Zoe Archer - [Ether Chronicles 03]

by Skies of Gold

  When your thoughts are like a monsoon, Maa’ had said, remember, there is more to this world than the one inside your head.

  Her poor mother, saddled with not just an engineer for a husband, but a daughter who also lived most of her life within the confines of her mind. Maa’ had done her best, and Kali usually returned from their outings to Maharaj Baug with a brain that, if not entirely calm, had settled somewhat.

  She tried to find that peace now, but she couldn’t forget yesterday’s surprises. Fletcher, a Man O’ War. Who had also been at the battle of Liverpool. Who’d given his life for his country. As he’d said, to the British Aerial Navy, he was a dead man. And he’d decided to stay dead—for the safety of others.

  The biggest revelation of all had been the discovery of what tied them together. Not simply his presence at Liverpool, but that they were each, in their way, only partially living. They shared a connection, when she’d run from them so fiercely.

  Bending down, she gathered up handfuls of rocks. One by one, she tossed them into the sea, testing how far she could throw them. Each splash punctuated her thoughts.

  She couldn’t blame him for wanting to stay dead. After what she’d seen, what she’d endured, she herself wanted nothing to do with the world. A Man O’ War might be enhanced through technology, but they were still men, with needs and fears and hearts—even if those hearts had telumium filaments attached to them. He hadn’t questioned her own need to flee from the world. And if he so firmly believed he was only a weapon, what could she say to convince him otherwise? The damage he bore went much deeper than Liverpool. There was that someone who’d damaged him, planting the seeds of his self-hatred. Seeds that had taken root and grown into a thick, twisted vine, knotted around him, binding him.

  Both Kali and Fletcher had hidden themselves away, each of them the walking wounded.

  They were fugitives.

  The stones in her hands were worn smooth by countless years of rolling up and down the beach, tumbling in the surf. After so long handling metal and wire, it was primal and satisfying to touch organic material, something created not by man but the earth itself. So easy to forget that this planet would outlast them all, and all their buildings and technology would crumble and rust long before the earth stopped existing.

  She didn’t know what to do with the feelings he stirred in her. This wasn’t a simple problem of getting a tetrol-powered ship-loading device to work. There weren’t clear answers, defined methodologies. No flow chart telling her If A, then B. If C, then D.

  Crouching down, Kali arranged the stones in order—largest to smallest. Then by color. Then shape. This she could control, but her own heart proved maddeningly unruly. Anger and grief . . . even threads of happiness deluged her, as if months of packed away emotions all rose up at once.

  Standing, she kicked the orderly rows of stones apart.

  Damn it, he did this. He made me feel again.

  And they were bound together. Through circumstance and history. Through an invisible link that made her acutely aware of him. And being in his company gave her an odd, unexpected pleasure. He was gruff. Unmannerly, at times. But he never treated her with pity after he’d learned about her leg. He’d shown up with dead rabbits to make sure she had enough to eat. He had no obligation to her, but he’d done her a kindness.

  His sense of humor was dry enough to soak up an oil spill, and she liked that. No desire to bend over backwards to please someone. Take me as I am, he seemed to say, and I’ll do the same for you.

  Not many had offered her the same acceptance. Even the men she’d taken as lovers had tried to shape her in subtle, small ways. How to wear her hair. Suggesting that she not talk of her mother’s Hindu beliefs—superstition had no place in the modern world, and it only reinforced the fact that Kali had mixed blood. As though her skin wasn’t damning evidence enough.

  Those men hadn’t shared her bed for long. Better to be alone than endure that kind of gentle, well-meaning idiocy.

  Looking at the waves hadn’t calmed her. Nothing had. Before she’d lost her leg, she’d taken walks to clear the whirlwinds in her mind. Her pace might’ve slowed since, but it could feel good to let her body take over and give in to the sensation of muscles moving, heart pumping, blood coursing through her. So she turned away from the beach and climbed the slope toward the cottage. Then kept going.

