned back against the starboard hull, their former crewmates grinning in derision, forcing them backward in the hope of watching the men fall into the sea.

  Escape seemed hopeless, survival impossible, but at that point, the sky darkened, a scream unlike any ever heard on Earth silenced the sound of the battle and a blazing fireball appeared in the sky and hurtled straight down toward the Pride of Plymouth.

  hapter ive

  veryone on the three ships gaped upward, many falling to their knees in fear. This surpassed any maritime legend of sea serpents or sirens. The enormous, blazing ball of fire hurtled toward them, trailing black smoke which covered the entire sky and sank down to meet the white mist of the sea, where the two elements twirled around each other and enclosed the entire area.

  Just when all seemed lost, the fireball somehow overshot and smacked into the ocean some leagues distant, covering the distance in mere seconds. Almost immediately, the swell of displaced water rose up, a gigantic, terrifying roar of white spray and wave thundering toward the vessels.

  The crews screamed in terror as the tiny ships were lifted by the raging sea as easily as if they were sticks on a river. Many sailors fell overboard and many more were flung onto the deck or against the masts, the forces snapping bones and crushing internal organs.

  The ships lurched and spun as the sea continued to surge underneath, until finally the waves receded and all settled back to near calm.

  Hartwell picked himself up from where he had dragged Susanna down for whatever protection his frail body could afford and helped his sister rise to her feet. She looked as bad as he felt after the turbulent movement, which had left even the most hardened sea dog violently ill. Hartwell, however, didn't have time to submit to the grinding nausea in his bones and dragging Susanna by the hand, he staggered toward Madrigal.

  "Tench, Fitch, all others, to me," he roared, his voice reaching down and forcing all those loyal to him to move as best they could manage, either in a sideways crawl or even on their bellies.

  "Captain Madrigal," bellowed Hartwell to the unresponsive figure. "Get up, damn you. You have a duty to your crew."

  This roused the stunned man and he nodded, almost dumb from the hideous tidal wave, as he lurched to his feet.

  The crew staggered around the Pride of Plymouth, trying to orientate themselves, a task not made any easier by the plumes of filthy black smoke which reduced visibility considerably.

  Finally, Hartwell saw a vague outline of the old galleon in the smoke and he realized that Madrigal's ship had been carried by the waves to almost within jumping distance of the Plymouth. The rowing boat had been torn away from the side of the Plymouth by the forces of wind and water and Hartwell wasted no time in giving his final order on what had been his ship.

  "Into the sea and swim," he commanded. "Powder monkeys," he yelled to the small used to tend and operate the cannons. "To me." The boys, who found the captain to be an enigmatic yet fair man
and who had witnessed the actions of Admiral Johnson with much indignation, scampered out from their hiding places and joined their captain.

  "Grab a boy," commanded Hartwell. His crew all grabbed at least one child each, as did Madrigal, while Hartwell took the smallest boy in one hand while holding his sister in the other. "Jump! Belay that!" The crew looked in fuzzy incomprehension as Hartwell ran to his cabin at the back of the vessel and emerged after a few moments with a bottle of absinthe. He grabbed the boy and Susanna once more as he re-joined the mutineers and shouted again, "Jump!"

  They leapt out into the sea and noticed too late that the water was glowing red, a deep scarlet hue which flashed disturbingly beneath the waves. Fortunately, they all broke the surface of the water with no obvious ill effects. Apart from the strange glow, the sea was normal and the crew swam toward Madrigal's ship.

  It took a while for them to reach the vessel, hampered as they were by holding onto the frightened boys. As they reached the galleon and began climbing the ropes thrown down for them by the crew, they all felt a strange prickling sensation that seemed to envelop the entire body, inside and out. Each person, however, thought it was probably the trauma of the past few minutes and said nothing about it.

  Behind them, the sounds of the two navy crews being cursed by Admiral Johnson drifted through the black smoke and white mist. Hartwell knew they only had minutes to escape. "All hands, cut and run!" he roared.

  "Do it," bellowed Madrigal at what was left of his crew. The men swung into action, bypassing the standard procedures by slicing lines to the anchor and rigging in order to expedite the escape of the galleon.

  "Powder monkeys, make the cannons ready. Tench, Fitch, you're on gunnery duty," continued Hartwell. "Madrigal, where is your pilot?"

  "Dead," replied Madrigal, his lips thinning in fury at the betrayal and slaughter of his crew.

  "I understand," said Hartwell, quietly, "but we have no time for grief now. I need you at the wheel. You know this vessel better than us and your expertise can get us out of here."

  Madrigal nodded, seeing the truth of Hartwell's words. Madrigal knew how low the galleon sat in the water, what her turn radius was, all the details required to pilot the ship through deep and shallow waters.

  "Heading?" he asked.

  "Anywhere that is not here," replied Hartwell. "We'll worry about a heading if we can outrun the Plymouth and the Morning Star."

