Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Novels from Top Fantasy and Science Fiction Authors

by Gwynn White

  “I trust you,” she said simply. “But how did you learn to cook?”

  “My ma was Cook for a big house,” he said, expression growing solemn. “She taught me all this when I was just a wee boy.” He waved at the table.

  He wasn’t much bigger now, but Diana bit her lip. Like her, he was small for his age. Spending one’s prime growing years rummaging about in rubbish heaps for scraps of food would do that to a body. She’d survived for too long on stolen bits of cheese and the stale ends of loaves, vegetables nearly gone to slime, discarded packets of chips with a few rancid crumbs in the corners…

  She took a bite of melon, crisp and sweet, to banish the memories.

  “So, you’ll be taking up cooking duties for us?” she asked.

  “Not breakfast.” He sent her a pleading look. “I aim to sleep ‘til noon every day.”

  “I can manage a pot of tea and toast,” she assured him. “But what about the rest of your day?”

  “I’ll find summat to do.” His cheery grin was back, and firmly in place.

  “Make sure it’s on the up and up.” She gave him a stern look. “I’ll leave money for the grocers.”

  In truth, though, she did trust Tipper. Especially now that he’d demonstrated his cookery skills. Those would help keep him out of trouble, at least for a time.

  The rest of the week passed uneventfully. Every morning she rose and fixed herself a simple breakfast, donned one of her new dresses, and took the train down to the spaceport.

  Lord Atkinson observed her as she watched the ships, asking questions that she could not always answer, which left him prickly and frustrated.

  It wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t explain precisely to him how her mind worked, and his irritation with her sparked her animosity in return. She tried to remain reasonable, however, doing her best to narrate her thought processes. It wasn’t easy, but she tried to describe how the arcs of parabolas inscribed themselves on the sky, how the possibilities inherent in every movement narrowed down to a single course.

  On the other hand, when he wasn’t annoyed, he could be quite charming. Slowly he began to treat her less like a piece of trash blown in off the street and more like someone worthy of his grudging respect. He was also a spacecraft enthusiast, well versed in the particulars of each ship and able to identify the more obscure models she wasn’t familiar with.

  She was relieved to find that common ground. It helped offset the times he’d rise and pace furiously, spending his temper with his feet when she could not tell him what he wanted to know.

  Her afternoons were easier without Lord Atkinson’s intense focus and insistent questions. She could lose herself in the ebb and flow of the spaceport, graphing equations on her handheld and immersing herself in the pure joy of numbers.

  On Friday evening, Nails came by the flat to check on them, as promised. Tipper wheedled her into staying for dinner—a magnificent pot roast with potatoes and carrots, and strawberry pie for dessert. Diana hadn’t asked him how much the berries had cost. She suspected the amount would make her wince, and besides, she reminded herself, she could afford it.

  On the weekend, she and Tipper walked to the nearby square and enjoyed a lazy picnic.

  “Wonder what they’re doing in West Quay,” he said, laying back to watch the clouds skim across the sky. “Bet Breggy’s steamed we’ve gone missing.”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” Diana said, packing the remains of their lunch back into the wicker basket.

  Her life as a streetrat was done, and Breggy’s reach didn’t extend up Queensway. She hoped.

  On her commute in and out of the spaceport, she was careful not to look at the beggars on their various corners. She didn’t think she’d be recognized, but one never knew. Streetrats were clever and observant, and the last thing she needed was to draw attention to her new status.

  Though what Breggy could do about it, she didn’t know.

  “I’ve a mind to look for work,” Tipper said, rolling over and plucking a piece of grass to chew on.

  “Oh? You’ve no references.”

  “Nails said she’d put in a word for me at the pub down the street. They need a dish boy, but I can work my way up in the kitchen, ‘fore long.”

  “No doubt you can.” She ruffled his somewhat greasy hair. “Take a bath before you apply, right?”

  He let out an exaggerated sigh, then smiled up at her. Already the hollows of his cheeks were filling in, the cuts now healed from where Breggy had backhanded him. Of course, not all the injuries they carried from the streets were visible, or would mend cleanly.

