Dominion Rising: 23 Brand New Science Fiction and Fantasy Novels

by White, Gwynn

  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?”

  It was always a good idea to know where she was headed, and how to get back again. Just in case.

  He turned a knob that dimmed the lights, then pulled back the thick velvet curtains as the carriage pulled away from Queensway Tower.

  “The assembly rooms are on Portland Terrace,” he said. “We’ll be there soon.”

  She nodded as if the information meant anything to her, and looked out the window. The carriage was going past the green swath of Houndwell Park. The sun was not quite down, but the gas lamps had been lit. A row of them led off between the trees, and for a moment Diana wanted to jump out of the vehicle and follow them to some quiet, green, magical place.

  Instead, she convoluted the Fibonacci sequence in her head, letting the flow of numbers calm her nerves. The precise equations were much more relaxing than the tangle of golden vines decorating the carriage ceiling overhead.

  Lord Atkinson seemed content to leave her to her silence, and several minutes passed before the carriage slowed and came to a stop.

  “Here we are,” he said, leaning forward. “Don’t be nervous, Diana.”

  “I’m not.” It was mostly true.

  She let go of her calculations and looked out the window. They had come to a halt beside a long two-story building surrounded by lush gardens. Balconies ran around the upper floor, and light streamed from the high windows set at regular intervals along the sides.

  As Lord Atkinson handed her out of the coach, she heard music drifting from above—violins, flutes, the lower tones of a cello. Groups of people clustered on the lawn, some smoking cheroots, others engaged in a game of rolling balls on the close-clipped grass.

  The balls, some larger, some smaller, glowed in the twilight. She faintly remembered playing such a game—and that her older siblings had banned her from it, since she always won.

  Lord Atkinson escorted her to the portico covered entryway. As they stepped inside she was relieved to see that, indeed, there were a variety of people in attendance, seemingly of several different classes. While there were a fair number of lords and ladies in evidence, she also spotted a group of quiet young ladies in subdued gowns, gentlemen in serviceable suits, and a bunch of matrons knitting in the far corner.

  “Shall we?” Lord Atkinson gestured to the grand staircase ascending to the ballroom.

  “Yes.” She hoped she could manage her skirts without making a fool of herself.

  When they got to the top, she let out a breath. She ought to have trusted the nano-lifter’s technology, for the gauzy overskirt had floated perfectly about her with each step. The true test, of course, would be when she danced.

  They went along the landing, the patterned carpet giving way to polished oak as they arrived at one end of the long room. Inside was a flurry of light and motion, heat and perfume. Diana’s pulse rose, and despite herself she couldn’t help cataloging the value of the jewelry sparkling at throats and wrists, the shiny lure of gold pocket watches.

  The wealth in this room could feed and clothe an entire army of streetrats.

  On one side of the room, a raised balcony held the small orchestra safely above the whirl of dancers. On the other, the tall windows were open, letting in a much-needed breeze that fluttered the dark curtains. Double-tiered chandeliers hung from the ceiling, crystals sparkling in the gaslight.

  Lord Atkinson led her forward, past the clots of people talking around the edges, until they had a clear view of the floor.

  “When they announce the next dance, we’ll find a place,” he said.

  “What if I don’t know the steps?”

  He gave her a superior smile, and she wondered again if he’d brought her here to humiliate her, after all.

  “Really, Diana, you must trust me.”

  I don’t. She didn’t voice the thought aloud.

  “Remind me again—why did you invite me to come dancing?” she asked.

  He pressed her gloved hand. “As I said, for the pleasure of your company. And, frankly, to see what you would do. You are a curious young woman.”

  “Wait.” She pulled her hand from his and took a step away. “Do you mean this to be some kind of experiment? I’m not your prize, to be fished off the streets and turned into your idea of a proper lady, you know.”

  He looked at her, expression serious. “I must say, you don’t seem to need my help in that arena. You certainly exceeded my expectations with your gown.”

  “I’m not an utter fool.”

  “I never thought so. Please, Diana.” He extended his hand. “I know I can be an insufferable fellow at times. Give me another chance.”

  She didn’t have to, of course. She could demand he return her to Queensway Tower, or, if he refused, she could even walk home.

  But she was at a ball, and dressed for it, whether her escort liked it or not. She might as well stay for at least one dance.

  “Very well.” Diana placed her hand back in Lord Atkinson’s.

  “Thank you,” he said, giving her a smile tinged with apology.

  The look of relief on his face mollified her somewhat. Perhaps he was simply nervous. It was true she probably behaved quite differently than the highborn young women he was accustomed to.

  The music came to a close. Amid the light smattering of applause, one of the violinists on the balcony stood. “The next dance will be the polka mazurka,” she announced in a loud voice before resuming her seat.

  “Ah.” Lord Atkinson glanced down at Diana. “This is a somewhat strenuous step. If you don’t feel ready yet, I understand. We can wait until the orchestra plays something simple.”