  "On this vessel?" said Tench, looking around at the creaking, rotten galleon. "They're faster, more powerful and new. We don't stand a chance!"

  hapter ix

  n explosion and spray of water seemed to confirm Tench's words. The admiral's crews had succeeded in getting organized and drawing a line on the fleeing ship. Fortunately, the thick black smoke from the mysterious fireball made it difficult to aim the cannons effectively.

  "Cannon crew," roared Hartwell, pointing at the rear most cannon, "prepare and fire." The crew responded, hastily checking the barrel was clear of any residue or obstruction, loaded in the powder and cannonball, both of which were lying next to the cannon, lit the fuse and leapt to the side. The small, antique cannon coughed and the cannonball almost floated from the mouth and plopped into the ocean. Hartwell looked at Madrigal, who shrugged.

  "The cannons are old," he said simply.

  "And rusted," said Fitch, looking critically at the cannon. "We'd have to be right on top of a ship to hit them with these things." Unfortunately, this wasn't a problem for the Morning Star or the Plymouth, both loaded with seventy-four cannons of the latest design. Another shot exploded into the ocean, much closer than before.

  "Hard to starboard, into the smoke," ordered Hartwell. "We'll put distance between us if we can lose them in the inferno."

  Madrigal spun the ship's wheel and the old vessel, groaning in protest, swung about, pursued by the two swifter navy ships. The black smoke was still pouring upward from the sea, unlike anything the crew had ever seen before.

  "We can't risk going straight through," coughed Tench. "We don't know what that thing is."

  "We can't risk going around either," replied Hartwell. "If we do, we will be caught. Everyone, wrap a wet scarf or cloth around your face and take a deep breath. We're going through the middle."

  The crew hastened to obey, some removing jerkins or shirts and swirling them around in the barrel of drinking water, others grabbing cloths from below decks.

  Susanna used her short jacket, wrapping the sleeves around her head to make a strange mask. Her eyes stung in the thick smoke and she wished she had something to protect them. Something like a pair of thick reading glasses, perhaps.

  A few nervous coughs sounded out and soon became a crescendo as the thick smoke settled around the crew. Visibility was reduced to a few inches in the black, choking smoke.

  Madrigal held the course as best he could, hoping they were going in something approximating a straight line. Inside the cloud, it was impossible to determine any sense of direction, movement or distance.

  Many of the crew moaned in horror and fear as coloured lights flashed eerily in the black smoke. Reds, greens and purples seemed to pulsate in the air, flitting lightly to and fro. The powder monkeys cowered under the rear castle, while O'Rourke was reminded of the many folktales his grandmother had told him years before of strange and devilish creatures that lured men to their doom.

  Hartwell held his hand up and saw tiny, multicoloured lines of light spreading out over his fingers. Small sparks erupted from his skin, reminding him of the sensation he had felt whilst in the ocean just a few moments before. The strange tracing light seemed to be enveloping everything and everyone, but it wasn't harming the crew or ship, simply entwining around them.

  A shout drew his attention. One of Madrigal's crew was pointing in amazement up ahead of the ship. Squinting through the smoke, Hartwell saw that a small patch of the ocean was boiling a bright silver colour. The crew rushed forward and stared at the small patch of iridescent light which fluctuated in intensity, dimming then glowing stronger before dimming again. Thankfully, the smoke was finally clearing—they were past whatever the strange fireball had been.

  Hartwell gazed at the patch of boiling sea, trying to discern some recognizable shape or form, until the light moved once more, the perspective changed and he saw that in the centre of the brilliant radiance was a human figure, apparently floating face down. "Nets," he bellowed.

  The crew stared at him.

  "Fetch the nets and get that person on board," he commanded.

  "He must be dead," argued a member of Madrigal's crew. "We don't have the time to stop."

  "Then give me the net, damn you, and I'll do it myself," snapped Hartwell. "Mister Madrigal, hold a steady course past that figure, then make all speed away from here."

  Madrigal thought about arguing, saw the look on Hartwell's face and decided against it. "Yes, sir," he replied, twitching the wheel slightly.

  Hartwell gathered a fishing net, hastily unravelled it and then in one smooth movement, threw it over the side of the ship. The net fell perfectly and scooped up the floating body and what looked like several gallons of silver fluid which somehow swirled around the prone figure rather than dripping through the mesh. Hartwell heaved on the line, assisted by Susanna, but the figure was too heavy. Even taking into account the water enclosing it, the weight was astonishing.

  The powder monkeys ran out and grabbed the lines and heaved, gritting their teeth as their tiny arms pulled on the solid weight. Hartwell swore under his breath, repositioned himself and with a superhuman effort, pulled the netting free from the sea's embrace. The net jerked and its mysterious cargo was slowly raised up, hand over hand. Hartwell grabbed the net and gave one last heave, but misjudged the weight and fell back to the deck, the netting and the body falling on top of him.

  He bellowed in pain at the weight crushing him. He lashed out with his arms and legs, trying to free himself. In doing so, he tore the netting from the top of the figure and found himself
looking at a silver skull.