  She knew the island better now, and she was getting stronger and more used to her artificial leg. So she found herself in short order by the pond that marked the midway point between her cottage and Fletcher’s ship.

  It surprised her and it didn’t surprise her to discover he was already there. He’d fashioned a fishing pole from materials salvaged off his ship, and a pile of small silver fish lay in the grass beside his boots. He didn’t move at her approach. Doubtless he’d heard her coming from a mile away, with his acute hearing, and the fact that her leg made her less than gazelle-like.

  From a distance, she was struck anew by his size. Either he’d been a big man before he’d undergone the Man O’ War procedure, or something about the process had transformed him. But she’d never seen a man so physically imposing. The wild hair and beard only added to the sense of barely tamed power he exuded.

  Though it wasn’t necessary, she approached him slowly, as one might sidle closer to a tiger. She positioned herself on the other side of the pond.

  “Will it scare the fish if I talk?” she asked quietly.

  “Only if you talk while jumping into the pond.”

  “I haven’t tested my leg in full immersion, so that’s an unlikely scenario.”

  “Then chatter as much as you want.” His voice was deep and unyielding, his expression opaque. He didn’t look at her.

  She was silent for a moment. “I left quickly yesterday. Rudely.”

  Finally, he raised his gaze to hers. “It wasn’t rude.”

  “I jumped out of your ship and ran away,” she said drily. She contemplated the surface of the water, green and murky. “Though I’m not much of an expert on etiquette, that seems to qualify as unmannerly.”

  “That rot doesn’t matter out here.” The line on his fishing pole tugged, and for a moment, he was busy pulling a fish from the water. He held it up, wriggling, on the end of his line. The creature was miniscule, barely the size of a child’s finger. With a sigh, he unhooked the fish and tossed it back into the pond.

  “Hardly a nibble, that one,” he muttered.

  “Those others don’t look much bigger.” She glanced at the fish he’d already caught.

  “But they aren’t all bone. Don’t fancy choking on my supper.” He cast his line back into the water. For several moments, the only sounds came from the drone of insects hovering over the pond and the rustle of wind in the treetops.

  Then, “Think I know why you ran,” he muttered. “Yesterday. It’s . . . not easy. Being who we are. Living through what we have. And then have it all come back, right in your face, like a keg of powder exploding.”

  “Did it for you?” she asked quietly. “Explode?”

  He gave one terse nod. “I could put it all away when I was alone. Forget, in a way, what I was. But then you showed up. Now . . .” He exhaled. “There were crewmen’s bodies that were still aboard when I crashed, I buried them in the woods behind the ship. Hadn’t visited their graves since that day, but after you’d left, I went to them.” His voice roughened. “Pulled up some weeds. Said a prayer.”

  She hadn’t noticed the graves the other day, but she hadn’t gone into the woods to see them, either. It wouldn’t be a pleasant task, digging the final resting places for one’s crew. Men who you’d commanded, perhaps even took them into the paths of their deaths.

  She couldn’t imagine that responsibility—the lives of dozens, perhaps even a hundred men, balanced in her hands. And then all the lives he’d saved by facing and hunting the enemy. Though he didn’t see it that way.

  “In Liverpool, there were too many dead to bury them individually,�
�� she answered. “Mass graves were dug, with granite laid over them, and all the names of the dead carved there. Crudely. Before I left, I’d heard plans to bring in marble to replace the granite, and a craftsman to inscribe the names of the deceased. But money and supplies are in short supply. It might never happen. It’s a resting place, at least.” She looked at him. “There would’ve been many more graves if you hadn’t been there. My own, perhaps.”

  He didn’t answer her. Only gave a barely noticeable shake of his head, as if dismissing her words.

  They were quiet for a time. Until he said lowly, “I like the cricket.”

  Chips of ice fell away from around her heart, imagining the large, powerful Man O’ War with the little clockwork toy. “Don’t overwind it,” she cautioned, “or it’ll break.”