  But for the moment, she would take what peace she could.

  15

  Derek rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the sweat and grime of the summer day collect against his fingers. He stared down again at the handwritten note on his desk, delivered by a discreet courier from the other side of the river. It read:

  The inscription on the ring translates loosely into the galactic smuggler’s motto, secretum est optimus. Hidden treasure is best. Good luck.

  Wonderful. The corpse they’d pulled from the river two months ago was involved with the spacegoing smugglers. Was this similar to the deadly jostling for position among the gangrunners, or was something more sinister afoot?

  He shook his head, trying to focus. It was difficult to think past the undercurrent of worry he’d carried for the last fortnight. Diana and Tipper had disappeared. Gone, like rainwater evaporating after a storm, and he had no clue how to find them.

  Every time a report of a body came, he steeled himself for what he’d find. So far, his worst fears hadn’t come true, but he suspected it was only a matter of time.

  He hadn’t been able to save his brother, who’d died in a deadly bombing in the pursuit of Ireland’s freedom. Maybe Derek was trying to make amends for that by protecting those two streetrats—balancing the scales, as it were. In truth, the world would be an emptier place without Diana, with her quick mind and clear-eyed gaze, and young Tipper, clever and scrappy.

  Damnú, why hadn’t they taken his offer of tickets up to London? Was Derek destined to lose every person he allowed himself to care for, even the tiniest bit?

  He picked up the message from the Turkish bath owner and crumpled it in his fist. His contacts in the Irish Nationalist Resistance were unhappy that he hadn’t yet been able to provide them current intelligence from inside the spaceport. The fate of two streetrats shouldn’t get in the way of that mission.

  This lead was the perfect opportunity to gain access to Spaceport Security, maybe even the inner sanctum of the director’s office. And he’d take it, truly he would, but first he had a raid to organize.

  If Diana and Tipper weren’t dead—which hope he stubbornly clung to, since their bodies hadn’t surfaced—there was only one place they could be.

  Breggy’s.

  Diana had given him the location of the gangrunner’s hideout, and he hadn’t acted on the information. Yet. But he was sure he could convince Headquarters to approve the raid and send reinforcements. Cribbs would back him up. The other officer was always in favor of a violent show of strength.

  As soon as his shift was over, Derek would make a visit to his superior officer at the Greater Southampton Police Headquarters. Within a day or two, the plan would be in place. They had to move quickly, so that none of Breggy’s crew caught wind of it.

  There was always the risk that Diana and Tipper might be hurt during the raid, or taken into custody before Derek could intervene, but he had to do something.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. One thing at a time. First, extricate Diana and Tipper from Breggy’s clutches. Once they were safe, he’d make an appointment with Spaceport Security to discuss the body the police had fished out of the Itchen.

  “Where are they?” Derek leaned in to the handcuffed gangrunner, anger spiking through his veins, and took a fistful of Breggy’s shirt, close to the neck.

  If he had to choke the inform
ation out of the man, he’d do it, and no regrets.

  Breggy’s face was fitfully illuminated by the last remnants of the fire the police had set to smoke the gang out of their hiding place. He smiled—more a grimace—his gold tooth shining.

  “Don’t know who you mean.”

  Derek’s grip tightened. “Di—Diver, and Tipper.”

  “Those two.” Breggy spat out a clot of blood. “Gone.”

  He hadn’t been taken without a fight, and Derek could feel the bruises rising on his own ribs and across his jaw. During the raid, the force had rounded up most of the Breggy’s deputies. They couldn’t arrest the entire crew, however, and a number of the streetrats had been let go—those not deemed to be a threat, those too young for full transportation.

  None of them had been Diana or Tipper.

  “Gone where?” Derek asked.

  If Breggy said the bottom of the river, Derek feared he’d be hard put not to end the man then and there. Simple enough to tell Headquarters he’d died in the fight.

