by White, Gwynn
She was fast enough to make up for it, though, and her slight pickings grew until she judged that her own well-hidden purse was heavy enough.
Then, with a smile for the gentleman whom she’d just relieved of some coin, and a twirl of her battered parasol, she left the docks. Better to depart now, before raising any suspicions. There was a new policeman on patrol, and she didn’t want to run afoul of the fellow. Word was he hadn’t yet been bribed by the gang runners to look the other way.
Diana wasn’t one of the gang rats, though it cost her a fair bit of her weekly take to maintain her independence. Sometimes she wondered if it was worth it—but then she remembered those first, horrible months on the London streets. And the orphanage before that…
With a clang, she slammed the door on those thoughts. Her past was gone. There was only the present, and the life she’d scraped up for herself. Her independence was one of the most valuable things she had, and bedamned if she would give it up lightly.
She ducked down a nearby alley to transform herself. Off went her skirt and matching jacket, revealing the trousers and work shirt beneath. She traded her bonnet for a plain cap, stuffing her hair beneath the stained wool. Finally, she turned her skirt and jacket inside out and wrapped them around the parasol to make a nondescript bundle.
With a grimace, she scraped some muck from a nearby puddle and smudged her face, especially around the jaw. Best to give the impression she was a boy—she’d learned that lesson some time ago. Diana, the girl who’d grown up in an elegant house in Mayfair, was gone forever, changed to Diver, a scrappy lad from the stews of London.
It was getting harder to pass as a boy, though, as she grew older. She’d lost track of her birthdays in those first, dreadful years after the accident. Now she figured she was sixteen or thereabouts. Maybe seventeen. Living on the streets had delayed her growth—but not halted it altogether.
It used to be a fine disguise, to dress in the castoffs of some noble girl while she worked the crowd. Now, though, she was the recipient of lingering glances she didn’t much like, and leering smiles that made her queasy. She knew where that led, and that was a path she refused to take. She’d seen girls her own age used up in only a few years, and nothing to show for it.
Maybe ‘twas time to hack off her hair, but she shied away from the thought. Shearing it off felt like losing an essential part of herself and giving in completely to the harshness of the streets. Leastwise, that’s what she told herself. It tasted better in her mouth than the notion she was vain about her curling, toffee-colored tresses.
And if worst came to worst, she might need her pretty hair—if she ever grew so desperate as to take the path of those other girls.
Overhead, the roar of a ship taking off from the spaceport distracted her from her grim thoughts. A hauler, from the sound of the engines, loaded with cargo and headed out-system.
Diana tilted her head. The ship should be visible between the buildings in just a moment… there. Heavy-bodied and powerful, a mid-century Frauke, probably bound for one of the colonies out along the spiral arm.
She watched until it was just a speck in the sky, trying not to think of the stars shining behind the blue. Trying not to think of what it would mean to save enough to book passage out to a new planet, where she could start over. Where her life wouldn’t be a constant scrabble, always looking over her shoulder for trouble.
Every streetrat had that dream, to board a ship headed to the stars. It was as impossible as the storyvid tales of fortunes suddenly regained, of lost families reappearing to fold missing orphans back into their arms. But her life was not a storyvid. She knew well enough that families didn’t miraculously come back to life after a flaming carriage crash, and lost riches never magically reappeared.
Even though she knew it was an impossible dream, yearning stung the back of her throat. She felt for the shiny crystal button she wore on a string about her neck—the one remnant of her former life. It wasn’t valuable, else she’d have bartered it away long ago. No, the button was simply a useless little trinket that she couldn’t bring herself to part with.
Someday, I’ll find a place to belong again. The old longing rose in her, and she savagely thrust it back down, then spat the taste of misery out of her mouth. Her home was gone forever, and that was the hard truth.
The hope of escaping Earth was harder to abandon, though, living as she did beneath the stitched shadows of takeoffs and landings from the largest spaceport in the galaxy. Every night she counted her small store of coins, but it was not enough. Never enough, not even for a berth to the moon.
“The moon,” her young acquaintance Tipper had said, rolling his eyes. “There’s nothing up there but dust and the nob’s castoffs. I want to go someplace real, like Patcheny or Blue Crumpet.”
“Blue Crumpet’s already full up,” Diana had said. “I think Dahlia 7 is the planet for me.”
They’d had the conversation at least a dozen times. Tipper’s voice always held a longing that Diana had learned to hide—but then, for all his cockiness, he was still a child. Still dreaming the child’s dream of space, the blackness full of stars and possibility. A million futures to choose from.
The reality, though, was this mucky alley, and the ominous silhouettes of two burly figures blocking the light.
Diana whirled, to find the other end of the alley guarded by a gaunt, black-clad man known as Pick and a smirking girl holding a knife. Breggy’s crew, they were—members of the biggest gang in Southampton. And a pack of trouble, no question. Ever since the new leader had come into power, he’d been working to eliminate all the independents from the streets.
So far, she and Tipper and a few others had held out, refusing the bribery, nursing their bruises from the beatings. But Breggy wasn’t giving up. The knowledge left a hollow hole in her gut.
“Hey, ho, Diver,” the girl called. “Time for a bit of a chat.”