  “What is the timing for a mazurka?” she asked.

  For some reason, she wanted to prove she could do this; likely because of the doubtful look in his eye.

  “Three, but it’s quicker than most waltzes.”

  “Let’s watch a moment, and then I’ll be ready.” She hoped.

  As it turned out, the mazurka was an active dance, but not particularly difficult. She spotted the pattern right away: step-step-hop to the right, repeated, then switching to the left for two more repetitions of the step, and so on.

  “It looks simple enough,” she said.

  Lord Atkinson opened his arms, and there was an awkward moment as she tried to figure out where to put her hands. A quick glance at the next couple over showed her the placement. Right hand clasped in his, left hand resting on his shoulder.

  He cinched her in a bit closer, his arm firmly about her waist. It was a rather unsettling sensation, to be so close to him, and
she wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.

  “On my count,” he said softly. “One. Two. Three.”

  Then they were off, and she ceased being aware of his nearness. All her concentration was caught up in moving her feet quickly enough to stay with the music. The dance hadn’t looked quite so fast from the sidelines.

  She accidentally kicked Lord Atkinson in the ankles a few times as they hopped about the dance floor. Luckily she was wearing soft-toed dancing slippers and not her sturdy boots. Just when she was afraid she’d start gasping for breath, the music slowed, then came to a halt.

  Lord Atkinson released her and swept her a bow. A heartbeat later she made him a belated curtsy, her skirts bobbing like stardust.

  “You picked that up quite well,” he said, his face slightly flushed from the exertion of the dance.

  “It was rather fun,” she said. “Especially as we didn’t careen into anyone else.”

  “I would never let that happen,” he said, sounding haughty again. “Are you ready for a glass of punch? The refreshment rooms are below.”

  “Certainly.”

  He held out his arm, and she set her gloved hand upon it. Astounding to think she was here, begowned and bejeweled, dancing with a member of the nobility, when less than a month ago she’d been sleeping in the streets.

  17

  Derek stood in the garden outside the Royal Victoria Assembly Rooms, sweating slightly in his suit. It was a heavy, old-fashioned thing that had belonged to his father. When he’d left for England, his ma had insisted he pack it along.

  “Never know when ye’ll be needing a suit, now,” she’d said, folding it into the half-full trunk with the rest of his clothing.

  As it turned out, she was right, though he didn’t think she’d approve of Derek wearing it to clandestine meetings with a representative of the Irish Nationalist Resistance. Still, the monthly People’s Cotillion was a safe enough place to make contact—especially as said contact was a lovely redhead named Molly O’Rourke.

  It was the perfect cover. When they sat, heads close together, everyone would assume they were courting, not exchanging critical information about the spaceport’s protocols. Besides, no one he knew would ever frequent the ball.

  This was the third time he’d been directed to meet with Molly and update her on his progress, though she hadn’t yet arrived. Or perhaps she had, and was waiting for him inside. Their communications were nearly non-existent, the danger of discovery too high.

  Neither of them could afford to jeopardize his mission of infiltrating the spaceport. Any hint of a connection between Officer Byrne and the radical freedom movement of the INR would dash that plan altogether.

  It wasn’t Derek’s choice, truth be told. But it had been Seamus’s, and he’d died for it. Because of me.

  His soul was weighted with the unpaid debt. Grim memories rose of that day everything had changed—the day he’d discovered that his brother was involved in a planned bombing of the Irish Parliament. He’d raced to Dublin’s city center and burst in on the scene.

  It was the bitterest of ironies, that his arrival had triggered the INR to act too soon.

  Derek still recalled that horrified second when he’d seen Seamus’s face—so young, so determined—before the blast had shattered the building. And Derek’s heart.

  Not long after, the resistance had come calling.

  He shook his shoulders, trying to dispel the memories that still clung to him like the dust after the explosion. Seamus was gone, but the INR remained.

  And Molly was late. Derek consulted his dented steel pocket watch. Ten minutes past their appointed meeting time. He’d best go inside and see if he might “accidentally” encounter his contact among the dancers.

  He scanned the crowd as he ascended the wide, carpeted steps, but there was no sign of his contact. Finally he glimpsed her at the far edge of the dance floor, chatting with a tall blond woman. He caught Molly’s eye, and she gave him a barely perceptible nod.

  It was harder than it looked to make his way through the crowd. A dance had just finished, and he was swimming upstream against the exodus of couples on their way off the floor. He was nearly to Molly, when his way was blocked by a young lady wearing extravagantly nano-lifted skirts.

  “Begging your pardon,” he said, beginning to sidle about the woman.

  “Officer Byrne?”

  The familiar voice brought him up short, and his startled gaze went to the lady’s face.

  “Diana?” He couldn’t believe it.

  She must have a twin in the gentry somehow, for surely the streetrat known as Diver couldn’t be here, so elegantly dressed and on the arm of an equally stylish gentleman.