  “Wherever traitors go.” Breggy gave him a sly look. “Thought you’d taken them in, copper. Seeing as how you’ve a fancy for young boys.”

  Diana’s secret was still safe, then. Derek blew a breath out his nostrils and refrained from punching the gangrunner right in the center of that bright golden smirk.

  “They did me in, didn’t they?” Breggy continued, his expression hardening. “Streetrats turning on their own. If I ever catch up to them, they’ll wish they were dead.”

  “That won’t happen, as you’re bound for transportation, and your bullyboys with you.” Derek hoped it was to one of the harder worlds, too, where convicts didn’t last more than a few years.

  “Aye? I’m warning you, I always settle my debts, copper. And I’ve got friends in high places.” Breggy’s voice was deadly serious.

  “You won’t be talking so bold when you’re bound for a prison planet,” Derek said. Despite his words, cold premonition prickled the back of his neck.

  One of the officers from Headquarters came up to Derek. “Done here, Officer Byrne?”

  “Aye. Take him away.” Derek let go of Breggy’s shirt, relief warring with worry.

  If Diana and Tipper weren’t here, and weren’t dead, then where, in the name of all the stars, could they be?

  16

  Miss Smythe,” Lord Atkinson said, at the beginning of their fourth week of working together, “might I have the pleasure of escorting you to a ball?”

  Diana swiveled her chair about and blinked at him. Was this some kind of trap? Well, she didn’t intend to fall into it.

  “I’m not gentry,” she said.

  “I’m well aware of the fact.” His lip curled, ever so slightly. “Still, the monthly People’s Cotillion will be held this coming Thursday, at the Royal Victoria Assembly rooms. It’s not just for the nobility, so you may set your mind at ease.”

  “Why ask me?”

  He glanced to one side, the faintest flush visible on his neck. “Is it a crime to want to purse a young lady’s company outside of business hours? I find you interesting, Diana.”

  Her thoughts stuttered about in her head. Surely Lord Atkinson wasn’t implying a romantic interest in her? It was most unexpected—and unlikely.

  “I don’t dance.” At least, she didn’t think she knew how.

  “It’s not difficult.” His gaze returned to her face. “You’ve demonstrated an impressive grasp of numbers. Dancing is simply counting to the beat, and moving your feet accordingly.”

  “I’m certain it’s a bit more involved than that.”

  “Well, perhaps so.” He gave her a half smile. “But I’m considered an excellent dancing partner, not to be too modest. I’ll take care of you.”

  She didn’t particularly want to be taken care of, and certainly not by a somewhat irritating member of the nobility. And yet, the idea of attending a ball held a certain appeal. It reminded her of a tale her Nanny had once told her, about a princess and a glass slipper…

  The memory slipped away, but not the feeling of possibility.

  “Very well,” she said. “I’ll go to the ball with you.”

  “You will?” Now it was his turn to blink in surprise. Then his smile widened with satisfaction. “I didn’t think you’d say yes. At least, not the first time I asked.”

  Should she have put him off? Ah well, too late now.

  The firing of a Frauke’s engines in a nearby berth made them both turn back to the window, and their work. But still, she was going to a ball! The thought shimmered through Diana, half pleasure, half panic.

  What in the heavens was she going to wear?

  Lord Atkinson promised to fetch her from Queensway Tower promptly at eight o’clock on Thursday evening. At quarter-til-eight, Diana was waiting in the foyer, feeling absurdly overdressed. Her nano-lifted skirts of deep blue had almost gotten caught in the lift doors, and she cursed the impulse that had made her purchase the extravagant ball gown. No matter how much the gauzy drift put her mind of cloud nebulas, the gown was ridiculously impractical.

  Much more sensible to wear something that cooperated with the laws of gravity—but it was too late now. Besides, she didn’t think one of her high-collared work dresses would go over well with Lord Atkinson. One wore ball gowns to balls, after all.

  And, according to the modiste, elbow-length gloves, dancing slippers with discreet heels, and as much jewelry as Diana could manage.