Damnation. Diana knew better than to linger by the docks. She’d been a fool, and getting distracted by ships was no excuse.
“Don’t know as we have anything to talk about,” she said, trying to keep her voice low and relaxed. “I paid Breggy my weekly tithe three days ago.”
She glanced over her shoulder. The two thugs were sauntering down the alley toward her. There was no way out, except up, and she’d never been much of a climber. Her heart knocked loudly against her ribs.
“That’s the thing.” The girl ran a thumb along the length of her knife. “Terms just changed.”
Diana bit back her words of protest. There was no arguing with the gangs, not in the stews of London, and not here. Either you paid or you ended up with a knife across your throat one dark night. Or the third option, which she’d never take: agree to join the unsavory crew.
She took a few steps toward the girl and Pick, away from the thugs at her back.
“How much?” Diana asked, her stomach clenching at the implications.
She was eking out a living and able—barely—to put a few coins by now and again. Someday, somehow, she’d escape the slums. But without a bit of the ready, it would be that much harder.
“Give us your purse, and we’ll say.” Pick held out his hand.
Reluctantly, she unfastened the pouch belted on under her shirt. The heavy tread of the men behind her sent her forward a few more steps, but not fast enough. Without warning, her arms were pinned to her sides from behind. With this crew, struggling would only earn her a cuff across the face, so she seethed silently and waited.
The other thug pulled the purse from her hand and gave it to Pick. He opened it, a look of disdain on his face as he prodded through the contents.
“This is all you’ve got? A sorry showing, for someone reputed to be as light-fingered as yourself, Diver.”
“’Twas a slow morning,” she said. No need to mention the second, smaller pouch around her ankle, where every third shilling went. If she was lucky, they wouldn’t discover it.
The girl pushed a greasy hank of
hair out of her face and peered into the pouch.
“Pitiful,” she said. “This will barely cover your new tithe.”
Diana blew a breath out through her nostrils. It could be worse.
“We’ll expect at least this much every third day,” the man added.
It was worse.
“I can’t—”
“Shut it,” the man next to her said, jabbing an elbow into her ribs. “Don’t need no excuses.”
Diana caught her breath and swallowed the rest of her words.
“Best get quicker with your work,” the girl said. “Then again, you could always join up. Breggy would find a use for you.”
No doubt he would—something far more dangerous than working an unsuspecting crowd. Something like breaking into mansions and stealing diamond necklaces, which would either get her hung or transported to one of the prison worlds.
She wanted off Earth, but not like that. Prisoners didn’t live long. They labored under terrible conditions, terraforming planets and moons for real colonists to occupy once they were fit for human habitation. Criminals were expendable.
“I’ll keep on my own,” she said. “No insult to Breggy, of course.”
Pick narrowed his eyes. “We’ll get you yet, Diver. Too proud for your own good.”
He tucked the purse into his sleeve. They were done. Relief coursed through Diana, until he nodded at the man beside her.
“Teach him not to complain,” he said.
“I never—”
The breath was driven from her lungs as the man’s fist connected with her stomach. She wheezed and doubled over. Blinking away the tears of pain blurring her eyes, she saw that Pick and the girl had gone, leaving her to be pummeled in the alley.
For a moment, Diana thought of calling for help—but what good would that do?
She still had her parasol, though, and the second man had let go of her arms, probably so that he could get a whack in.
Whirling, Diana, swung her bundle up between the man’s legs. It connected with a satisfying thump
He made a strangled sound and staggered back a pace.
“Bastard!” The other man grabbed her arm.
Diana wrenched free and raced for the end of the alley. If she made it to the dock, she could lose herself in the crowd. Almost there. A few more steps and she’d be out of the shadows of the buildings and into free, clear air.
She risked a look behind her. Despite the anger on their faces, the two thugs were slow. She’d be able to outrun them.
Then she ran into something solid, and fell back, landing in a pile of muck. Oh, she was in for it now.
“What’s this?” asked the very tall, very muscled policeman who’d stepped into the alley just as she was bolting out.
“Nothing, sir,” she said, scrambling to her feet and wiping her filthy hands on her trousers.
“Friends of yours?” He nodded to the two men, who’d turned and were quickly making for the other end of the alley.
As she watched, they ducked out and were gone. Probably waiting for her—but she had multiple routes back to the bolt hole she called home, and knew she could make it there without being seen.
Coming back out tomorrow, however, might prove to be a problem.
More immediate in her list of troubles, though, was the policeman standing in front of her, hands on his hips. She gave him a quick once-over. Trim, not like the paunch-bellied constable who’d had the dock patrol last. Young, too. His shiny new holobadge read Byrne.
If she ran, chances were more than good he’d catch her. Best to play it innocent.
“I’d never seen them before,” she said. “I think they meant to rob me.”
No need to mention that she’d just had her purse full of purloined money and trinkets stolen in turn.
The policeman’s dark eyebrows rose. “Have you anything of value?”
“A bit of coin.”
“And what’s your business at the docks?”
She let a bit of wistfulness creep into her voice. “I like to watch the ships land and take off. Best view of the spaceport.”
