Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  “Look there.” Cribbs nodded to a tall, thin man with bright red hair strolling through the crowd. He had an entourage with him—a disreputable-looking young woman, and two men dressed in black, with knives at their belts and the scars to prove they weren’t afraid to use them.

  “Who is it?” Derek asked.

  “Breggy. Came recently to power. He controls the biggest gang in the whole port area, but keeps his own hands clean. Rumors are he’s got connections in the gentry. Don’t run afoul of him.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  As if aware they were watching, Breggy looked up. He smiled, sunlight glinting off a gold-capped front tooth, and tipped his hat. Cribbs scowled, and Derek narrowed his eyes.

  Gangrunners were the lowest of the low, in his opinion. Unscrupulous, happy to use anyone as a tool to their own ends. He pitied anyone caught up in that kind of web. Like Seamus. Like me.

  His secrets burned inside him, and he shoved them back down. For all anyone knew, he was simply the newest member of the Southampton police force. Not a man with an ulterior motive and ties to a certain radical organization.

  “Do the Sisters of Mercy never come down here?” he asked Cribbs, thinking once again of the girl.

  “They try. Breggy and his kind laugh at them, and they only save one or two off the streets a quarter. Maybe less. Who wants to go scrub cathedrals for the nuns when you can sleep free under the open sky? Least that’s what the streetrats say.”

  “Not so pleasant in winter.” Derek glanced at the sky, currently a deceptively placid blue.

  Even now, near midsummer, the air was never truly warm. Squalls blew in regularly off the Solent, drizzling moisture over the docks and spaceport.

  “Not at all,” Cribbs agreed. “You’ll want a good overcoat and boots, come October. We have to endure the same weather as the rats. Can’t stay in The Frog and Whistle all day, after all.”

  Derek glanced at the pub fronting West Quay Road. It was the best of the several establishments scattered down the street; cleaner and with fewer chances of being murdered in a dark corner.

  “Speaking of which,” Cribbs continued, “it’s lunchtime. Keep watch, and call for me if there’s any more trouble in the next hour. We’ll swap out, after.”

  Derek glanced down at his badge. With two taps, he could contact Cribbs. Three, and the badge would serve as a location device within a decent radius—certainly big enough to cover West Quay.

  He nodded and didn’t say anything about the amount of beer Cribbs was probably fixing to consume for lunch. Everyone did what they had to in order to get by.

  3

  For the next few days, Diana took extra care slipping in and out of her bolt hole—a sheltered corner in a derelict building near the spaceport wall. When the port had been built last century, the buildings directly around it had been demolished. The rest had been left to fall into ruin. Her current abode had likely been a lodging house, until the noise of the ships blasting off drove away the tenants.

  Dawn warmed the sky as she folded her tattered woolen blanket away. A whiff of her own stink made her wrinkle her nose in disgust. Her routine of washing up in river water hauled home in a dented pail she’d found was inadequate over the long term. Luckily, there was a solution, though it had taken her months to discover it.

  With a sigh, she pulled on her girl’s clothing, fastened her hair up with twine and bits of blackened metal, and counted a few coins from her hidden store into the water-stained reticule she’d salvaged from the river’s edge. Time to be a lady, or at least as much of one as she could manage.

  Keeping to the early morning shadows, Diana made her way out of the cluster of dilapidated buildings and into the bustle of the West Quay streets. In the morning, the port seemed fresher, the odor of garbage and rotting fish just a promise in the air, not a miasma brought to full bloom by the day’s heat.

  Midway along the quay, she was joined by a young boy with matted brown hair and a quick stride.

  “Morning, Tipper,” she said, giving him a sidelong smile and a twirl of her parasol.

  “Aren’t you the fancy one today, Di,” he said, returning her smile with a chipped-tooth grin. “Where to?”

  “The baths. Come along with me?”

  He gave a shudder. “Never. It’s unnatural, is what. Rain and the river are good enough for me.”