  Which wasn’t much, admittedly. Her large salary was quickly disappearing in the face of the expenses of her new life. Still, she’d had enough to purchase an elegant sapphire necklace and matching earrings.

  You can always sell them off later, she reminded herself.

  “Coo, don’t you look fine,” Tipper had said when she’d emerged from her bedroom. “All the toffest nobs’ll want to dance with you.”

  She’d grimaced. “Provided I don’t trip over my own feet.”

  “A nice bit of flash, too.” He’d nodded at her jewelry.

  “Foolishness.” She’d set her hand to the jewels about her neck. “We could’ve lived off this for nigh on a year, on the streets.”

  “Aye, but we’d still be sleeping in the rubble, and trying to stay away from Breggy. I like this much better.”

  “So do I.”

  Every day, her fear that it would be all snatched away faded a bit more. Although—and she knew it was beyond foolish—a strange discontent had begun to take its place. It was all very well helping Lord Atkinson with his device and smoothing out the daily routine of the spaceport, but it was not the future she had envisioned for herself.

  Aye, she was helping others reach the stars, but every time a ship blasted off, a tiny bit of her heart went with it. She wanted to go into the blue, not just watch from the outside.

  She was saving up, of course, for passage out, but that still did not feel like an answer. Not a complete one.

  And now here she was, pacing in the foyer, catching glimpses of herself in the gilt-framed mirror beside the lift. Tipper had helped her put her hair up, and she’d let the jeweler talk her into a sparkling headpiece. From the outside, she looked the very picture of a lady of Quality.

  Except for a few ever-present banknotes tucked in her corset, and a collarbone that still jutted out a bit too sharply for the well-fed beauty of the gentry. The gloves hadn’t wanted to stay up, either, until the modiste had given her a small bottle of glue.

  “All the ladies use it,” she’d said. “It will hold your gown precisely upon your shoulders, without slipping scandalously down. And it will serve to keep your gloves secure, too. Our little secret.”

  Diana hoped she’d be able to remove her gloves and gown when the evening was over. How long did it take for the glue to wear off? What if it lost its stickiness too soon? More anxieties, piled upon her cartload of worries. Oh, why had she told Lord Atkinson yes?

  Just as she was considering retreating back to the safety of Number 54, a gorgeously gilded ca
rriage arrived drawn by two matching gray horses. The footman riding on the back of the vehicle hopped down and opened the door, and Lord Atkinson stepped out into the evening air.

  Diana was accustomed to his elegant mode of dress at the spaceport, but this was exponentially more refined. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with long tails, and a blue waistcoat that, she was glad to see, nearly matched the color of her gown. She’d gambled that he’d, as usual, wear something that matched his eyes, and she’d been right. A large diamond stickpin glittered in his crisp white neck cloth, and his hair was artfully disheveled.

  Thank all the stars she’d purchased the ridiculous gown after all, otherwise she would have looked quite the drab little crow beside Lord Atkinson’s magnificence.

  Clutching her reticule, blue satin, to match her underskirts, Diana went to open the front door.

  “My dear Diana!” Lord Atkinson caught the door and held it wide for her. His gaze raked her from head to toe and for a moment she thought she saw a spark of irritation in his eyes.

  But that was ridiculous. Surely it was admiration.

  “How beautiful you look.” He sounded quite sincere as held out his arm to escort her to the coach. “I’ll be the envy of every man there.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Christopher,” he said, handing her into the carriage. “I insist.”

  It felt too personal, but he did keep calling her Diana. Perhaps it was his attempt to set her at ease instead of emphasizing the class differences between them.

  The interior of the carriage was lit with a softly glowing lightstrip mounted overhead. The ornate gilding on the outside of the vehicle carried along over the ceiling; golden vines curling in loops and whorls that made her a bit dizzy to trace.

  Lord Atkinson—she simply could not think of him as Christopher—settled on the bench seat across from her.

  “Would you like the curtains closed, or do you prefer to enjoy the view?” he asked

  “Open please,” she said. “How far are we going?”