It wasn’t actually true. She’d found a perfect vantage point on top of an abandoned building where she could almost see over the huge, Yxleti-built wall surrounding the spaceport. And there was one other spot near her hidey hole: a vacant lot where she could map the arcs and parabolas the gleaming ships scribed through the blue.
Byrne’s expression softened the tiniest bit.
“It’s not safe down here,” he said. “Especially for a girl.”
Diana forced herself not to take a step back. “Good thing I’m a boy, then.”
“I didn’t see it right away, but now I do.” He reached for her arm, and she twisted away from his grasp.
“Don’t touch me.” Stars, but she was in danger.
Only Tipper knew her secret—he’d caught her wrapping her chest one morning, and she’d sworn him to secrecy. Hopefully, the lad wouldn’t betray her. It was beyond worrisome that some fresh-minted copper could see her as she was.
Blowing out a breath, he let his hand drop to his side. “There are places you can go, you know. The laundries—”
“Aye, where the girls drop like flies from overwork.” Her throat tightened at the thought. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”
The roar of another spacecraft ascending filled the air. They both glanced up. A sleek Frigate XV, taking tourists up to Venus, she’d bet coin on it.
As soon as the noise cleared, Byrne fixed his gaze on her again. “It’s not right, though. Are you living on the street?”
“No,” she lied. It was none of his business—and clearly he was too soft to be patrolling the Southampton docks. Time to turn that to her advantage and make her escape. “My mum’s expecting me. She worries if I’m late. May I go?”
He narrowed his bright blue eyes. “You’ve a pretty way with words.”
Diana shrugged. “Family’s fallen on hard times.”
It was true enough, seeing as how she was the last member of her immediate family, and it was a convenient explanation for her occasional slips into gentrified speech. When pressed, she’d say that her mother had been a governess to the nobs, and she’d grown up in a big house, learning their ways.
There was no point in admitting she’d been the daughter of a lord and lady. She’d tried that road already, and it led nowhere. Not when the family in question was all dead, and had turned out, lost their entire fortune. Her only uncle was long gone to the moons of Saturn, oblivious to the fact that his niece had survived the dreadful carriage crash.
No use crying over curdled cream, though. Best to throw it out and start fresh.
The smell of sewage drifted down the alley, and the policeman grimaced. Diana tried not to smile. He’d get used to the stenches of the docks soon enough.
“Very well,” he said. “On your way. And stay out of trouble, miss.”
“Don’t ever call me that,” she said, her voice low.
Before he could respond, she ducked past him and let the crowd swallow her up. She’d trouble enough on her heels without adding a meddling policeman into the mix.
2
Derek Byrne watched the girl slip away into the patchwork throng at the docks. She’d lied to him several times over, he’d no doubt of that. But what could he do?
He slowly clenched his hands into fists, then released them.
Damnú, a part of why he’d joined the constabulary was to make a difference, to help people. Instead, he had to stand helplessly by, watching young women throw their lives away and young men like his brother Seamus—no, don’t think on that—make bad choices with even worse consequences.
As the newest member of the Southampton police force, Derek was well aware he’d been given the worst patrol. When he started three weeks ago, he’d been confident in his ability to do his job, and do it well, but now he wasn’t so sure. The last few days had been spent in apprehending pickpockets and, yesterday, dealing with a dead bo
dy washed up in the river. His partner, Cribbs, was older, and hardened from his years on the force. Cribbs didn’t have much sympathy for Derek and his faith in the general goodness of humanity.
That faith was rather ironic, Derek had to admit. After everything that had happened, he shouldn’t be worried over such things as a streetrat’s safety. And yet, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking on the role of protector. It was part of his blood and bones to champion the underdog—be it a grubby girl, or his own people, despised and ground to ashes beneath the boot heel of the Empire.
One day, Ireland would be free of the British yoke—and he was there to help hasten that day along.
A commotion near one of the sidings pulled him from his musings, and he set off at a trot, hoping the young woman he’d been talking with wasn’t involved.
As it turned out, she wasn’t. A dispute over loading one of the ships moored at the pier had turned nasty, and one of the combatants took a knife wound to the arm before Derek and Cribbs could intervene. The fellow was taken off to the hospital, and Derek jotted a few notes on his handheld. He’d have to wait to see if the injured man wanted to press charges, but somehow he doubted it. Justice at the docks was rough and dirty, and seemed to operate under its own rules, with little heed paid to the Queen’s laws.
Indeed, the whole of the West Quay area was ugly—worse than the run-down Dublin neighborhood he’d grown up in. Although, in his personal opinion, the Irish were harder in many ways than the English. Centuries of oppression would do that to a people.
“A nasty bunch, down here. Even worse than you Paddys.” Cribbs spit onto the grimy cobblestones. “Next year I get my promotion up to Lordswood. Can’t hardly wait.”
Derek held his tongue at the casual insult—he’d grown up hearing such things from the English all his life—and simply nodded at Cribbs’s news. Everyone on the force knew that the rich neighborhood was the easiest patrol. No stabbings or muggings, and the vices were genteelly kept behind closed doors. Certainly there were thefts, but usually the culprits were found—often right among the servants working in the big houses.