  “Suit yourself—but one day you’ll change your tune.”

  “I doubt that.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Hey, seen the new copper on patrol? Word is he stopped two of Breggy’s crew from robbing a fellow last night.”

  “Oh, that’s not good.” Breggy didn’t like interference, and especially not from the law. “Do you think the new man won’t be bribed?”

  He’d struck her as an upstanding sort, with his broad shoulders and intent blue gaze. Of course, she knew better than to judge by appearances, but there was something about the new policeman—Byrne, that was his name—that made her think he wouldn’t be easily cowed by Breggy and his ilk.

  “Speaking of Breggy…” Tipper scuffed at the dirty cobbles with one worn boot. “I hear he’s raising the tithe.”

  “Already did.” Diana fought the urge to spit into the street. In her current guise as a lady, it wouldn’t be quite the thing. “Upped mine to twice a week.”

  Tipper glanced up at her, his eyes shadowed. “I can’t pay that.”

  “I’ll help you.” It was foolish of her—but she couldn’t imagine life in West Quay without at least one other streetrat free of the gangrunners.

  “I can manage,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “Well, when you can’t, tell me. I’ve a bit set by.”

  “That’s for your berth to Dahlia 7, though. You can’t use that!”

  Leaving Earth was an impossible dream, for both of them, but she didn’t have the heart to tell him so. At least one of them deserved the luxury of that hope—at least for a little while longer.

  “I’ve got plenty of coin,” she lied.

  “Soon as we find the hidden passage into the port, we can stow away on a ship anyways.” His grin was back in place. “Then Breggy and the gangs won’t matter at all.”

  “Aye.”

  Another dream Diana was disinclined to tarnish. On the streets, dreams were sometimes the only things that kept a body going. Tipper would grow out of believing that particular fairy tale soon enough, and in the meantime she didn’t mind helping him search the ruins for the mythical secret entrance to the spaceport.

  She’d found her blanket that way, after all, and a comb only missing a few teeth.

  The crowd thickened as they neared the bridge over the River Itchen. The smell of onions clashed with some nob’s fancy perfume, and she wrinkled her nose. Though she had to admit she was doing her part to add to the general stench of humanity.

  She glanced at Tipper. “Sure you’re not coming?”

  He halted and shook his head. “Never. Good pickings, Di.”

  “You too, Tip.” She dipped him a little curtsy, then turned and blended with the pedestrians traveling over the Half Shilling bridge to Itchen.

  A few months after hopping the rails to Southampton, she’d overheard two women talking in horrified tones about the Turkish baths across the river. Diana didn’t care overmuch about the reputation of the baths—or her own, had she one to protect. But she did care about washing off the weeks of grime crusting her skin.

  Of course, she had to go in girls’ clothing, but on her first trip to the baths, she’d discovered there was no basis to the shocking gossip. Instead of a steamy hive of depravity and heathen sin, she’d found a quiet, respectable bathhouse where, as long as she had the money, no one asked her any questions.

  The only problem was the wall in the women’s side where the blue mosaic tile was mislaid. The sight of the uneven rows and gaps made her twitchy, so she always kept her back to it when she was in the warmth of the water. Other than that, it was a blessedly quiet h
aven.

  It didn’t hurt that there was a bustling marketplace near the baths, where Diana could recoup the bathhouse entry fee. She’d made a habit of bathing, then going to purchase a cup of strong Turkish coffee and roaming the bazaar, alternately taking in the colorful sights and rich smells, and nicking a bit of coin from stray pockets and purses. Never enough to raise the ire of the gangrunner on that side of the river, of course.

  Because of the various risks, though, she only allowed herself the luxury of the Turkish baths once every few months. This time, when she emerged clean and calm from the women’s side of the baths, she discovered she wasn’t the only West Quay denizen to take a jaunt to the other side of the river.

  Standing near the main entrance was the policeman, Officer Byrne. He was speaking earnestly with the turbaned man who owned the baths, while taking notes on his handheld.