  “If it does, maybe you’ll come and fix it,” he said with the tone of a man unused to uncertainty.

  She skirted the pond until she stood beside him. “It might need maintenance, too. Not just repair.”

  Again, he fell into silence. Either he was a taciturn man by nature, or these solitary months had taught it to him. “That would be . . . good. The mechanics and engineers on the ship, they were always busy with maintenance. Kept her flying smooth.”

  “That’s a good plan.” She tilted her head. “I think you and I might . . . become friends.”

  One of his brows rose. “Think, but don’t know.”

  “It’s just a theory, at this point.” After Liverpool, she hadn’t wanted friends. She hadn’t wanted anything but solitude and survival. Yet talking with him now, she craved more than that. “The best way to test a theory is through experimentation. So, we’ll conduct some experiments.”

  “I’ve already been someone’s experiment,” he said, glancing at his chest. “The end result was a disaster.”

  “These experiments will be much more pleasant,” she answered. “And they’ll have a far different outcome. We’ll start tomorrow. Meet me here at noon. And bring an ether rifle.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  * * *

  Just as she’d promised, Fletcher found Kali at the pond at noon the following day. She checked her timepiece as he approached, his ether rifle slung across his back.

  “You’re late,” she said.

  “Since the crash, I keep track of time as the Creator intended.” He glanced up at the watery sun, then back at her. Today she wore her dark blue dress, the one with two rows of buckles along the bodice, and a round collar that gave the smallest glimpse of the dip of her throat. Her belt with tools and pouches slung around her hips, and she also wore her compass gauntlet. Ready for anything.

  “In Liverpool, it was all regulated time,” she answered. “The horns of ships as they steamed into the harbor told us what time and day it was. It was so strange when those horns stopped.” A shadow passed over her face, but it was brief. “I suppose I ought to get used to Eilean Comhachag time.”

  He strode toward her. “And I’ve got to get used to the island having a name. Always thought of it as this place or this rock.”

  Though his implants made him less susceptible to cold, her smile still warmed him. “It’s a good thing you were never a cartographer. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Over There-istan.’”

  His brief laugh surprised them both. It felt and sounded like long-rusted machinery grinding back to life. “Buckinghamshire,” he said, before clamping his mouth shut. Jesus, where the hell did that come from?

  Silence fell.

  “Though,” she continued, glancing up at him with her impossibly deep brown eyes, “we don’t really know each other’s names, either. Your crewmen didn’t call you Fletcher.”

  “That’d be insubordination and subject to punishment.”

  She looked appalled. “I can’t believe you’d flog anyone.”

  “Flogging and whipping were halted decades ago—doesn’t stop some captains, though. I didn’t flog my men, but a good captain can’t let misconduct slide. Makes the whole ship unsafe.”

  “Sensible,” she murmured. It caught him off guard, how much he didn’t want her disapproval. As though her opinion of him mattered. Yet it did. She wasn’t disgusted by the fact that he was a Man O’ War. A look of horror hadn’t crossed her face.

  He’d never forget that expression Emily had when he’d revealed his transformation to her. The absolute revulsion.

  My God, what are you?

  He pushed Emily’s face and voice from his mind. There was one woman, at least, who didn’t consider him a monstrosity, and he stood with her now.

  “Usually,” he said, “I’d make them pump out and clean the septic tanks instead of having the automatons do it, or scrape the copper dust buildup from the battery terminals.”

  “And order was restored.” She nodded. “I like order, myself.”

  “Can’t build anything mechanical if everything’s a muddle.”

  She smiled again. “So you understand.” While he warmed further from another of her smiles, her gaze narrowed. “Despite the damage taken to your ship, it looked like it had been clean and orderly. And that’s because of the captain. So you like to be in control. In command.”

  Straightforward words, but the faint husky tone that crept into her voice, and the glint in her eyes gave them a rosy suggestiveness.

  “I do.” His voice had deepened. “It’s why I was such a good captain.”

  Her cheeks flushed. The air shifted between them, tensing with dangerous promise.