  “Yes, it’s me.” She gave him a tentative smile.

  They stood there a moment, gazing at one another. Derek felt quite dumbfounded to see her, jewels at her throat, wearing gloves, her hair upswept and fastened with a glittering headpiece. For her part, she seemed equally at a loss for words.

  What happened? Where have you been? I was worried about you. Why are you dressed so grandly? Where’s Tipper? The questions crowded his brain, and he couldn’t sort out which to ask first.

  The lord escorting her cleared his throat.

  “Might I ask who this fellow is?” He looked at Diana, his expression disapproving.

  “Oh, yes.” Seeming a bit flustered, she glanced between them. “Er, Lord Atkinson, this is Office Byrne, of the Southampton police.”

  “Pleased to meet you.” Derek stuck out his hand. Despite the confusion rocketing through him, it was always best to be polite with the gentry.

  After a moment, Lord Atkinson took his hand and gave it a quick, brisk shake. His lip curled up the slightest bit as he looked from Derek to Diana.

  “I take it you two have a prior acquaintance?”

  Before Derek could form an answer that wouldn’t embarrass her, Diana nodded.

  “I met Officer Byrne when I was on the streets,” she said. “And I’m not too proud to admit it. He helped me out a time or two.”

  “Oh?” The nobleman’s eyebrows rose. “Kind to you, was he?”

  The words were heavy with double meaning, and a flash of temper went through Derek. His lordship’s insinuations were not only incorrect, it was beyond rude to imply that Diana was nothing but a common doxy.

  “Is common decency to those less fortunate something you’re unfamiliar with, my lord?” Derek asked.

  Diana’s lips twitched, as though she were trying to hide a smile, while her escort’s nostrils flared.

  “You’re not the only one to notice that Miss Smythe is a remarkable young lady,” Lord Atkinson said. “Though I would never take advantage of her past.”

  “Nor would I.”

  The animosity coming off the man made Derek square his shoulders and wish for his stunclub. Lord Atkinson seemed to have a proprietary yet dismissive attitude about Diana, and Derek did not much care for it. He shifted his gaze to her.

  “Would you care to dance?”

  “I would.” She darted a glance at her escort. “That is, if Lord Atkinson doesn’t mind.”

  The nobleman sniffed. “Far be it from me to dictate who you associate with. If you’d like to dance with Officer Byrne, then by all means do so.”

  She either didn’t hear or chose to ignore the sarcasm in his words. Giving him a bright smile, she let go of his arm.

  “Then I shall. Thank you.” She turned to Derek, who hastily offered his hand.

  “Be advised,” Lord Atkinson said to him, “Diana is not a particularly experienced dancer. My skills enabled us to navigate the floor without issue, but you might encounter some difficulty in that regard.”

  Derek swallowed back the hot retort at the tip of his tongue. It would do none of them any good to let his Irish temper free. Bad enough that he’d been seen at the ball, but even worse if he were to draw undue attention by socking the pompous Lord Atkinson in the jaw.

  “Noted,” he said shortly.
/>
  Then, before Lord Atkinson could say anything more, Derek set his hand to Diana’s satin-clad back and whisked her away through the thinning crowd.

  “Tell me everything,” he said, guiding her to a quiet alcove. He hoped he didn’t sound too much like an officer interrogating a prisoner. “Is Tipper all right? Are you? What’s your connection to that Lord Atkinson fellow?”

  “It’s not what you might think,” she said, flushing slightly. “I’m not… associating with Lord Atkinson in return for…that is, I’m not his mistress.”

  He blinked at her. “The thought didn’t cross my mind,” he said.

  It was true. And rather ironic that Diana’s escort had immediately assumed the worst of her and Derek, while Derek had seen her richly dressed on his lordship’s arm and hadn’t for a moment considered that she’d traded her favors to be there.

  “Well then.” She gazed at him from her clear gray eyes. “Do you know how to dance?”

  “Not very well,” he admitted. “But depending on what they call next, I might be able to manage.”

  Her look turned considering. “If you’re not a very good dancer, then why did you come to the ball?” she asked.

  “It seemed something to do,” he lied, then distracted her with more questions. “But why are you here? And what about Tipper?”

  She smiled. “Tip’s well, and turning into quite the cook. As for myself, I’ve a job at the spaceport now. It’s where I met Lord Atkinson.”

  “You’re working at the spaceport?” He couldn’t help the incredulity in his voice. It was the last thing he’d imagined when she’d disappeared from the streets.

  Her smile faded. “Whatever you might think, Officer Byrne, I don’t believe one’s past controls one’s future.”

  Her words hit him in the gut.

  “Of course it does,” he said reflexively. Only look at his own life.

  She tipped her head. “If you think so, then you make your own truth. But a tiny course adjustment, applied at the right time, can result in a very different outcome. Any mathematician knows as much.”