  Diana halted, but it was too late. Byrne’s gaze rose to fix on her, and there was no mistaking the flash of recognition in his eyes.

  Curse it! Now it would be impossible for her to deny she was a girl. No man would ever emerge from that side of the baths. They were very strictly maintained and chaperoned.

  She pulled back into the shadows of the tiled portico, but there was only one way out. True, she could retreat back into the baths, claiming she’d left something behind, but she suspected that Byrne would only wait her out.

  Besides, Breggy would demand his next portion later that day. She had little time to waste in trying to hide from overly perceptive policemen. No, it would be best if she simply marched right past Officer Byrne. If he tried to follow, she could lose him in the bazaar.

  Suiting action to thought, she straightened her shoulders and crossed the patio, keeping her open parasol held at a precise fifty-degree angle between them. Just as she thought she’d pass him by unscathed, the policeman held out his hand.

  “One moment, miss,” he said.

  She could run for it, certainly, but something stopped her. She was reluctant to cause a disturbance at the baths that have proven to be such a haven for her, and, in truth, she sensed Byrne meant her no harm. Perhaps if she calmly complied with his request, he would leave her be.

  Halting, she tipped her battered parasol back so she could see his face.

  When he met her eyes, an odd expression crossed his features. She blinked, and it was gone. No doubt he was recalling seeing her in boy’s clothing and trying to reconcile the idea of her in trousers.

  “Yes?” she asked, bringing a bit more of her highborn haughtiness to bear than she usually showed on the streets.

  “I beg your pardon, but I’d like a word with you.”

  “Is there a problem?” the proprietor asked. “Other than what we were discussing earlier?”

  “No.” Byrne tucked his handheld away. “No problem.”

  “Very good. I will let you go about your business then.” The man gave him a bow.

  To her surprise, Byrne returned the salutation. It wasn’t like the coppers to pay much heed to the customs of foreigners on their shores.

  Then again, the new policeman had a clear Irish accent—and to many British, the Irish were as bad as the Turks, or worse.

  Byrne turned to her as soon as the proprietor had gone.

  “Miss,” he began, then paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I believe I don’t know your name.”

  Diana hesitated. Certainly she wasn’t going to introduce herself as Miss Diana Smythe—but neither did the moment seem to warrant her street name of Diver.

  “I’m Diana,” she finally said. After all, there was no use in her continuing to pretend she was a boy. “You can call me Di,” she added, with a pointed look.

  The last thing she needed was a new-minted policeman calling out her true name in West Quay, and putting her in even greater danger.

  “I’m Derek Byrne,” he said. “You can call me—”

  “Officer Byrne,” she said. “Pleased to meet you, but I really must be on my way.”

  She strode through the opening in the wall enclosing the baths, exchanging a brief nod with the guard on duty there. Unfortunately, Byrne came after her—not that she really thought she’d be able to escape him that easily.

  “I’ve a few questions for you,” he said.

  “Oh?” She shot him a look. “Is this to be an interrogation? I assure you, I’m guilty of nothing except desiring a bath.”

  He had the grace to flush a little. “It’s about West Quay. And the gangs.”

  “Oh.” Her steps faltered. “I’ve nothing to say about that.”

  It was dangerous. Too dangerous, to discuss street business with a policeman. If Breggy or the other gangrunners found out, she’d be dead in the river by morning.

  “Please,” he said. “I’d treat you to lunch.”

  Her stomach clenched at the thought. The last true meal she’d had was four days ago—a hot beef sandwich she’d bought fair and square. Before Breggy upped the tithe. Since then, she’d been living off apples stolen off the back of the vendor’s cart, and the stale ends of bread the baker threw out. When she could beat the other streetrats to them.

  “Very well,” she finally said. “But we can’t meet anywhere near the port.”

  At least she was in disguise as a young lady, and in a different quarter than the wharf rats usually frequented.

  “Of course not.” He sounded insulted. “We can go to one of the coffeehouses nearby.”