  Haven’t seen a woman in three months, and haven’t touched one in six, at least. No shock that she’d get under your skin.

  That’s not the reason, and you damned know it. It’s her. This thing linking us.

  Pale sunlight gleamed on her silky black hair, and her slim fingers toyed with the pouches on her belt. Her belt slung low on her hips, emphasizing their curves.

  What would her skin feel like? Her hands were callused, but she wasn’t a laborer. He’d felt strength in her arm when he’d held it, and when she’d been in his arms she . . .

  He shook his head. They might not be the last two people on Earth, but they were the only two on this island. All the more reason not to entertain thoughts about her skin, or her body, or the intellect shining in her eyes that could be applied to more than just mechanical engineering.

  Even before he’d undergone his change into a Man O’ War, he’d been an oaf where women were concerned. Oh, he was confident and brash on the ship, but not on land. Not with the ladies. Never said the charming thing. The clever thing. Just blurted and blundered. His first mate had ribbed him relentlessly whenever they’d had shore leave and Fletcher would yet again botch talking to a lady. Then he’d met Emily, and he thought he’d found the one woman who made him feel comfortable. He could be himself when he was with her. But the implants changed all that. After her, he knew he could never have a woman of his own. He didn’t socialize at assemblies, and found ways out of invitations to events where ladies would be present.

  It was easier, safer to pay for female company than risk heartbreak. Even then, he made sure to visit the courtesans that specialized in attending to Man O’ Wars. None of them had been taken aback by his size, his power. But then, they were paid professionals.

  He didn’t want to think of those women. He didn’t want to think of Emily. Not when he was with Kali.

  Fletcher was growing to care for her. He didn’t want to scuttle the friendship they’d just started, all on account of the wreck that had been his intimate life.

  She cleared her throat. “Let’s head toward the moors. I’ve got use for you.”

  His goddamn heart beat hard at those words, but he only nodded and trekked toward the rolling fields.

  “Did you bring your ether rifle?” she asked as they ambled. He had to adjust his stride, shortening it so they could keep pace. He noticed it more now, the slight hitch in her step as she walked, especially when she tried to go faster. He shortened his gait even more.

  He tugged on the
strap slung across his chest. “Planning on shooting me with it?”

  “Not you, no.” Then she glanced down at his legs, and scowled. “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Change the way you walk on my account. I can keep up.” As if to prove it, she strode ahead. But she tilted as she walked.

  He caught up easily. “You’ll wear yourself out.”

  Her expression was set, determined. “I can’t get stronger if I coddle myself.”

  “It’s not coddling,” he growled. “It’s being smart. You’ve got new equipment. Things aren’t going to be the same for you anymore.”

  She stopped in her tracks and glared up at him with fierce resolve. “Thank you kindly for pointing out that I’m crippled. I would’ve forgotten, otherwise.”

  “That’s not what I said, bloody woman.” Most people would be afraid to stand toe-to-toe with a Man O’ War, but she didn’t back down. Neither did he. “I’ve had crewmen who’ve lost legs, arms. They still do their duties, and no one thinks less of them. But they make adjustments. And it takes more than three damn months to get used to the changes. You push yourself too hard, you’ll burn out like a turbine running too fast.”

  Her expression became tetchy. “I can’t get stronger if I don’t test myself.”

  “Never said not to test yourself. But don’t try to keep up with me, because you can’t.” He glanced away. “Nobody can. Except other Man O’ Wars. We’re the strange ones.” He’d always gotten looks whenever he was off his ship, and crewmen with no experience with Man O’ Wars gaped like children at a clockwork menagerie. It wasn’t difficult for him to command a ship, but he didn’t like attention in other ways, coming to reinforce what he’d started to believe about himself and those like him—that they were oddities, aberrations.

  Finally, quietly, she said, “All kinds of things in this world are strange. But they’re a hell of a lot more interesting than the mundane.”

  Something eased in his chest, as if bolts had been loosened.