  “As long as it serves women.” Not all of them did, she knew. Usually she bought her cup from a cart vendor. Cheaper that way, too.

  “Trust me to know my business, Diana.”

  “Di,” she corrected. “If you can’t get that right, I’m not telling you a thing.”

  Not that she would reveal much, anyway. She’d just eat his food and say vague things about West Quay. Certainly she could ramble on for as long as it took to fill her belly. No streetrat owed a policeman anything. Ever.

  4

  Derek had been keeping an eye out for the last several days, wondering if he’d ever see the girl again or if the street had swallowed her up and would spit her mangled body back out in an alley or under a pier.

  But he never expected to spot her coming out of the women’s side of the Turkish baths in Itchen. So much for her claims of being a boy. He’d caught her out now, and no excuses.

  To her credit, Diana—Di, he must remember—accepted her unmasking with good grace, and what’s more, to his surprise, she agreed to have lunch with him.

  There was a pinched look of hunger about her mouth he wanted to ease, though he suspected he was in for more lies and half-truths in return. Still, he felt surprisingly gallant as he escorted her across the street to the small coffeehouse mostly frequented by the Ottoman populace of Southampton.

  There were enough English, however, both men and women, for their presence to go unremarked. He hoped. Though Di hadn’t spelled it out, he knew well enough it was trouble for a streetrat to be seen meeting with a policeman.

  He glanced at her as she settled herself with ladylike grace at the small table. Damnú, she didn’t look like a common beggar—especially now that she’d scrubbed the grime off. Her dark blonde hair escaped in wisps from beneath her bonnet, and her gray eyes regarded him from a fine-boned face tanned browner from the sun than was proper.

  How could anyone mistake her for a boy? Certainly she was slender, but her figure curved in interesting places—

  “Ahem.” She gave him a pointed look. “I’d thank you to stop staring at my bosom, Officer Byrne.”

  He quickly averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “My apologies, miss. Er, Di.”

  Thankfully, the serving man arrived, and the next few moments of ordering strong Turkish coffee and lunch allowed Derek to regain his equilibrium.

  When the server left, Derek leaned forward, determined to be a model of professionalism.

  “How long have you lived in West Quay?” he asked.

  Di folded her arms. He
noticed two holes in her gloves, and several other places where the cloth had been darned.

  “Long enough,” she said.

  “And you live with your mother?”

  “Yes. She’s ill, so I do what I can to support us.”

  She was an accomplished liar, but Derek had always been able to sense when someone wasn’t telling him the truth. His granny said it was a Gift, but his Pa had just called it shrewdness. Either way, it served him well.

  Unless people didn’t believe him. His stomach knotted with memory, the echo of his brother’s death, and it took him a moment to focus on the fact that Di was still speaking.

  “She was a governess up in London, before her employer… Well. I’m sure you know the story. When they discovered she was pregnant, she lost her position. But she gained me.” Diana gave him a shaky smile.

  She sounded very convincing, but the tale was a touch too pat. Still, he nodded as if he believed her.

  “She’s lucky to have you,” he said. “I take it you’ve been able to steer clear of the gangs then?”

  “Yes.” Her answer was a shade too quick.

  “I hear the main runner’s name is—” Derek broke off as their meal and coffee arrived. The smell of the beverage filled the air, rich and strong, and he inhaled appreciatively.

  “I’d have thought you a tea drinker,” Di said.

  “What, because I’m Irish? You’re English—I could say the same of you.”

  She shrugged. “I like either one, when I can get it.”

  Which wasn’t often, he’d wager. Any hot beverage would be a luxury for a streetrat.

  “Go ahead, eat. I see how you’re looking at those kebabs.”

  Di peeled off her gloves, and he noted her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the food. Despite her restraint, there was a desperate quality to her chewing that told him she was far hungrier than he’d guessed.

  Thoughtfully, he took a sip of his deliciously strong coffee and decided he didn’t need any lunch, after all.